Scintillectually Yours

vi.sualize.us

Last week I was looking for feedback on a few projects I had going and I couldn’t find a single soul in my department. I kept returning to my office, which, inexplicably, has been placed within a completely different department and is sparsely populated with people who have never bothered to introduce themselves to me (nor I to them, truth be told). I would drum my fingers, check my e-mail, pop onto Facebook, drum my fingers, go to the bathroom, and then return to my department only to find it as empty as Deadman’s Gulch in the middle of a long, hot, dry summer. Nursing a migraine and realizing that I wasn’t actually going to get paid to do nothing (I work on an hourly contract basis), I sent out a blanket e-mail and left around 4 p.m.

The next day I was checking webmail from home and found a link to pictures from a co-worker’s baby shower the day before. Ah-hah! Mystery solved. Everyone—I mean, EVERYONE—had been attending the baby shower for a woman that I work very closely with. Everyone, that is, except me. Okay, so I’ve only been working there for 5 weeks, but you’d think someone would at least have the decency to inform me of the event, even if I wasn’t invited. I wasted an entire afternoon trying to be productive while everyone else was hogging down blue icing-covered sheet cake and oohing and aahing over onesies.

I’m not saying I wished to be invited. Baby showers (unless they are yours) are generally duller than dirt. What the event in question did though, was alert me to the fact that I am truly an outsider at work. I come in, I go to my office, I work. If I have questions or need feedback, I will track down the appropriate people and get the answers I need. I eat lunch at my desk while I work (because frankly, this single mom with a part-time hourly job can’t afford to be running off to kibbitz over salads at the local café). While I consider myself to be accessible and friendly, I don’t generally meander around looking for someone to chat with. I don’t share details of my personal life. I have to be accountable, on paper, for every hour that I am there, and so…I work.

I think I noticed the real change when I finally dropped the feminine pronoun in an email responding to a polite query about “my friend’s surgery.” This came from the preggo. (Should I have prefaced this entire blog with the fact that I now live in the deep South, my coworkers are all heterosexual and married, and my boss lists his one interest on his Facebook page as The Bible?) The following day, I rounded the corner and found the two women that I work with most closely huddled together in preggo’s cubicle. As soon as they saw me they pulled apart and both shut their mouths abruptly and looked at me as if I’d caught them feeling each other up. Um, yeah, talking about me much? I smiled, asked my question, kept smiling, and left. To work.

This happens a lot. These two seem to have very little to do other than socialize with each other. Clearly, I am not of their ilk. They regard me as some strange, exotic creature that emerges from her cage periodically to stalk the halls in search of prey. At 45 years of age, I am having high school déjà vu all over again. I am reminded of the time I overheard three coworkers in the office next to mine (when I was a very young designer working in a high-end publishing firm in Manhattan) discussing what a dork I was and laughing about how there was no way they wanted me at my boss’s wedding. She invited me anyway and yes, it was a miserable experience as my girlfriend and I stood in a corner with our plates as we’d somehow been left off the seating list. Joke’s on us, right?

So now I am biding my time. I’m feeling several things. Primarily, I’m feeling annoyed. I came here to do a job and I do it well. However, I’ve gotten some really odd feedback from my boss and I am getting the strange sense that I’m being gaslighted. I feel as though my days are numbered. Today I got an e-mail telling me that I was still in an “exploratory period where we are evaluating your skills and style and where and who you may or may not connect with the best.” Um…excuse me? When I took on this job, this guy was over-the-moon regarding my skill set, background, and ability to work autonomously. Suddenly, I feel as though I’m walking on broken glass and it fucking hurts, man!

So, what the hell is it? Am I that much of an odd bird that they simply don’t know how to relate to me? I would expect that, given my appearance (and all evidence exhibited by my past experiences in business and elsewhere) everyone assumed I was straight. Discovering that I’m a dyke probably gave them serious fuel for their frequent coffee klatches and water cooler discussions. Am I also threatening to them? I’m the prodigal daughter, having worked high-profile positions in New York and Boston for 23 years, returned home to steal away their precious little positions? Girls! I don’t WANT your job! I get to work when I want, where I want, and for how much I want! Trust me, I do not want to step on your toes, I don’t want to be your best friend, and I couldn’t care less about trying to fit in.

It all boils down to this: Why can’t women simply work alongside one another without the cattiness and backbiting that happens in business? This is why I prefer to freelance from home—I loathe office politics. Homey don’t play ‘dat game. Let me be part of the team as far as helping you do your job to the best of your abilities and get paid for an honest day’s work. I’m not going to rat you out for your constant chatter, but be kind if I haven’t actually crossed you. Because seriously? You don’t want to cross me. That will be the day that I decide to whip out my poison tongue and use it in ways that are not pleasurable to you in the least. And after that? I may well have to move on to something else. Like selling adult novelties at the local sex shop.

Not actually a bad idea at all, really. Not at all.

