“Some kisses are expensive.”

I adore breasts whose curves promise heaven. Large, small, medium. A handful, a mouthful, a facefull. Breasts with small, dark, large and light nipples. I love them all. But what is it about them that captures me so?

It is the hints they give us as cleavage. A study of lines that pulls the eye downward. They are very hard to hide – they make their presence known through layers of clothing. They are femininity and sensuality. They are a gateway to pleasure. They are a place to rest and a place to get lost in. They are mother, wife, and lover.

In my thoughts, one favored idea is that of tying her up and teasing her breasts until she cannot bear it anymore – and then pushing past. Keeping her captive and seeing just how closely tied are the lines between nipples and clit. Holding her down and nuzzling, licking, sucking, biting, tasting until her nipples ache and her body is taunt with unrelieved tension.

***

D’jaevle pages, “So what do you want for Christmas?”

Isolde pages, “Hmmms…a kiss?

D’jaevle presses in closer, his body warm as he slips behind you, drawing your hair aside, “Some kisses are expensive.”

Isolde pages, “Uh oh. I wasn’t aware of that…” Isolde leans back into you, closing her eyes. “Hmmm…so do you think I’d be able to afford one?”

D’jaevle runs his lips slowly over the curve of your throat, tasting your skin and the subtle heat underneath it. He chuckles softly, his teeth finding a place at the edge of your neck, grazing your skin. “How much can you pay?”

Isolde whimpers, wriggling back against you, reaching back to touch the sides of your thighs, “For one of yours? Any price…”

D’jaevle chuckles softly, his tongue teasing the edge of your ear, tracing it slowly. Hands rest on your waist, drawing you back against his knee. “You say that, but…”

Isolde subtly rubs herself back on your knee, turning your head, her lips almost against your cheek, “But what?”

D’jaevle runs a finger down the side of your neck, following it with small burning kisses that bring the warmth of your skin to the surface, “What if I were to say the price was to hear your ragged breath while I pushed you over the edge?”

Isolde whimpers, “Ooo…you play hardball”

D’jaevle wraps his other hand around you, pressing you back, so that you feel him along your back, a warm presence. “I know of only one way to play.”

Isolde places her hands over yours, running her fingertips over each of your fingers. She presses her lips to your cheek, then whispers, “Such a naughty boy.”

D’jaevle mmmms, his fingers finding their way under your shirt to press against your bare stomache, fingers spread, “Are you still willing to pay any price…for a kiss?”

Isolde whimpers and nods softly. “You drive a hard bargain…but when the timing is right, I think I might just give in.”

D’jaevle speaks softly, “We shall see, M’lady…” and he turns, one hand on the back of your neck, drawing your head back slightly so that when his lips meet yours, your looking up at him; lips part, you taste a hint of cloves and his mouth moves to yours.

Isolde closes her eyes, the softest moan of relief slips between her lips into yours as our mouths hungrily seal.

D’jaevle shares with you his hunger and burning – tongue along yours, pressing slowly, fingers digging into your lower back, feeling your bare skin. He finally draws back, his eyes finding yours before his fingers slip your shirt up and over your head, revealing more skin for his eyes. You can feel his gaze like a touch as it traces your breasts.

Isolde’s arms slip around you, hands curiously wandering over your sides, up your back, tongue rolling around yours lazily as she shift softly, breasts rubbing against your chest. She takes a deep breath, her chest rising, her bared skin still warm despite the cold outside. A small smile spreads across her lips, “Do you like the new bra?”

D’jaevle brings one hand to your shoulder, drawing it slowly to the side, letting it slip across your skin, “Describe it to me.”

Isolde shudders a bit from your light touches. “Amethyst color…lower half of the cups are smooth satin, the top halves lacy…just can barely make out the top of my nipples…plunges in front…lickable amount of cleavage revealed

D’jaevle speaks, his breath tickling your chest as he lowers his head, “I like…” Moist lips find the edge and begin to trace their way down the inside curve of one breast to the edge of your bra, “likable cleavage…”

Isolde lightly tangles her fingers into the back of your hair, cupping your head as your lips spread their warmth across her silky skin. She breathes slowly, deeply, the curve of her breast rising into your face as she inhales.

D’jaevle runs his fingers along your back, finding the catch and loosening it with deft fingers. His mouth slips lower, tracing each inch as more skin is revealed. Finally he pauses, lips brushing the tip of one nipple, and then circling it…

Isolde sighs softly as your lips greet her plumped nipple, her fingers curling into the back of your head. She slips the strap off her arm, then cups her fingers under her full breast, lifting it into your lips.

