Like the warm kiss on the side of your neck that makes your knees weak, we all have an image, an idea, that can have a similar affect. A mental erogenous zone, this scenario has a way gripping our imagination and not letting go until we’ve managed to get it out our system by indulging our baser desires. This idea colors everything and can make places or people we would not normally consider as erotic to become so when placed on the stage or our mind’s arena. It promises mischief and we are sometimes helpless within its grasp.

One of these ideas, for me, is misbehaving at the office. Throw in a few references to hard, dirty, sex, and…

***

03.05.03

Teri pages: well, file it away in the back of your dirty little mind.. Because it’s been way to long since I had a really good vicious beating. I would think that you’d appreciate the opportunity to have a run at my tender hide again ;) I could be a little slut for you, if you like. I’ve got this dress that stops high and some garters to go with my corset…. *g*. All you’d have to do is bend me over…

D’jaevle pages: And spank you? Whip you? Flog you? Fuck you?

From afar, Teri wouldn’t mind any of the above. Or all of the above. I have this lovely image of being bent over your desk in that outfit. Tell me, D’jaevle, how long has it been since you fucked a woman’s ass?

D’jaevle pages: It’s been a while.

Teri pages: Miss it?

D’jaevle pages: About as much as you probably miss having your ass beaten bright red.

Teri pages: Ooooh, that’s really saying something….There’s nothing quite like the feeling of being split open and violated over and over and over…

D’jaevle pages: With fingernails biting into skin or tweaking nipples hard enough to send sharp lines to your clit.

Teri pages: that could be alot of fun.. *g* A pair of nipple clamps does that job nicely…Mmmm… would you want to whip me? Or flog me? Or spank me? mmm? Run a knife across my back.. or my arms.. or my legs…drip a candle over all the delicate bits? mmm.. Oh the options of things to do… But I’ll be a little slut for you, and let you do anything you want to me..

D’jaevle pages: Anything?

Teri pages: Why, what did you have in mind?

D’jaevle pages: Let’s go back to that image of you dressed up and bent over my office desk.

Teri pages: It’s a shame you’re office isn’t more private. *g* Otherwise I might actually show up dressed as such…

D’jaevle grins. Promises, promises.

Teri pages: It’d be rather hard to sneak in….at least not until after midnight, and Rose knows me well enough to know when some thing’s up ;)

D’jaevle chuckles.

Teri pages: I see.. *grins* Tell me something… what do you feel when you press me against the wall and beat me?

D’jaevle arches a brow. Hunger. Power. Excitement.

Teri pages: mmmmmm…do you have any idea how turned on I am right now?

D’jaevle pages: Tell me.

Teri pages: I can feel my clit throbbing against the fabric of my underwear. Are you turned on?

D’jaevle pages: I would say so, yes. Enough to make me want to just bend you over the desk, draw your pants over hips….

Teri pages: Mmm. I’d have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. I’m already dripping wet.

D’jaevle pages: Your breasts pressed to the hard surface while your ass rubs back against my fingers.

Teri pages: you’d like that, wouldn’t you… Or you could push me up against the wall…
Teri pages: Drop my pants..

D’jaevle pages: And?

Teri pages: fuck me in to the wall…hands squeezing breasts, body crushed against me…

D’jaevle smiles. Or one hand pressed around your neck, while the other finds your clit.

Teri pages: ooohhh…I like that one better. Nothing makes me cum harder than a hand squeezing my throat….

I am the tiniest fracture born of sweet laughter.

Where words meet lips, journeying forth, there is a touching. I can hold this bit in my hand and let you see the world.

You ask of me the why, and how. I answer only with a story. Because in the end, perhaps you are right, perhaps a story is the finest accomplishment we have. For then we are not only immortal – we are purpose, we are entertainment, we are alive.

Close your eyes, find yourself at my front door. I open it for you, our eyes meet, a flash of recognition between strangers. Upstairs, you follow to my study.

A closed door, and strong hands settle around your waist. Warm breath tickles the back of your neck, hands follow the lines of your thighs down as they reach for the edge of your skirt, drawing them up over skin.

Can you see it? Are your hands with mine, sliding along the front of your thighs?

Exposed, vulnerable, you press back against the shelter of my arms, back against me hard enough to feel me resting against your ass. My knee parts the back of thighs, spreading them just far enough for my hands to delve deeper, a flat palm pressing down with deliberate patience, feeling your heat against my fingers. The other is on your blouse, under it, fingers finding the curve of breasts, enjoying their weight, their promise.

Fingers circle nipples slowly, tugging gently to remind you of the tension, plucking lightly at the lines between nipples and clit. “Such a good girl.” My words are so close, they are inside of you. With urgency, I draw your blouse off, quickly, letting it slip to the floor at your feet.

Can you feel it? Your hands on breasts, knowing my touch, knowing my need?

Not enough.

I slip fingers between panties and bared lips, smooth and slick, “Yes.” Inside, two deep, feeling you well against them, sucking greedily as I slip them in and out. Fingers wet, I turn to face you, running them across the top of your breast. Leaning over, my words pressed into glistening skin, “I want to paint you with this…”

“…inflamed disc, it could make it worse if he has surgery, so he’s hoping the injections take…”

I’m coming to the realization that I have little patience for small talk.