The excitement and anticipation surrounding us was palpable. My senses felt overwhelmed as I clutched your hand and took in the scenery around us. Throngs of men and women in costume—everyone masked—waited impatiently for the castle doors to open and the events of the night to commence. I felt as though we were in Venice rather than the small Southern town barely 20 minutes from home.

I looked over at you and you grinned widely at me. Your features, sharp and delicate (so like Cary Elwes), stood out in stark contrast to your black bandana. Your black shirt was open at the neck and I barely suppressed an urge to lean over and run my tongue from collarbone to ear. My darling Dread Pirate Roberts. You looked every bit the part tonight. Sadly, I hadn’t time to find an appropriate medieval gown—but, then again, Princess Buttercup I am not. I opted for a black corset tied tightly over a voluminous Victorian-era skirt that tied up in tiers, exposing thigh high fishnets and gray ankle boots. I adjusted my top hat and felt the layers of tulle ribbon settle themselves upon my bare back.

There was a murmur from the crowd and we began jostling forward as the large, heavy door swung open, revealing tantalizing colored lights within. The Castle Carnivale. So many years I’d wanted to attend. You put your arm around my waist protectively and ushered me along. Once we entered the high-ceilinged foyer, I couldn’t decide where to go first. The options presented to us were dizzying. There were so many performers booked in so many rooms. I wanted to take it all in. I wanted to be part of the magic.

“Sweetheart,” I whispered, “Please?” You understood that I was indecisive and needed you to be in control of the night ahead. You nodded and moved close to my ear, “As you wish.”

You led me to the first room, filled wall to wall with people. There was no music—just a steady, rhythmic drumming. I could feel heat from the platform set in a far corner but couldn’t see over the elaborate hats and headdresses. You deftly maneuvered us to the front and there were two men and woman, nude save for absolutely breathtaking body paint. One of the men was swallowing a flaming sword. The woman was dipping torches in some kind of flammable liquid, lighting them with a torch, and passing them to the second man who knelt on the floor touching each one to his tongue to put out the flame. His movements were rapid—their synchronization complete.

The next room was a burlesque performance and I delighted in the often bawdy revelry. We moved from there to the pole dancer. As far as I could tell, she was wearing string—strategically placed to showcase her head-to-toe tattoos. Tiger stripes. Pantera Blacksmith. I’d seen her in Boston and had photos taken with her. She was pure artistry wound up in a tight little muscular package of athletic grace and agility. I took the time to say hello in between shows and was surprised she’d remembered me. Perhaps it was the same corset that tipped her off, or she was just being gracious.

The exotic sights and sounds were getting to me. I could feel the heat building in my groin as we moved from room to room. The drinks were flowing and everyone seemed to be affected by the intense sexuality emanating from the performers and party-goers alike. We grabbed a couple of waters and headed to one of the dance bars—a DJ spinning the kind of erotic techno that makes you want to strip down and have sex in the middle of the room. You pulled me into a darkened corner and wrapped your arms around my waist so that we could both watch the dancers. I felt you hard against me and realized for the first time all night that you had packed. My breath came just a little faster in my throat and you chuckled. Your own breath tickling the back of my neck and sending shivers down my spine.

I backed up further into you. Nestling my ass against your crotch. A crowd was gathering in front of us as a professional dance troupe took the floor. Everyone’s back to us, I turned into you. My hat and your mask made kissing virtually impossible. But your cool gray eyes glinted with mischief and lust. I could feel my body flush with desire and I knew that I didn’t want to wait to go fuck in the car. I hoisted one leg over your hip and draped my arms around your shoulders. Our eyes locked and you let one hand trail across the top of my breasts, spilling out of the tightly bound corset. My head dropped back for one second and then I stared back at you again, licking my lips ever so slightly. The music, as loud as it was, seemed to fade into the background as you ran both hands down my sides and then slipped one hand between my legs.

I gasped and reached for you. The skirt I wore concealed our bodies well although anyone paying attention could clearly see that my body was gyrating of its own accord. Our private performance may well have been the subject of discussion but I didn’t care enough to notice whether anyone was watching. As you slipped your hand inside my hot pink ruffled panties, I slid your zipper down and pulled your cock out. Reaching down, I slid my hand between yours and my incredibly wet cunt. I came away with instant lubrication for this hot and steamy handjob. You moaned and broke eye contact so that you could watch my hand move from base to tip and back again. My other hand held firm to the back of your neck and I dug my fingernails in deep as you drove several fingers hard into my pussy. We picked up the rhythm of the bass beat and our hands moved together upon each other. Our breathing heavy, our moans loud but not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

This was our show. Our time. As we so often do, we came together—staring each other down. My eyes closed first and my head fell back again, my hat toppling to the floor as I cried out my orgasm and bloodied the back of your neck with my nails. I felt a tap on my shoulder and quickly whipped around, protecting your exposed cock as you pulled yourself together. A young woman, scantily clad in feathers and satin, was offering my hat to me. “I believe this belongs to you?” she smirked. I blushed deeply, still breathless and contracting. I couldn’t find my voice and nodded my thanks as I put it back on, pulling it low over one mascara-smeared eye.

