Scarlet Letters

You are too young and too sure to be who you think you are.

But your try is amusing.

Cast your promises of tempestuous pleasure again in ten years and maybe you’ll find a young libidinous girl to ruin.

I’m yet to be named by a man and so will not leave one.

And yet, there remains that chance that you are not.

That I am exactly who I think I am (at least, for the moment; the best and worst of us are constantly changing and evolving).

There is that possibility that I know what I am doing; that my words match my intent and my ability.

Now, let’s look at this.

Promise is a positive, safe attribute. But it also leads one to a hint of brightness in the future.

One could say, there is promise in the sunrise. Or, there is innocent promise in the freshly fallen snow.

And slim margins? You are implying a narrow, possibly well-traveled path of sameness and comfort holds promise. Why, if the slim margins hold such hope, would we leave them?

But only sometimes do we live our lives there, so you say. And I would be a fool if I said I never do.

But I don’t often.

I’m an excellent chameleon. And if you are any good at what you say you do; you are too.

So what promises wait within slightly wider margins or even beyond the meager barriers they set?

Step wisely, Demon.

I prefer my steps to be away from the well-worn path; comfort has its place, but to breath – that sharp intake of air that reminds you of place – you have to step away from what is comfortable.

I don’t often equate promise with brightness; a kiss – a touch – a word – a delicate negotiation found in the space between one breath and the next is many things, but seldom bright.

It is the reminder of life, found in the risking.

I am less the chameleon, and more the rake. Adaptable, and not in appearance only.

As in rakehell?

Do you adapt to catch your girls because you enjoy it or because you can’t resist it?

Will you cast a silver sparkling net of words and catch my lithe mind, dear Rake? My body seems to be on a leash, and only the right tug by the right (or perfectly wrong) hand may control it.

An excellent term for you, rake. And how consistent you are with your post. Why not? Let’s let you be what you wish.

Dark-eyed and very quietly I’m watching you.

You’re poetry is nice.

Nice being a bland and useless word for describing anything. But of course my word choice matters far less than the fact that I’ve been reading your poetry.

A butterfly fluttering in my throat indeed. And I love orange carnations.

Sleep comes for me.

I am more particular than that.

(just slightly)

As in rakehell, indeed.

You’ve been to the wolf’s den; read the scratchings carved into the wall. My musings, my words.

I’d say you have the advantage over me.

But I know well the lines of ingress; it doesn’t take a leash to direct intent.

Rakhellion, why shouldn’t you have a harem?

But no, that isn’t what I meant at all.

Do you not collect pieces of them? Whether you do or not; when I’m submissive and a man takes me well-I am not the same when I return. Part of the thrill for me is in the inability to deny, the loss of power to say no. In simple expression: I’m his. Hence my saying “your girls.” The difficulty lies in finding a man to be submissive for.

Why am I telling you this? I feel as though I’m a child playing at a pretend tea-party. Only instead of my dolls I have a precariously polite wolf as my guest.

You’ve a sense for my intent even before I do then. I’m prowling, yes. A she-wolf calling in echoed howls? Oh, I don’t know.

I’d rather be the shepherdess. I’ll tend my flock of doubt and fear, losing a lamb or sheep here and there to the wolf or my own neglect. And when all are gone and I’m alone, won’t this demon-dog have nothing to take but what’s left of me?

It is day.

If Jesus can forgive me, you should be safe.

I don’t want pieces; when someone is with me, when they are on the crimson carpet of my study, they are mine, for those moments my hands and words press into their skin, at the pulse of the neck, or the apex of their thighs.

A marvelous, tumultuous Sunday.

I’m sore and used and soft.

How was your day?

You paint pretty pictures; pearls and jade and a crimson carpet! What fun.

I’m having difficulty with my lover. He has morals. He cares much more for Jesus than you or I do.

How was your veal?

I don’t eat on days with Jacob. Afterward I eat what he gives me; today was a square of dark chocolate with a delicious almond embedded in it. I won’t eat tomorrow. It isn’t his command, it’s part of my own ritual.