“…feeling better, but have a lot to catch up on. And this project, with the multiple ICs involved, will be on my plate for at least the next three months…”

For a project manager, he’s a nice guy. I have to nudge him to stay on the right course sometimes, but he gets the job done.

But he sure likes to talk.

“…catalog, requested a rush-job. The car has a hundred and seventy thousand miles on it but its a Mazda from the eighties, was made to be turbo-charged…”

Why won’t he shut up? I tried turning away to check some e-mails, but he just kept talking to my back. I’ve got eight hours of work left to do and three hours to get it done in.

“…break him in easy, give him a project with the on-campus team that is just starting off so he can get in at ground level…”

I like people. Really. And I don’t condone murder on general principle. But if I shot him, would it really be such a crime?

I’m going to be one cranky old man when the time comes.

The second half of her letter.

—

My hand continued its quiet journey into her sweater until I was rubbing her breast. Stroking and holding it, listening to her attempts to control her breathing as much as possible for me. I was careful to avoid her nipple. I waited until she was lulled into my rhythm of rubbing and then I grabbed her nipple hard. I enjoyed her cry and her body shaking as I held her. I rolled it around and pinched and held it until I knew I wanted more. I switched my hands shifted her so that I could begin with her other breast. I let her moans die first before I started again. I put my mouth close to her ear and when I started again, so gently, her small moans escaped her mouth. They were the only evidence of her protest. She knew what was coming this time and she was scared. I didn’t care. I wanted her reaction and I wanted to hold her breast tightly and roughly for as long as I needed.

I stopped. I gave her no recovery time. I made her stand help me up. It was my turn.

The grey overcast sky leans heavily against the morning. You arrive early, before work, and you’re not quite sure why you’re at my front door.

You remember, the moment I open the door and lead you to the bedroom. Silence, to start, as you stand in front of the small windows, the silhouette of rain casting black beads against the wall. I slip off your coat and and slide one hand under your dress to catch on your panties, drawing them over hips to drop to your feet.

My fingers find your wrist and pull you to the bed. I lay back, guiding you to kneel over my waist. My eyes hold yours, unwavering. Fingers curl around the back of your thighs and I gather the dress up over your skin to your waist.

You know what I want. To taste. To make you shudder against me until I can claim you, one kiss at a time. You slide up my body, kneeling over my face, your eyes still on mine.

Lower. You feel the first touch of my tongue along your inner lips. I coax a gasp from you, the flat of my tongue starting just below your clit and down to the very edge of your ass.

Again. And again.

I tease.

Your thighs tense around my face, my hands find your cheeks, gripping your skin with warm palms. I guide you closer, my tongue now inside of you, tasting you, swallowing you whole as your hips rock forward, needing, incessant hunger pressing you down against me until you are fucking, rubbing. I can’t see you, but I feel your body swaying, your thighs clenching with each shudder and shift. You make love to my face until you come, hard, forced to throw one hand out against the wall for support.

I once asked her to write a scene that placed her in a role other than that of the submissive.

Here, the first part of her letter.

—

How do you write about a scene?
(not the right question)

I used one of my hands to brush her from her face. Her eyes were downcast while I watcher her intently. Her body language was so yielding. With my hand in her hair, I drew our faces close together, cheek to cheek, and held her there. My other hand gently stroked down her neck. It found the edge of her sweater loosely buttoned over her breasts. I felt her moan as I held her hair firmly and whispered for her to be quiet. It was distracting and she knew I needed to concentrate. I smiled to myself. Being quiet meant there was only one place for her to concentrate those feelings…inside. She had to internalize all of those feelings; it would only make her wetter when she did let it out. That in turn fed my hunger.

kisses are the remnants of paradise.
~Joseph Condrad

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D’jaevle, A Thousand Kisses, End

Tomorrow, I jump out of an airplane.

I’m of mixed feelings about this. On one hand, I know it will be exhilarating – those minutes of freefall are the closest I will ever come to knowing what flying feels like.

On the other hand, I’ve never jumped out of an airplane before. And I know, that while at this moment the idea of it doesn’t scare me, not even a little, when I’m standing in the airplane, ready to jump, I’ll feel that sliver of fear. I’ll hesitate.

Fear is the surface of instinct; tasting it is to savor our sense of self-preservation. A reminder that underneath it all, we all have a strong drive to live.

—

Postnote, 11/12/06: I did, indeed, jump out of an airplane; in all truth, I can say now that the idea of it was more intoxicating than the experience itself. For me, there was no adrenaline rush while free falling from twelve-thousand feet. There was no fear at the plane’s doorway.

But there were other unexpectedly remarkable moments that made it worth the trip: the opening of the plane door as we approached jumping altitude – looking out at the ground below and knowing I’d be heading downward the more direct route; tugging hard on the control lines to force the descent into a brief, but pulse-poundingly fast, downward spiral; viewing the world from a perspective that cannot be described without experiencing it yourself.

I write with purpose.

I write with terror in my veins and hunger in my gut.

I write with desperation. I write with need.

I write with candlelight and razors.

I write with music, but dream of silence.

I write to understand.

I write alone.

I write to not be alone.

I write to make it hurt more, but matter less.

I write for acceptance.

I write to believe. I write to define.

I write best when not thinking.

I write to read my own words.

I write for proof.

I write selfishly. I write to myself (but I write for others).

I write to be immortal.

I write to be sane.