I turned back to find you grinning like the Cheshire cat, “I need to fuck you. Now.”

I wasn’t arguing. I wanted you inside me desperately but, after assessing the looks on our nearest neighbors’ faces, I decided we’d better find another room. We took off in search of the perfect place in this Castle Carnevale. Somewhere loud, crowded, filled with hot and sweaty bodies—average folks who, for one night of the year, let loose their inhibitions and allowed two slightly off-kilter dykes like us a single dark corner in which to do our dirty deeds.

vi.sualize.us

Two days have passed since we’d seen each other. I thought that once I was a scant two miles down the road, we’d be together all the time. I hadn’t bargained on all of the minutia of day-to-day life—a new job with a fairly long commute, visits with my family, time I need to spend alone with my son, time you need with your mother, not to mention the small silly things like banking and grocery shopping. Today, however, I had cleared the decks. My son was sent to a friend’s house and I have no impending work. I am looking forward to spending time together and thinking of what we might do as I move from room to room, tidying up as I go along.

I am just pulling taut the wrinkles in the comforter, bending over to smooth out the folds, when I feel your hands on my hips. I jump and started to turn—I hadn’t heard you come in. “Oh baby, don’t move,” you say, “let me look at you.” I grin to myself. I know what parts of my body drive you crazy. I know you have a thing for my legs—my thighs and calves well-muscled and tight from daily hip-hop and Zumba classes (my newfound passion next to you)—and, of course, my ass. You sigh appreciatively and put your hands firmly on my shoulders, pushing me down across the bed. “Mmmm…naughty boi…what are you up to?” I expect your usual comeback (“oh, about 5’4”) but you shush me and I stretch my arms out languidly.

You reach around me and quickly unzip my jean shorts. They drop to the floor and I arch my back as you push my panties down around my ankles to join them. I am already achingly wet with anticipation and frustration. I imagine your fingers slipping into me but you have something else in mind entirely and you know it will make me want you ever so much more. While I expect you to take your boi-clit in hand (there is nothing quite like having you jerk off against my bare skin—your hand bumping against my swollen clit with each thrust), I am pleasantly surprised when I feel your cock slide between the cheeks of my ass. Your hand comes down hard upon me and I gasp with the exquisite pain. Again, you thwart my expectations. Rather than bending over to kiss the welt you have raised, your hand caresses my skin and I feel the wetness that you have produced soothe the burn like a balm.

I press myself back against you and spread my legs as wide as I possible can—opening myself to you utterly. “Oh, what a good girl…” you say and a moan escapes me involuntarily. Now you have a purpose. With cock in hand, lubricated by your own juices, you begin to slowly pull your shaft. I feel your fist and then the head of your cock alternately pushing at my anus, wet and open. I crave your cock inside me but you aren’t ready. You pick up the pace and all the nasty thoughts in my head flow from my mouth and I can’t stop them (I want to be your good girl, your bad girl, your dirty little whore, filthy slut, everything you want, fill me up, use me, take me, spank me, please, daddy, please daddy please, daddy please daddy please). Driven by my words you jerk off faster and harder—the sound of your breathing nearly overrides the stream of dirty talk that I have no apparent control over. Very soon you stiffen and moan and your hand tugs hard on your cock one final time as you collapse over me.

I smile and begin to turn over, expecting (the unexpected, by now?) you to hold me for a bit as you catch your breath. Again, you take me by surprise. Holding me down you tell me that you brought me a bit of a present but I am not to move. I obey although my cunt is throbbing with need. You leave the room and when you come back, you slip my new blindfold over my eyes. The sudden darkness and my vulnerable position make me weak with desire. But, that isn’t all you’ve brought. I feel something snakelike and silky coil across my back. It feels familiar, but not like anything we’ve used before. I try to place the texture but before I can name it you pull my arms backward and bend my knees, placing my hands around my own ankles. Rope. Silken rope.

I am now tethered to myself in the middle of my own bed in my own room. You leave again and I hear you in the kitchen. This is becoming maddening. I can’t even begin to imagine how swollen and red my pussy must be. You are silent when you return and this time the sensation is immediately recognizable. Oh how I love the white-hot pain of ice, particularly when my body temperature is already soaring.

You run the cube down the middle of my back and then let it melt slightly in the crack of my ass. I am wild with wanting some relief. I ache with want. You reach under my body and rub the ice against my rock-hard nipples then bring it back and before I can even begin to beg you slip it inside me with two fingers. My orgasm is instantaneous. Hot, clear liquid gushes forth and I shudder. My body fights itself within the confines of the ropes. You are relentlessly working my clit—your tongue and fingers everywhere. I know you must be on your knees between my legs. My arms grow sore but I don’t care. Every sense I have is centered on my cunt and the wave after wave of contractions you pull forth from me.

The ice cube is long melted within me and I radiate nothing but heat. I can do nothing but whimper in the darkness and I am dimly aware of you lovingly untying my ropes. My arms have fallen asleep—they are numb and tingling. As soon as I am free my body curls in upon itself and you crawl over behind me, holding me tightly, whispering your love into my ear. You rock me quietly, soothing me.