I worry what I’ll do when I’m old and can’t live for sex as I do now.

You would like to watch me sin?

You’ll watch nothing. Watching is too passive, for you Legion.

You are take.

And pull.

And now.

And promise.

My study offers a different manner of comfort, and I was glad to return it last night.

Rituals are important; they are the setting of the mind, the landscape for your submission. They offer context. They provide meaning. They prepare you for the sacrifice you are to make.

But I do watch. My gaze settles like fingers around the throat.

I watch the same way I act; with purpose; sometimes with patience, often with faint amusement.

Always with intent.

A gaze like fingers around a throat? And caught breath like a butterfly flu t t ering against a pulse.

I like throats, necks. And mine is sore today.

Poor Jacob. He doesn’t like the instincts I inspire and encourage or rather, he likes them too much. Yesterday when we were finished and laying on the floor I pulled his hand to my throat and pressed his fingers there, just watching him and thanking him.

He became very sad and said “You’re too seductive, I want to go home.”

The funny thing was, he was home, we were in his house!

My sore neck is a painful reminder of the fun.

I have only one class today and then will find a warm nook to study in.

I’m very hungry and a little cold but keen.

Your *now* promise, a concise cut.

What fun you must have in your crimson carpeted room. What color are the walls, the ceiling?

There is my desk. A window overlooking woods and stream. A larger leather chair for feasting.

Any other details are best off experienced, not explained.

Home is always as relative as it is relevant.

Yesterday you were soft; today, keen – are you a limber blade, just sharp enough to be a fitting instrument in a hand?

Oh, I’m sensible. I’m able and capable. I’ll do what I need to do to secure what I need. But I seem to always be at the mercy of my own whims or want. A limber blade? A tool to be used or manipulated?

How quick my desire ignites at the thought!

Your pink-cheeked pin up girls are ever lovely. En pointe, and so lusciously posed! If you’ve the calendar I’ve found, Miss October – a little Indian Girl stretched taut and tight as the bow-string across her breasts, is my favorite.

I live in a trendy, fairly newly purchased condo in Fairfax. High bright ceilings and hard, clean floors. It isn’t a home yet. Have I ever had a home?

At 1:00 sunlight will pour through the balcony door’s window. I’ll lounge in the rectangle of warm light and read and write.

Between now and then I’m learning topography. Tracing map miles with a bright purple string.

How perfectly, contentedly calm and almost worthless are the things I study.

Limber blade.

I like you.

As for Miss October – she sits next to Miss May. Who doesn’t enjoy a good game of cowboys and indians?

My townhouse has age, small rooms defined by function and space. Galley kitchen, separate dining room. A small alcove for my spirits.

And upstairs, my study and my bedroom; a hand-crafted bed, with recently purchased 1500-thread black sheets.

I prefer my luxuries to be of a personal nature.

Are you not a predator seeking prey? I think you are hungry. I wonder how often the wolf feasts and on which prey he prefers to dine?

I’m not going to come too near you, demon-dog.

Dark-eyed and silent I’m waiting for you to come to me.

Are you still pacing on soft-pawed, sharp-clawed feet? Or are you crouched and near, watching as pantingly silent as I am?

Perhaps you are above me! Watching your catch writhe slowly beneath you. Shall I bare my throat to your gleaming teeth or run for you to continue this hungry, only just hurried hunt?

Here.

I’ve put my leash between your teeth.

Let’s see if you tug.

But I am a creature of intent. For those moments I have someone in front of me; those moments they kneel, bare flesh against crimson carpet; those moments I can feel their breath catch when my fingers tighten and I let them see my smile.

For those moments, there is nothing else but the prey.

In those moments, I am not hungry; I am hunger itself.

I feast just often enough to keep the wolf from starving; not enough for him to sleep. I like to feel him stirring, I like to feel him press against my pulse.

There is amusement in your eyes; a self-awareness that suggests you are not a light snack, nor heavy meal.

Something else.

You could be the first sip of a sweet wine.

I’m curious how the second would taste.

You do not want me to come to you, red riding hood.