D’jaevle accepts it as an offering, lips parting around the edges to suckle slowly, taking his time to tease the tip with gentle but persistent licks, then along the side as his mouth draws it deeper, lips pressed against your silken skin.

Isolde closes her eyes as her head rolls back, savoring the pleasure of your lips on her…relieving her ache. She releases her breast, letting it hang softly under its own weight…her hand slips over your shoulder, rubbing your skin while pulling you in closer.

D’jaevle moves to the other nipple, flicking it lightly with the tip of tongue before nibbling, teeth grazing the edges, hungry.

Isolde’s fingertips press into the back of your head, her nails softly scratching along your scalp. The hand on your back slips back over your shoulder, down the front of your shirt…her thumb finds your nipple and circles it roughly.

D’jaevle pauses, her ministrations drawing a bite sharper then intended as he shivers, then leaves your breast wet as he presses his face momentarily between each breast, lost in your heat and scent.

Isolde draws her shoulders together, her elbows pressing the side swells of her breasts, burying you in vanilla scented cleavage.

D’jaevle gasps, his tongue finding a place against your skin as he licks his way back up your chest to your neck, face buried there as his own fingers press lower, into the back of your thighs.

Isolde swivels her hips, backing into your fingertips, so eager for your touch. She cups the nape of your neck, stroking the skin beneath your hair as she feels your hot breaths on her neck.

D’jaevle curls his fingers along the back of your thighs, lifting you slightly as he pulls you close, thigh wedged between yours, “If I had you in my room right now…”

Isolde closes her thighs against yours, whimpering softly as she discovers how wet she is…sure the dampness might even be detectable to your thigh, “Yes? If you had me in your room right now…what?”

D’jaevle slowly works his thigh even deeper, rubbing rhythmically back and forth, his body hard as he holds you against it, “I would take you. Right here, right now.” He grinds a bit harder, his fingers finding your nipples, rolling them along the tips, “I would fuck you. I would make you suffer pleasure.”

Isolde moans, her whole body tensing at the sound of your words. She rocks over your thigh, her panties soaked through now, wincing at the unexpected effects of your words…softly whispering, “Suffer? How cruel…” Her fingers grasp your hair in the back, gathering and tugging it.

D’jaevle drags fingernails down your breasts, catching nipples harshly as they go. His head lowers to your lips, taking a kiss, and another, “I can be very cruel.””

Isolde growls, voice low and guttural, “Beast.”

D’jaevle pants hard against your neck and then tears himself back, his eyes on yours as he gathers his voice, “And now…I must go…I do hope next time…my price will fit your timing.”

Isolde grins against her will, “Damn you.”

D’jaevle allows himself a small smile, his hardness pressed tight against your thigh through the clothing. “Quite likely, yes.”

Isolde sharply raises her thigh against you, her eyes fixed onto yours. “Sweet Dreams, Beast.”

Time for Cruelty (Second and Third Rules in the Tao of Steve)

For completions sake, here are the other two rules in the Tao of Steve. Before reading this, I strongly encourage you to take a look at the thoughtful comments left in the previous post.

Let me start with these often uttered words: “Nice guys finish last, assholes get the women.” Like most well-used phrases there is some truth to it, but the reality is much more complex. An idea I think that holds more weight is this: Nice guys that have no problems meeting women are those that understand why the not-so nice guys can be so attractive.

When I am taking someone down, I am not being nice.

When I tie someone to my bed, I am not being accommodating.

When I am forcing them to undress in front of me, I am not being fair.

When I making someone beg, I am not being considerate.

When I am whipping or spanking them, I am not being gentle.

This does not mean I am not taking into account how comfortable they are. It does not mean that I am ignoring their well-being. And it does not stop me from being a gentleman.

What it does mean is that I understand that there is a time and place for cruelty.

***

Rule Two: Do Something Excellent in her Presence.

Believe it or not, this is actually quite easy. Here are few good ways for a man to be Excellent:

– Be funny.

– Be a gentleman. Know what wine goes with each meal. Stand when she leaves the table. Pull her chair out for her.

– Be attentive. Look into her eyes. Not in that eerie ‘why is he staring at me’ way, but in a fashion that makes it clear that she has all of your attention. The difference between the two is in the timing.

– Be intelligent. Articulate your thoughts in a clear and well-defined manner. But be careful here – there is a thin line between cleverness and arrogance. Witty is hot. Twitty is not.

– Fix her car.