And before too long, I reach over between your legs. I want what I want and, after all, we do have all day.

Well, sports fans, I’ve moved! Darling DPR and I have barely spent a night apart and we now live a bare 2 miles from each other. She has written an amazing recap of the last several weeks, while both of us were on hiatus as it were, and you can read that HERE. My own article for Our Big Gayborhood, details the move as well, and you can catch that HERE. While I wait to start my new job, I seem to have a bit of time on my hands and plan to catch up on some writing, as well as those long overdue reviews. In the meantime, although a day late, here is this week’s MFM. Ang, our dear Sweltering Celt, has assigned us the sweltering theme of Sweat. How apropos!

No breeze stirs the curtains in front of the open windows. The air is still and humid and beyond hot. Cardboard boxes—some filled, some empty, some in progress—crowd every room. I have been fretting about the amount of packing left to be done but your reassurances are optimistic and often. It is late in the afternoon. Sunlight creates long shadows across dusty floors, laid bare, the rugs rolled up against the walls.

I look up from the books I’ve been sorting as you enter the room with two water bottles in hand. Sweat drips from cold, clear plastic. It is too hot to be so close to another human being and yet you reach out with one finger and move a strand of hair from my eye. I wince against the saltiness and hold the bottle to my forehead. Your finger trails down the side of my face, following the condensation. A single drop moves down my cheek, my neck, my collarbone…and gets lost between my breasts.

I follow your gaze and you sigh and lean forward to place your lips gently against my cleavage. I begin to protest but you immediately hush me with a kiss. Our bodies melt together like candles left too long in the heat. Pliable. You draw the straps of my tank down over my upper arms and I reach up to peel it off, mindless of the windows already stripped bare in my office—exposing us both to any neighbors through the floor to ceiling glass.

I tug at your beater, soaking wet, and you pull it over your head. Our torsos join together again as our arms twist and tangle everywhere at once. The temperature creates an almost other-worldly feeling. My senses are heightened. Every touch feels electric. When you drop to your knees, slide my jean shorts to the floor so that I can step out of them, and place your mouth firmly upon my clit, I moan and grab handfuls of your thick crop of hair. I push you harder into me, your hands sliding on my ass, slick with perspiration. I give up all pretense, glad for the excuse to put off packing, and collapse to the floor—the carpet rough beneath me. You hold steadfast to the task at hand and for one hour in a very long hot day, my existence becomes your mouth, my cunt, your fingers, my pussy, your cock, and me.

I love finding new blogs, especially funny ones, really well-written ones, or those posted by women I can relate to. Yesterday I coerced DPR into posting an HNT and someone we didn’t know, going by the name of DykeEvolution, posted a very appreciative comment of her photo. Ironically, today I was catching up on G’s blog at Can I Help You, Sir? there she was again! I went to check out her blog and while I have a lot to catch up on reading-wise, I found this fantastic quote on her home page by Tristan Taormino. Because we all (Tristan, Jen, and I) share the same proclivity for uber-butch women, I thought I’d repost the quote here:

“I love butch girls. Girls with slick, shiny, barbershop haircuts, trimmed so short your fingertips can barely grip it. Girls with shirts that button the other way. Girls that swagger… Girls who get stared at in the ladies’ room, girls who shop in the boys department, girls who live every moment looking like they weren’t supposed to. Girls with hands that touch me like they have been exploring my body their entire lives… It is the girls that get called sir every day who make me catch my breath, the girls with strong jaws who buckle my knees, the girls who are a different gender who make me want to lay down for them.” – Tristan Taormino

Thanks Tristan! And thank  you, Jen, I look forward to reading you!

Feeling compelled to write after last week’s self-indulgent sulkfest, I requested an assignment from DPR. The following was inspired by a little bedtime banter we’d had—very playful, extremely cute. The kind of stuff that makes other people want to vomit. I, personally, loved it and asked her if she could expand on it for me. She went in a very different direction (only one small part of this would give you a clue as to what we’d been teasing each other about) and I was really blown away by what she sent. Normally, she’ll set a rough scene for me and I will go off with it; this time, however, her writing was thorough and good, really good. So good in fact, that I couldn’t rewrite it. So, I am presenting a joint venture. The first part, from DPR is very much her impression of me. Think DPR and Scintillectual circa 1984–85. Then, I take over. I hope you enjoy the fruits of our labors. I never knew work could be this much fun!

Androgynonamous writes:

I lurked around the hallway after color and design class—waiting to see if I had missed you leave your illustration class, or if I would be lucky enough to bump into you. I shot the shit with Alice, my butch buddy from life drawing, and pretended not to be watching the door of your classroom. Soon, a gaggle of girls began to fill the doorway and move into the hall, talking and giggling as girls do. You came out with a purpose and kept moving down the hall as you chatted with some of the more grown-up girls. It was clear you did not want to hang in the hall or run around with the crowd today. But, then, I wasn’t surprised. Even at 19, you were more grown, more mature, than the others in so many ways. And so much more attractive.