Not when, with dark eyes and silence, there is crimson to feel.

But you’re quite keen, and wondrously nimble yourself, wolf.

And I’m not able to trap you.

Hunger itself? You are delectable.

Wouldn’t my red hair look pretty spread and touseled against black sheets? I’ve never known black sheets.

Or my pale skin against a crimson carpet; how lovely I would look trembling there.

In my eyes there is a great deal of amused self-awareness. I know what I like and what I need. I know what I am. There is experience there, but also a hint of curious fear.

I’ve much to learn. There is longing in me yet I’m still bound by fight. In that picture my eyes are asking for the things I fear yet know I need.

Wolf.

You’ve written me breathless.

And wet.

Want is no longer an option.

I need you to come for me.

When you are hungry, of course.

How I channel my hunger is the only thing that changes.

To not know black sheets is a sin. But the greater sin is becoming well acquainted with them.

It makes me curious how you would find yourself at the den of iniquity that is my study.

“It makes me curious how you would find yourself at the den of iniquity that is my study.”

Oh, but a double entendre too fun to pass!

I won’t be looking for myself in your den of iniquity and so am not worried at all for finding it.

But I should think I would find myself in a world of new and exciting experiences. I can almost feel the carpet under my knees now.

(Hah!)

But you are speaking logistics, aren’t you?

I have many ways of escaping to find myself elsewhere. Daytime, both weekday and weekend.

But your dark sheets and carpet call for the night wraith-girl I can be, do they not?

But your jaws aren’t snapping yet, I don’t think, Sinner.

A patient, cautious wolf you are.

Delightful.

I am at my desk now, a clove and cognac at hand.

And wickedness in my heart.

Can I curl up on your crimson carpet and watch?

Let me sit at your feet and bite and nuzzle your thigh as you work.

Cognac and a clove?

I’ve had neither! I’ve never smoked anything. That and the sheets; I must be so plain to you.

Tonight we’re opposites. You in your black and crimson room; cognac and clove scented while you wickedly write away.

I’m light and sprightly giggle. I’ve just washed dishes by hand, warm and soft suds up to my elbows. Now I’m baking cookies with bits of white chocolate in them.

Shall I save you some?

No, no.

They won’t be excellent good, as they are now, in twelve days.

What are you writing about?

Scout’s honor.

(is there surprise in knowing I once was a boy scout? an altar boy? No, I think that would not surprise you)

I write of rose petals and satin promises. The beautiful tangle that we make when we let go.

There are thoughts, here, of rosy lips and pale skin. Of a hand buried in red hair.

Cloves, sweet. I do not even inhale; it is an affectation I picked up in college when my friends smoked for hours outside, and I needed an excuse to join them. They burn slowly, crackling.

If you a good girl, perhaps I shall let you have a taste.

Just one.

I try always to be good.

(Am I always trying or always good or both or neither?)

But I don’t want to try the clove. I like holding on to that never. I’ll taste its sweetness on you.

An altar boy!

Oh dear.

I was baptized 4 years ago and seduced the man who did it. I’m sure that doesn’t surprise you either.

Wolves travel in packs, no?

Do you live alone?

Legion, I want to know you!

I live alone.

(unless you count my two cats, who kindly allow me stay here)

You would offer your throat to the wolf; you would place the leash between his teeth; but red ribbons at your wrists bring a blush to your cheeks.

It will take more than ribbons to tame you, red riding hood.

But it may be a single word that finds you on your knees.

You are baptized; will you pray for me?

Try and tie me Wolf!

I’m playful and sweet tonight. Your pretty red ribbons can go in my hair. I’m going to skip-rope with my leash and kiss you softly on either side of your bared teeth. And my throat? Only gently vibrations of a sing-song little girl laugh linger there.

Would you like me to pray for you? That could be fun. Does Jesus know you as D’jaevle too? I don’t want my prayer to be answered for some other wolf.

And as I toss my red cape I’ll say this in all undeniable seriousness, demon:

Cats should always be counted!

We be loyal.