[audio:TaoOfSteve_SecondRule.mp3]
Dex, Second Rule in Tao of Steve

***

Rule Three: Retreat

This harkens back to the first rule. Control your desire. Make her come to you – don’t go to her.

[audio:TaoOfSteve_ThirdRule.mp3]
Dex, Third Rule in Tao of Steve

Eliminating Desire (First Rule in the Tao of Steve)

The first step in attaining a state of irresistablity is to eliminate desire.

Actually, you don’t really have to eliminate desire – you just have to control it. This is an important distinction. While the actual results are often the same – ensnaring your prey – actually eliminating desire has two distinct downsides. The entire process becomes a lot less fun. And you lose your edge – that thin sliver of burning motivation that makes you bold and confident.

So why is this important? The clip below describes the process in a most amusing manner. But in summary: Nothing is less attractive as desperation. Nothing is more attractive as that which is hard to attain.

By the way – gender doesn’t have a lot to do with the general principle behind this idea; in fact, most thoughts along these lines can be applied to both sexes. I’m not saying that there aren’t differences between how males and females think – but there are some fundamentals in human instinct that ignore age, gender, and culture lines.

[audio:TaoOfSteve_FirstRule.mp3]
Dex, First Rule in the Tao of Steve

D

Staying with poetry, here are some words of mine that I can’t quite get out of my head. Particularly the last four lines. Depraved. Raunchy. Dirty. Filthy. All words that make one side of us recoil and the other side salivate. Everything is relative, of course. For some, dirty means saying the word ‘fuck’ while making love. For others, dirty means going at it on the restroom floor of a fast food joint. And then there are those who take it to a whole different level.

Doesn’t matter. We all know what it means to be depraved. To be slutty.

To be free.

***

Wrapped in binds of abstinence,
And wept into an ashen grave,
I lay to rest the word ‘depraved’.

But starved of hunger, guilt, and fear,
Inner demons slept each tear.
To dream of times before.

When teeth were sharp and wolves would play
Flesh a feast, each curve was prey,
And lesser words to inner gods would pray
What happened to the word depraved?

Hunger in the baser side,
Left too long, too long denied.
I think it seeps between inside.
Why now?

So I let loose the wolf and beast
Gave leave to hunt the worst and least.
Let free the bounds, though leather frayed
And lived again the word depraved

Some whispers beg indifference; some whispers beg for more

I am taken with the idea that certain moments have a life of their own. A sigh. A kiss. A look. They are more then their parts. People, no matter how often I dissect them in word or wit, are the same. Even the clumsiest of people are capable of a moment of grace so sure that you’re left breathless. The most cynical people capable of giving hope. The most lonely people capable of being filled.

***

Her whispers were not unlike her lies,
which were silky and slid through my fingers,
or like her smiles
which would spend time with the chauffeur downstairs

or even like her laughter
which would crawl up my spine
and kiss the back of my neck

No, her whispers were sultry things
and they liked to spend their time in her bed

Where Angels Fear to Go

Where it becomes difficult to color between the lines. Where you’re left wondering why you were wondering in the first place. Where you tell yourself that you will take just one small bite but find yourself reaching for more.

What do I think about when I fall asleep at night?

I dream about…

…her…nameless…faceless…perfect in her imperfections…her…the girl I passed in the walkway at work…her…the woman I smiled at while ordering strawberries at the diner…her…the submissive upon whose throat my hands feels entirely too comfortable…her…embodied in the words of a stranger describing how it feels to drag her fingers across her clit at my demanding insistence….her…

…and I am…

…wanting the first touch, the first time a hand finds her bare thigh, bare everything, fingers arching to slide against her. This could be anywhere. It could be at my door. It could be in the backseat of my car. It could be on my couch, or my bed. Or floor. The first kiss might be on the small of her back, or the curve of her neck. It’s that first taste of her skin, the first moment I realize my hands have found the warmth of something deliciously dangerous. A hint of something. A promise, a threat of more. A first touch that is both hesitant and sure, finding her wet already….