I said goodbye to Alice and made my way toward you, watching the subtle sway of your hips…thinking about the warm pleasures to be found there. I slipped up behind you, “Hi there.” You turned slightly to say hello, but kept your pace just slightly ahead of me. “So, are you done for the day?” I asked. You nodded, eyeing me with that coy smile I loved so much.  “I’m done too,” I informed you as I moved up to walk beside you. I inhaled the faint scent of your hair, your skin, as I stared at the line of your neck.

“So, you want some help carrying your stuff?” I grinned.

The coy smile broadened, “Are you asking to carry my books home?”

“Yes…Yes, I am,” I returned.

“You know, there are lots of bois who want to carry my books home,” You teased me.  I stopped, looked you hard in the eyes and smiled, “I know.”

You handed me your tackle box and sketchpad and I worked them into my own armful of supplies. We walked back to the dorm chatting about our day. Now and then, I would lag behind just enough to watch you walk. “Stop looking at my ass,” you would instruct me, all the while being sure to ever-so-slightly increase that lovely sway. I was humming between responses to the light conversation. You asked me what I was humming. “Oh, just this song I know,” I said, “maybe I’ll sing it to you sometime…if you are good.” I winked at you—but tried not too get too lost in your creamy chocolate eyes and smack into something.

In the elevator up to your room, we were alone. I stood close, but not too close to you at the back corner of the elevator. You leaned in toward me. “So, now that I have let you carry my books, what are your intentions?” you whispered to me, moving to within about 6 short inches from my neck.

“Oh, I don’t know if I should tell you just yet, sugar…” I leaned in toward your neck and inhaled you deeply. “Why is that?” you asked as you offered your neck, barely brushing your cheek on mine.

“I’ve been thinking of doing bad things.” I said as the elevator doors opened.  We walked toward your room. I began to sing to you:

I want to carry your books home
I want to walk with your hand in mine.
I want to be the name on your lips when you’re all alone;
I want to court you and make you mine.
I want to give you rings made of silver and stone;
I want to be near you and love you for all time…
I want to carry you books home…

We reached the door to your suite.

Scintillectual writes:

You opened the door to my room and held it open for me. I motioned for you to lay my things on my drawing board. While you set down the load you were carrying, I shut the door and leaned back against it, quietly clicking the lock into place. The Philly streets were uncannily quiet on this warm, early Fall afternoon, and the latch reverberated in the silence. You turned with a grin.

“Where’s Julie?” you asked, sweeping one hand toward the empty bed on the near wall.

“In class, I expect,” I said, “Why? Afraid we’ll get caught?”

“Get caught doing what, exactly?” Oh, please. Now you play it safe. You were all but dry humping me in the elevator.

I fixed my gaze upon your green eyes as I began to unbutton my shirt, “I do believe you were thinking of doing bad things?” I saw you swallow hard as you watched my shirt hit the floor. You made a move in my direction and I stayed you with one hand. My jeans, bra, and panties quickly followed and I stepped out of the puddle of clothing and moved in your direction. You stopped watching me for a fraction of a second to take in the open blinds on the huge picture window. Just across the street was a bank of office windows filled with folks about to get a mid-afternoon treat. “Trust me,” I purred, “it’s not the first thing they’ve ever seen over here.”

You mumbled something and I pushed you back on my single bed, straddling you, utterly naked. I leaned down close to you, my mouth poised just above yours, “and what, pray tell, did you have in mind? Just a song before you go? Or…” I never finished my sentence as you wrapped your arms around my neck and pulled me hard into you. Our fumbling to get your own clothes off began in earnest. Belt, jeans, t-shirt, beater, my God, how much could one person wear at one time? Lips locked, we almost fell off the narrow bed as we maneuvered in and around each other. Finally, blissfully nude, you settled into a criminally smooth rhythm.

I sighed as you traced soft kisses around my ear and worked your way down my neck. I’m thinking you have a thing for my neck. You moaned quietly as you took my breasts in both hands and moved from one rock hard nipple to the next. My leg moved involuntarily between yours and I connected with your boi-cunt. Soaking wet. As if I wasn’t turned on enough from the moment I saw you standing outside my class (pretending to be all nonchalant—as though you weren’t waiting for me), I now flooded the comforter beneath me with my own juices. Soon, though, you were there—between my legs—making sure nothing went to waste. I grabbed your head and twisted my fingers in your hair as you ran your hands down my sides and pushed my legs farther apart.

After a good 10 minutes or so of you tonguing my clit and licking me up one side and down the other, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Fuck me,” I panted, “you need to fuck me.”

“As you wish,” you said and promptly plunged three fingers deep inside me as I bucked against you. Grinding my thigh into you, eliciting deep-throated moans. I could feel my orgasm building and then I heard voices in the vestibule. Fuck. I prayed that they were coming from my suitemates until I heard the key in the lock. Why hadn’t I thought to stick the do-not-disturb sign on the door. Shit! Your head jerked up and your hand stopped moving, I grabbed it with my one free hand and shoved it back inside me. I wasn’t stopping now. Hell, what was the worst that could happen? Lose my Resident Assistant job? At this point, I cared not.