My loyalty, however, is not to the scouts, tonight, but to my writing.

You are a may-pole away from being nipped by very sharp teeth.

But you may curl at my feet while I finish writing.

And I may lean over and kiss the top of your head.

But you most be on your very best behavior.

I like to play.

What, I wonder, do you require a girl to do to be considered good?

I’m an excellent and quick learner but impetuous and stubborn; I don’t always listen.

When you are good, you will be rewarded with soft praise and a gentle touch.

When you are bad, you will be placed over my lap and spanked.

And when you are wicked, you will find yourself at my mercy.

…

If I told you what I required for you to be good, I would be taking away half the fun, now wouldn’t I?

“Time and space will be less than the distance of a single whispered word” is very soothing.

Do cognac and cloves inspire words like that?

What will you do today?

Let’s dress in tights and tunics and embroidered brocade vests. We’ll wear daring fedoras and tip our hats to the ladies and gents as we traipse about town in shining, clack-tapping riding boots.

I’ll carry a bright red rose and give it to the prettiest girl we find.

Or, you can do whatever it is you do in the day, and I’ll stay here in this bookstore. Studying, studying, studying. And smiling wickedly at boys who like to watch me uncross and cross my legs.

How bored I am with the commonality of lesser men!

Tunics, vests and riding boots.

I will allow you to adjust my cravat so it is almost perfectly straight; we will sketch bows in tip to the baristas and our sly smiles will only hint at the mischief in our hearts.

Should we steal into a garden, we can pluck enough carnations to bribe Dionysus to join us.

You invite decadence, sweet girl.

Aren’t I sweet though?

I wasn’t sure how you would take to the lilting-laugh girl that I am.

I like to play in dark games and revel in my wanton needs; but I’m also very silly!

Today I’ve layered a little gray dress over a pink shirt. My tights are polite and my boot heels low and innocent. I could be any good daughter of any kind father. A smart, sweet study-girl, content to curl in a chair with a book.

I seem to invite kindness and pain both at once, I think. To love me, or hurt me, to make my eyes cry or smile?

Will Bacchus join us in the garden? Oh, excellent fun! I’m weaving carnations into a crown for him as you read this.

If the barrista is cute let’s bring her too.

Skipping, skipping, skipping.

Poetic license allows me the luxury of never making a spelling or typing mistake; itnerant is the bastard son of itinerant, and it means ‘illusive rake’.

You are a wayward girl.

There is joy in your dance and laughter in your eyes, and neither should ever be denied.

But what will you do when a hand catches your wrist, and you are brought to heel? When you are caught, in the bright corner of the bookstore, with sharp teeth on your pulse and a secret on the lips?

Wayward I am indeed.

Silly wolf, catch me by my wrist and I’ll pet your ruffled coat of dark fur. Bristle, paw, grumble and growl all you want; I’ll kiss the tip of your nose as my giggle goes rollicking down my body.

But if you bite me, I’m going to bite you back.

And if you hurt me, I’m going to cry.

And won’t you feel awful for hurting such small and sweet a thing as me?

I’m home, to break my fast. First, the other square of chocolate that was given to me and then 7 green grapes. Maybe a bit of cheddar cheese.

It’s going to snow and sleet something awful, dear.

I hope you tuck away well and warm.

I am an imperfect saint.

I would be lying if I said there are not times I covet tears, kiss them from flushed cheeks, taste salt on parted lips.

But not today.

Today is for the snow.

And baking. I am a fledgling cook, but a promising baker. Warm bread is a salvation.

Do you enjoy the dance, imp?

I’m am excellent cook. In fact my cooking skills are matched only by my modesty.

(tee hee)

What will it be like when we meet?

Do you meet girls only for sex? Will we talk? Kiss lots? Shall I cook for you; feed you?

Will I ever know your name?

I’ve had a few affairs and a few one night stands.

Do you have a girlfriend?

I’ve baked a million cookies it seems, for my lover (who may just be my friend now) and only four of them are worthy of giving him.

Ugh!

Please butter me a warm piece of bread.