…and I am pressing her back against a wall, holding her wrists behind her back, and kissing her, knowing she can’t stop me, that she just have to give in entirely to the kiss…

…and I am tracing promises into her skin with my fingertips and tasting her answers on her lips. Wrapping her so tight that a whisper can push her over…

…and I am enjoying the danger in living out a fantasy; the harder the step, the more lines that are crossed, the harder it hits, the stronger the desire. Sometimes it is the step itself that burns. How many lines does can one dream cross…

…and I am hearing the catch in her breathing when lips move along the back of her neck, drawing her head to the side to nuzzle and hold her still while small burning kisses are left against her skin…

…and I am traveling those dark woods and freeing the wolves that haunt them; beasts that feast on the things you keep tamed through friendship, through routine, through art…

…and I am spiraling along the edge, tasting life and breathing it in like the cool crisp air after rain. Left sensitive and shivering. Hungry and happy…

…and I am practicing evil subtle enough that the soul is a gift already given…

…and I awake to the taste of lingering dreams like absinthe on my lips and the fevered echoes of desire that tickle the back of my mind until I slide under again, this time into a slumber filled not with dreams, but of…

Edges

I could regale you with details from my trip to sin city and the beach. Share images of debauchery and devilishness.

I could, but I won’t.

Not today. Today, I want to talk about edges. I want to talk about the fine line we walk when we indulge ourselves. The places where life comes to a point sharp enough to draw blood. The moments of clarity so striking that they contrast harshly with the stills making up the rest of our lives. Places of pivots. Joy. Guilt. Edges.

***

I have a large collection of edged weapons. Rapier, damascus knife, sword-breaker, dagger, gladiator sword. The knife and dagger have sharp edges, the swords less so – but all are dangerous if not handled correctly. You risk cutting yourself and those near you. The same is true for the way we wield our weapons of words, touches, and company. Sometimes we cut so quickly and without thought that the marks we leave don’t show for days, weeks, or years.

I like to play with naked blades. My prey blindfolded and bared, the icy tickle of a sharp edge along the edge of the neck, up across the inner thigh, just against a nipple. Cold, sharp, it awakens nerve endings. The promise held in the edge is enough to stir breasts to rise, breathing to quicken, and a body to shiver.

It is the threat that holds promise, not the cutting. But there other edges, aside from steel.

Lust

Lust is a finely honed knife; if you’re not careful it can cut deeply; and if you are careful…it can cut even deeper. It is the edge on which I most often experience my life upon.

The right blade, of course, requires the right sheathe.

Love

Was ever there so tempestuous a place to live? Dwell too long in its’ embrace and without it you become lost. Love has its’ own edge. Twin blades of jealousy and need.

Danger

Adrenaline driven acts. Pulse-setting seconds in which you taste both fear and joy in the same breath.

Sky-diving. Affairs. Bungee jumping. One-night stands. Bar room brawls. Self-awareness (perhaps the most dangerous of them all).

They all hold an element of risk. To each person, some dangers are abhorrent, while others tantalizing. The secret of knowing which appeals to each person is a key to understanding them.

My Best Friend is a Submissive

Back from the city of sin, and now off to the beach for a few days. Enjoy!

NE is my best friend.

Our D/s relationship is not 24/7, but it is always there – like the leather flogger I have laid out so carefully on my bookcase: most visitors politely pretend to ignore it, but it’s mere presence puts everything else in my study in a slightly different light.

Several years ago I spent a great deal of time with a friend of mine who was just learning about the D/s lifestyle. I’m not extremely overt about what I do behind closed doors, but he knew about NE and I’s relationship. Once, almost casually, he mentioned that he planned ‘to break’ his girlfriend. He’s not a physically or emotionally violent person. I *know* he wouldn’t harm anyone. He was trying to convey the fact that he planned to take her down.

But words have power. Using the right words is very important.

I don’t like to break things. Bend? Oh yes. I’ll bend someone so far they *think* they might snap. But part of being dominant is knowing just how far someone can be pushed.

A broken toy is of no use. A broken friend even less so. A broken best friend? …

There are ways to reach inside someone and grip them with such intensity that their world is reduced to a single sensation. Force them outside themselves. Faster. Harder. Now. Now. NOW.

Moments like these can rip people apart in more then a metaphorical manner.

Relationships made only of these moments will burn brightly and quickly. Before NE, most of my relationships were made almost entirely of these moments. Long term relationships require a different strategy. I have to pace myself with her. I don’t have to break her to make her mine.

With her, I have different moments – those that I tease along slowly. Weeks, months, of planned disagreements, subtle touches, a random letter or two and then I descend and take what is mine. The heat has been brought to a boiling point and in a war of attrition, I win it all without having to burn her out. This method is much more insidious. And just as enjoyable.

Oh, I still enjoy a good hard mind-fuck once in a while. But I’ve also learned to enjoy the more gradual rewards of the longer view.