I heard the door open and we all gasped at once. You and I in tandem, coming together, hard and fast. My roommate, likely in shock from the sight of your bare naked ass grinding away at my bare naked thigh. The door slammed shut just as quickly and we pulled away from each other, sweat glistening on our bodies, our breath coming in ragged waves. “Do you…uh…should we…uh…” you stammered your mortification and I laughed.

“She’ll live,” I said, “and I doubt she’ll be back anytime soon. Now, I think I have a favor to return.” I pushed you back on the bed again and caught you smiling in the lengthening shadows as I moved down your body.

Good Girl hesitantly pushed the door open to find Butch Daddy reclining on the bed. He sat up when she came into the room and motioned her over to inspect her outfit. She had dressed the part (a bit of a lark), and shyly turned full circle for his approval. He nodded at the short plaid skirt, the white button-down shirt with short puffy sleeves, and lingered over the length of her legs clad in pink knit thigh high socks. Her feet, shod in black lace-up chunky Sketchers, twisted in upon themselves as she clasped her hands behind her back and stood, silently, waiting.

Butch Daddy beckoned her to the side of the bed where he now sat and instructed her to bend over. Much like Maggie Gyllenhaal’s character in Secretary, she put her forearms flat upon the bed and bent over straight from the waist. She dared not move as he stood up and walked around behind her, lifting her skirt and straightening the elastic on her panties. A shiver went through her as Good Girl felt herself go damp. Butch Daddy straightened her skirt and told her to stand up. Again, she resumed her position, eyes downcast, hands behind her back. This was not a role she was accustomed to playing. Good Girl tended toward the rebellious, though she always aimed to please. She had a stubborn will and a cocky nature. She wasn’t always a good girl. Tonight, she wanted Butch Daddy to take her as he wished and she fidgeted in her submission.

As instructed, Good Girl fetched Butch Daddy’s cock from the chair in the corner of the room, along with the towel it was wrapped in. She pulled back the covers and laid the towel upon the bed while he cinched the black leather straps tight around his narrow hips. “I think you can take those off now,” Butch Daddy gestured to her shoes. She bent at the waist and took her time unlacing them, treating him to the outline of her vulva encased in white cotton. When she set the shoes next to the dresser, Butch Daddy patted the bed beside her and she climbed up, perched on her knees, and waited. “I don’t think we need this anymore either, do we?” He flicked at the top button on her shirt and she slowly and methodically released each one, catching the gleam of anticipation in his eyes. “Now,” he said, “let’s see how grown up you’ve become.” Good Girl gasped involuntarily. Those words worked their way straight to her core as she reached behind her back and unfastened her new white bra. Butch Daddy sighed appreciatively and reached out one hand to cup her full breast. He ran a calloused thumb over one nipple while he took the other in his mouth. She arched her back instinctively, forcing more of her breast into his face.

“Now,” he sat back up, “I think it’s time for you to touch my cock. Can you do that?” Good Girl nodded and grabbed the lube from the nightstand, pouring it into her left hand. She took his cock in both hands and ran them one over the other, pulling up on the head, tightening her grasp around his shaft. “Does this please you?” She asked. “Oh yes, that pleases me very much.” It wasn’t too long before he asked if she’d like to take it into her mouth. Obediently she positioned herself between his legs so that he could easily watch as she licked his shaft from bottom to top and then swallowed the entire phallus before releasing it momentarily to gauge his reaction. Butch Daddy was very pleased, indeed. “That’s wonderful. What a good girl you are.” He said, and then he asked her, “what would you like to do?”

She was ready. So ready. “I would like you to put your penis in my vagina…please.” He put his right hand between her legs and felt that she was very ready. Good Girl wriggled out of her panties and spread her legs as far as they would go. Butch Daddy sat between her legs and toyed with her clit. She moaned softly. After a time, he pulled her further down on the bed so that her legs were draped over his and easily slid his cock into her waiting pussy. She moved against him, driving his cock as far into her as possible, and he was very pleased. After Good Girl bucked and shuddered against him she wrapped her legs tightly around his back and twisted, flipping Butch Daddy over to the other side of the bed.

Good Girl grasped the clips on the harness he wore and tossed aside his cock. She meant to suck him off good and proper. Lying sideways on the bed she wrapped her lips around his rock-hard boi-clit and pulled every bit of him into her mouth. She was hungry for him and he grabbed her hair and pushed her down onto his own flesh roughly. She groaned with pleasure. This was how she liked it. Although technically still subservient, Good Girl was every bit in charge now and she controlled his orgasm until she felt it was time to reward Butch Daddy for being so very good to her. She felt his shaft swell and throb in her mouth and she tugged harder, her head bobbing up and down. Butch Daddy tensed and then leaned hard on her back forcing her onto him firmly. His orgasm was powerful and strong and it left him weakened, petting and stroking her softly.

And she knew he was pleased.