I’ll be ’round soon.

I shall stand in shifting stockinged feet and nibble on it while I ponder you and what to do with you.

I believe that covers them all.

Let it not be said I was not both courteous and forthcoming. If I can be half as charming as you can bake cookies, I shall consider myself ahead.

Speaking of courteous – I can still recall my boy scout oath of law – to be trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful,
brave, clean and reverent.

I particularly like how they worked clean into the oath; obedient and clean – is that not what all good boys should strive for?

Incidentally, I am partial to peanut butter cookies, and do accept bribes.

Please pull your ear out from your head and take a picture of the skin found behind there and send it right to me, right now.

Be honest, boy scout!

Cleanliness is a must.

Peanut butter cookies? How can I not make them for you now? Ah!

Wanting to be comfortable I took off my tights. But then I was cold so I put on black yoga pants under my gray dress. But my ceramic tile floor is so cold! And not having slippers and not liking socks I put on a comfortable pair of
+leopard-print flats.

Catching an image of myself in the oven door I laughed at how much I look like a little homeless girl toiling away in her Master’s kitchen.

Goodness-o.

Thank you for answering the questions. I like to kiss as much as I like to be bitten.

And sweet?

I’m so sweet it’s going to break the heart you didn’t know you had.

It hurt my soul to do so; and yet, it made her smile.

Cleanliness is not an issue; my best thoughts are often found in the scolding heat of the shower. When I was younger, I would play a game – turning the water as cold as possible and seeing just how long I could stay under before becoming numb.

Aquarius; can you guess at mine?

If you’re going to play the role of the little homeless girl, you had best have some matches to sell to complete the picture.

I like to kiss as much as I like to bite.

Both elicit shivers; one sharp, one soft.

Hah!

Your water games sound torturous. What’s neat is you said scolding instead of scalding heat, less traditional but very apt. And a lucky mistake for you to make. Oh, I’m sorry. A lovely bit of poetic liberty?

There, what you just felt was me licking the skin between your knuckles, and smiling at you with my eyes.

I think wolves eat whatever they want.

You should know!

I’m a pixie-imp girl. I eat the dreams of boys and drink the tears of girls.

Not really.

I’m just a homeless silly-o who is enjoying her new friend.

By the time I see you I’ll have had a new pedicure. I would ask you to pick the color, but won’t you pick crimson?

And your sign? I’m terrible with guessing.

My guesses in order are:

Scorpio
Pisces
Aries
Libra

Okay, now tell me how wrong I was.

I would never tell the little match girl she is wrong; the heart she pretends I have would never allow it.

That, and she was right at the first.

This was the easy one; the remaining questions are trickier, and the stakes are much higher.

There may even be cookies involved.

I’m going to pretend you didn’t just admit to sparkly zebra print flats, so as to preserve your good name.

I sleep early, tonight. To let the ebb of dream ride along the sharp edge of my hunger.

Share some pixie-dust powder, that my dreams be vivid.

Waking up this morning I read again your last email. Charming for sure.

What’s today? I’ve crossed the room in Santa-hat capped penguin print flannel pajamas to peer at the snow. Oh! Lovely and new but also cold, cold, cold.

So back under my covers to warmth and irresponsible bliss for me.

I’m not sure I’ll leave the house. Maybe I’ll drag all my books to bed and not leave it either.

Don’t worry, I can’t wear zebra flats in the snow. Even my knee boots seem inadequate today. Maybe I need thigh boots? Better yet, let’s get me a sexy pair of olive green plastic chest-waders. Hottttt!

I would like to dig a warm nook of a hole and curl up there with a book and read-aloud all day. C’mon. Get your shovel; you can come too.

Ah – if only; I woke this morning with the optimism of a day spent at home. But there was not quite enough snow to justify a stay.

Work welcomed me with open arms and emergency meetings; people running back and forth, pressed deadlines driving them ever forward. I survived my first meeting with wry amusement. We shall see how the afternoon fares.

We share a commonality today; penguin-touched boxers. There, an intimate detail to show that even wolves have humor.