Our hands touch briefly as we both reach for the same pillow. I pull mine away and grab another from the floor, smoothing out my corner of the cool Egyptian cotton sheet before I carefully mimic the artistic way you have arranged your side of the bed. I run my hand over the duvet cover and reach for you as I walk to the doorway to survey the room. My bedroom. So different from the one I left behind. The furniture is the same, but the colors are no longer muted browns, tans, and burgundys. The chintz loveseat, formerly occupying my living room up North, now sits regally at the end of my bed. Its colors have inspired this new look—sage greens, grays, deep mauves. I admire the Tamara de Lempicka piece you chose to grace the far wall. Two Friends. It is perfect. You wrap your arms around me and ask me how I like my new room. I pull you closer and turn to kiss your cheek and smile. It is perfect.

It has been a long day of unpacking and there are many boxes stacked in other rooms awaiting our attention tomorrow. Tonight, however, belongs to us and my little bungalow is blissfully quiet. I’ve left behind a noisy two-family apartment on a busy street—I’d grown used to falling asleep to the sound of unmuffled engines, sirens, loud teenagers out late. As we undress and climb into bed, I realize that I hear nothing but the hum of the air conditioner. My quiet neighborhood is void of traffic and the neighbors have turned in early. I feel utterly at peace. It is perfect.

I reach over to turn the light off and when I roll back toward you, I realize the bed is bathed in moonlight. I’d forgotten how much sky there was here. You lean over me, perched on one elbow, and trace the contours of my mouth with your right hand. I catch your forefinger between my lips and lightly kiss it. Every move is tender, gentle, silent. I pull your face down to mine with both hands and catch your bottom lip between my teeth; you inhale sharply but the sigh that follows is as soft as the evening breeze. I move into you, under you, our bodies coming together to create a oneness where there were two.

Our kisses become more fervent and our hands seem to take on a life of their own as they explore each other’s bodies unabated. My fingernails light upon your back and down your arms. Your roughened hands tangling in my short hair. It is time. I am wet. Ready. I want you inside me. You came to bed prepared, your cock now living in its own drawer in one of the antique dressers, here, in my home.  Now, you raise yourself above me and enter me and it is my turn to sigh. I look up and there you are. Looking back at me. Every feeling you have betrayed in those eyes that seem to shift from gray to green to gray, as though by changing color you could ever hide from me.

You sit up and grasp my legs as I rest them against your chest. Straight as arrows. Your hands caress my calves, you run your tongue along my ankle and instep. I shudder involuntarily and begin to move against you like a wave breaking softly against the shore. Every move is precise, controlled, easy. It is perfect. Our lovemaking is, for now, sweet. We know that we have the rest of our lives to play. Years ahead of us to continue our exploration into the many facets of our sexual life together. Tonight, this night, we know that I am home and you live a scant two miles down the road. This night marks the beginning and as such we treat it with reverence and respect.
This night you move in me as though I am something fragile. As though you fear one of us may go away again. But there will be no more leavings. I am here. We are fully present. I am home and you are with me, in me, around me. We come together in a beautiful testament to the love that brought us to this place. This home. This bedroom. This bed.

and it is perfect.

Although I do thrive under DPR’s very strict directives for my Wicked Wednesday posts, I’ve grown accustomed to one-word themes assigned by our dear Sweltering Celt, Ang. This week, however, she threw me for a loop with the challenge of writing about “Getting Lost in the Forest.” After a day or two of musing, I decided to take a decidedly different tact and offer up my very first fairytale. Enjoy!

Red tugged at the back of her shorts as she checked her compass one more time. Having taken an unfamiliar shortcut, she now found herself in a heavily wooded section of the forest and the sun was beginning to fade on the horizon. She started as she heard a twig snap somewhere to her left and almost immediately felt the hot breath on the nape of her neck.

A woman’s voice, husky and low, growled, “So, what’s a nice young thing like you doing in a nasty, dark place like this, eh?”

Red whirled around, coming face to face with finely chiseled features, eyes so light brown they almost appeared yellow, and a lascivious grin carved out by two sharp and slightly jutting incisors. “Who are you?” She demanded.

“I’m sorry,” the woman extended her hand and Red took immediate notice of her long, thin fingers, shaking off the old joke about lesbians being well-hung. “My friends call me Wolfe.”

Of course they do, Red thought. “Look,” she picked her backpack up off the underbrush and slung it over her shoulder, “I have to be somewhere and I’m running late. My grandmother’s expecting me.”

Wolfe laughed loudly. “Let me guess,” she said, “you came from over the river?”

Red turned away and began to pick her way through the overgrown and nearly invisible trail. Wolfe was at her side instantly, eerily stealthy in her every move. Red found herself aroused by the woman’s musky scent, her tousled hair, the rippling bicep beneath a black t-shirt. She shook her head in disgust and picked up the pace.

“Seriously,” Wolfe said, “a girl shouldn’t be alone in the forest at sunset. You never know what might happen.”

Red stopped again and looked at her through narrowed eyes. “What about you? You’re here.”