I went to school for English; I graduated with a bastardized degree I came up with myself. The college called it a ‘student-designed major’. I’ve always had issues with boundaries.

You’re so interesting.

Created your own major, turns his nose up at convention (and animal print), and wears penguin boxers.

Hmm.

Today is a white ruffled boy shorts day, complete with sweet little hearts.

I got restless and left to go tromping in the snow, then felt guilty for having so much fun so I packed all my books and am now at school pretending I’m studying before my later afternoon class.

It’s lovely out. Wet and cold yet warm.

I’m not soft or silly today, but I’m not not those things, and want to know something odd? I haven’t spoken a word yet. My husband stayed home and was asleep when I left.

It’s as though I’ve started a speaking-fast and didn’t intend to or know I had.

What will my first words be?

My goodness, it’s only Wednesday!

In a few months I will officiate my youngest brother’s wedding; the only one of six who is not married, it carries with it a fine sense of irony. Much of my writing over the next week will be done in drafts for this.

Rarity created value; food, words, kind touches and cruel smiles.

Your first word should be a no that means yes.

Close reading is important.

You mean, you are the only one of six who isn’t married, (otherwise there isn’t irony) even though really, not for a few months more, there are two unmarried sons.

And in a quick glance I read that as he was the only one not married. I know you don’t have a girlfriend and for an instant I thought you had a wife.

But, no.

Only I shall be the adulterer between us.

You’re going to officiate the wedding? By a common ordination, I’m sure. Wouldn’t the catholic church crumble with a wolf in their midst!

I have always wanted a priest, better yet, a monk. I’ve had a pastor, but that isn’t the same at all.

I’m glad the picture made you smile.

Some tide is turning; my bruises are fully colored and now begin fading; I’m stirring again.

I imagine lighthouse or a cliff-born cottage, a comfortable hermitage in my later years. Surrounded by books and letters from friends.

I am perusing motorcycle ads now; I lost my first to a misjudged curve inthe late summer. Spring will be here soon, and I must awaken my vices as they come due.

It is true; a close read is necessary.

In fact, you may to come just a bit closer.

Your candle’s flame would look very nice reflected in my dark eyes.

I’m in a computer class, oh dull.

Nothing mysterious here.

And my first words were my name.

Because as I was leaving the cafeteria a very brave African American boy said,

“Mmm, girl. I love me that Obama purse and that wiggle too. Was yo’ name?”

I turned without breaking my gait and curtly replied,

“Mrs. _____.”

He was acute (surprisingly) enough to smile sheepishly and say no more.

Now you know my name and who I voted for. Though, given that you don’t like leopard or even zebra; I imagine we won’t be talking politics, will we?

Rescue me today?

Let’s meet at a windblown, cliff-born cottage. You smoke cloves, I’ll drink cognac. We’ll read your letters aloud and we’ll write such witty and loving ones back.

And when the wind threatens our candlelight I’ll clasp the shutters closed and pull blankets down or out from wherever you’ve hidden them.

Pretty pictures.

A dark night.

I wish I were tall and tough. It would be fun to be able to intimidate, occasionally.

I too voted for Obama. We are near to twins, now.

But a name, a name.

“Mrs. ______, please sit here, at the corner of my desk.”

There is eroticism in formality.

On Monday you were lithe; today, you are connected enough to feel the pull, a light tug at the edge.

Light, but insistent.

I do not want you tall and tough.

I want you this size.

How many days, red riding hood?

Well, I’m not tall or tough. I’m 5’4″ and pretty soft. In my mind I’m super ninja awesome girl, but sometimes I’m also a mermaid or fairy or imp, so.

Days?

If you see me on a Friday, nine. If Saturday, then ten.

I like your insistent tug very much.

But I don’t want to sit on the corner of your desk. I want to sit at your feet and kiss your shin, or nibble your knuckles. Or just listen to you talk, or the clack-tapping of you typing while you ignore me.

I’m shocked that you voted.

So. Shocked.

You’ve have much to tell me, Mr. W.