The woman laughed again, “I wouldn’t necessarily call myself a girl.”

“Really.” Red said, “Then what exactly would you call yourself?”

Wolfe moved silently around to Red’s back. She ran one long finger from the middle of her bare thigh, over her ass, up her right side, around her breast, and placed her entire hand across Red’s throat firmly. She pulled back, exposing Red’s pale, graceful neck and bent her head low to whisper in her ear. She spoke one word and a shiver fabricated of revulsion and attraction ran through Red’s body.

“Dangerous.”

My eyes are tired and my back aches. I stand up and stretch, my desk chair rolling across the wooden floor. I shade my eyes from the mid-afternoon glare and watch you propel the lawn mower across the wide expanse of green out back. Ah, the joys of having my very own yard-butch. You never let me lift a finger unless I insist and I take much more pleasure in digging in the dirt to reap the colorful benefits of my English gardens than I do in pushing heavy machinery.

As if psychically connected, you look up and see me framed in the window. I smile and beckon you to come in. You shut off the mower and within a moment I meet you at the back door with a Buckler’s. You grin and lean in to kiss me but I back off with mock distaste at your grungy beater and sweat-soaked lips. “Ewwww,” I say, pulling a face. “I was just going to have a smoke,” you reply, “Come on out, take a break.” I grab my iced green tea and follow you to the patio, settling into an Adirondack chair under the pergola. The canvas strips woven through the weathered wood providing some respite from the scorching August sun.

You sit heavily in the matching chair beside me and light up, inhaling deeply. My old habit haunts me during your now infrequent cigarette breaks and I feel a longing in my chest. Watching your hand move from your side to your mouth, the long drag and the exhalation, your tongue darting out periodically to quickly lick your full bottom lip, I start to feel a very different kind of longing. I sigh as you get up and head over to the spigot to rinse off the day’s grime. As if in slow motion, I catch every detail, every drop of water that runs down the back of your neck and soaks your tank. I catch myself daydreaming as I stare at the hole in the back of your jeans, the plaid of your boxers visible.

“Hey!” I am jolted out of my reverie as you playfully turn the hose on me. I jump up and out of reach. “You know, if you’ve got that thing out, you might as well put it to good use.”

“Really?” You arch one eyebrow in my direction.

“Pig.” I smirk, “I meant that you should water the flowerbeds while you’re at it. My glads are starting to wilt a bit.”

“As you wish.”

It is your standard reply to me. The answer you give me whenever I make a request of you. The phrase that earned you the nickname “Dread Pirate Roberts.” And it never fails to work on me.

I walk over and turn off the water. You look at me quizzically as I push you toward the house. “I changed my mind. I have other plans for you.”

“Are you getting mouthy with me, woman?”

“Not yet, I’m not. Come on.” I follow you into the house. “Bathroom.” I am insistent and I’m not playing. I want what I want and I want it now. You understand immediately and comply, heading for the master bath. You start to turn the tap on in the garden tub and I stay your hand. “No. I think you need a little lesson in self-control.”

You start to speak and I put my finger to your lips. When you begin to kiss my hand, I pull away. “Strip.” I say. You do. And then you reach for me and I walk away leaving you standing in the middle of the tile floor. I reach up under my skirt, slowly and deliberately take off my panties, and then I pull myself up onto the vanity, perching on the edge.

“Come here.” I tell you, “On your knees.” I know you think you know what’s coming. You don’t. I pull my skirt up around my waist and spread my legs. Your hands instinctively move toward my thighs, you have that hungry look about you. “No. Don’t move. Stay right there.” You are literally 6 inches from my already drenched cunt. You don’t take your eyes off of it. I reach down with one hand and spread my lips apart letting you see all of me, as closely as possible. You groan in a barely audible plea for mercy but you know better than to move.

“Jerk off for me, boi.” I wait to see your reaction. I know you are reticent to do so even in the dark of night and here we are in the well-lit bathroom in the middle of the day. “Go on, I want to watch you. If you’re a good boi, I promise you can have what you want. If you’re a bad boi, well…” I take my hand away and begin to pull my skirt down. Your hand immediately moves to your rock-hard shaft. You begin to pull and stroke your boi-clit and I can feel my breath quicken. I shift again and reach down between my legs, fingering my own clit in a very different way. Your gaze is unwavering. You stare down my pussy with a cocky, almost challenging attitude. I know you choose to do this, and it pleases me.

Your hand moves faster as my own rhythm picks up. I taunt you by dipping my fingers in my vagina and offering them to you before I quickly put them in my own mouth. Your eyes follow my hand and you moan again, shutting your eyes briefly before you face forward again. I verbally urge you on. I tell you non-stop what a good boi you are and, finally, when I’m ready, I tell you to come.

And you do.

When your trembling subsides slightly and your body has gone limp, I reach out and grab your hair, pulling your face into me. I can no longer deny you. I can no longer deny myself. Torturing you was more than I could stand and as you bury your face in my cunt, I melt into you. I am no longer in control. You have it all. You have me completely. This then, is my reward.