I am (mostly) an upstanding responsible member of society; I am not particularly political, but neither I am hypocritical enough to discuss issues while not participating in the process.

I shall be haunted by zebra-stripped print the rest of the day.

You are now required to provide an image or idea interesting enough to chase that one away.

An image or idea?

I’ll give you both.

An image of me with white satin ribbons in my hair.

And the idea?

Today I’m so lustful it almost hurts to walk.

Please wrap my leash around your hand and yank me to the floor. I want, need to be subdued.

I would rather place you on the floor with a hand in the back of your hair, a firm touch that tells you where you belong.

There is a place for good girls; a place for bad.

Bad girls are pinned to wall, wrists caught; bad girls are bent over desks and spanked.

The wait has me me hard today.

My sentences seem to be coming as short as my panting breaths.

I need you today.

I’ve already stated I have acquired a taste for tears.

Do you imagine being under me would ease the ache and not simply make it worse?

Words pry me open?

I can think of at least one thing you have I would much rather have you pry with. Or maybe you’ll pry with words so you can fill what you’ve opened with something else?

I imagine the ache is only beginning and that under you it will worsen before it’s finally mercilessly repreived.

I’m not concerned with kindness at the moment. I’m restless and hungry and I want to be innocent and soft again.

Let the kindness come after the hurt. Or let it come because of the hurt.

I’m clawing and crying at your closed den door, wolf.

I want to learn your body with my tongue.

I want to bite your shoulder, your neck. Push back against you, fight your strength and power.

I want to be pinned and punished and consumed.

And I want you to struggle.

I want to feel you twist under me until you arch towards me.

Bite your lip hard enough to draw blood.

The sweetest abuse.

I’m going for a walk.

This is too much; I have a test today!

Please do my homework for me so I can spend the day wanting you.

It’s due at 3:30.

I’m reading Romeo & Juliet to take a break from the topography. The test is in the lab at 3:30 today.

I don’t feel much like thinking.

I’m only a little worried I’m not experienced enough for you.

Of all my tricks, a half-inch elephant is the one you wish to learn?

I delight in innocence; I partake in the simple pleasures.

Wit is more important than experience, rose red.

Well, yes. That’s the one I want to learn first.

Ticklish depends on my mood, I think.

Today the slightest touch would only make me want sex. Today isn’t a ticklish day.

But it will pass.

I wonder which me you’ll get. Probably a slightly nervous, oddly trusting, very sweet, and wet and wanting me.

Are you ticklish? I’ll take care not to trim my nails too short.

Are you prepared to be snowed in? Will you watch the Superbowl? How tall are you?

I need to know if I should wear the zebra flats or leopard heels.

(Muahahaha)

I forgot to say I thought you looked dashing in your coat and cashmere scarf yesterday. But you so totally need a hat to tip.

I want you to tremble.

I am not taller than you; at least, not by much. But heels are acceptable. I don’t expect you to be standing for very long.

Sweet and wet.

I am a treat.

We’re going to enjoy each other very much.

I can be cruel, if you see cruelty in being kept at a precipice without knowing just far you have to fall. I can be cruel, if you see cruelty in crawling to me, eyes raised to meet my own, until you are close enough to kiss my palms.

I can be cruel. But never without purpose. I despise indifferent cruelty.

I prefer shadowplay, and caresses that dance between gentle and directive.

Feel small, girl; you should be nervous, but without fear. I know where you belong.

Remember, I have to cats to keep me humble.

For all you know, you may spend your first evening in my study, waiting quietly by my desk while I write. Or curled by my chair while I read and your hair twined between my fingers.

“Without knowing just how far you have to fall.”

In Spanish you tengo = I have and yo tengo que = I have to.

You could mean either one, exciting!

You’re very kind, D’jaevle.

And how much I long to be curled at your feet tonight.

Will we have a slumber party?!?

I’m so totally not a morning person.

But I have really cute ruffley pink pajamas with satin bows.

It’s an excellent trade-off, the pink pj’s for the morning brat.

You’re. Fun.

Eight, or nine days!