Secrets

From Vegas, the city of sin:

Several months ago I was reading DC craigslist’s rnr (rant and rave) and saw a thread that hooked me into reading for several hours.

Secrets. People were posting lists of their secrets. And not just any secrets, but terrible, cruel, brutally honest facts about their lives and how they had led them. The posts would end with a coda expressing just how freeing this admission was.

I can dig that.

Sharing ideas, feelings, and guilt will always makes us feel lighter. But for all the things we tell our family and friends, there is a large amount of accumulated details that we don’t – *can’t* – share with anyone else. Those moments that see us at our weakest. That reveal the true fault lines in our lives. That show the cracks in the masks we wear. To admit these things to other people, people who know you, is to make them real. The truth – the real truth about who we are – can sometimes be quite painful. It’s difficult enough to live with without having to stare it in the face.

Imagine we all carry around a sack filled with those things we can’t share with anyone. We hardly notice the weight because the increase in size is so gradual. A lie here, a hidden fact there. But this invisible sack does grow heavier. We stoop just a tiny bit more every day. Those people posting their secrets had found a way to tear a small hole in the sack and let the worst of it out.

I envy them. I try to be honest in my life. With myself most of all. But I’ve kept enough to myself to create a noticeable burden – my own sack full of misery to carry around.

Here is the start of my list of secrets:

1. I didn’t cry at either of my grandmothers’ funerals. I fear it is because I am too self-absorbed to truly mourn for others.

Feel like dumping some of it out on the ground? Go ahead. Leave an anonymous comment.

“Again. Please.”

For those who have not noticed the countdown on the sidebar to the right…I am heading to Vegas on Sunday. After a week there, I’ll be spending a few days at the beach. Here is something to think about while I am gone.

Temptation.

How do you define temptation? Is it in how your pulse quickens after reading the words below? Is it found in feeling something tighten inside that you had half-forgotten was there? Some part that exists just to need?

Does it scare you – just a bit? Even as you respond, even as you reply, the act of reaching out for something that tempts you, something right at the edge, can cut deep enough to leave a mark.

And you do respond. Without understanding or knowledge, you feel yourself pulled in, taken by the promise held in what you see. Each word you read is an admission for a hunger that grows increasingly dangerous.

Do you ever think of having your hands pinned over your head, the force of a body holding you still for a moment, forcing you to just be, to just exist in the warmth of lips on your neck, teeth biting skin, tasting you from the inside out, driving you to let go and grab onto that feeling harder then you ever have in your life, to ride it the waves of heat as they wash over you.

I do.

And temptation goes something like this.

***

1-1-1

Helen says, “i have my pajamas on :)”

D’jaevle says, “What do they look like?”

Helen says, “soft flannel pajama bottoms and a white strappy tank top”

D’jaevle says, “Underneath?”

Helen says, “nothing ;)”

D’jaevle moves up behind you, his hands warm against you through the thin fabric of your tank top. You can feel his fingers slip down along your waist, barely touching.

Helen slowly turns her head to look at you from the corner of her eye. She smiles and whispers, “Glad you woke up…”

D’jaevle runs his hands just under your tank top, fingers curling as they slip up over your stomach, against bare skin.”

Helen closes her eyes and traces her tongue along her bottom lip.

D’jaevle brushes the edge of your breasts, just underneath, his voice soft near your ear, “Miss my touch? My teeth against your ear, my fingers teasing your nipples?”

Helen nods gently, her eyes still closed. “I thought of you all weekend and could hardly control my desire.”

D’jaevle runs a slow trace down your cheek with his spare hand, fingers spreading under your neck, tilting it back as his teeth brush your vulnerable throat.

Helen moans softly and arches her back, reaching behind herself to dig her fingernails into your thighs.

D’jaevle presses his knee up, parting your legs from behind, his thigh rubbing up against you. The hand pressing along your breasts slip closer, running lightly over each nipple, then circling…

Helen reaches up and covers your hand with hers, slowly guiding it across her hardening nipples.

D’jaevle tightens his fingers, pulling hard against each nipple, feeling the nub slide against his palm. “Feel the need?”

Helen looks back at you again and nods. “What would you like to do to me?”

D’jaevle smiles, “I would love to make you beg. Beg to feel my touch. Beg to hear my voice. Beg to cum.”

Helen says, “I don’t have much time left, you’ll have to be very convincing…or make me so hot tonight I am still begging to cum tomorrow.”

D’jaevle chuckles quietly, his fingers sliding down swiftly, under your pajama bottoms and along your slick inner lips, capturing you as he turns to face you. Fingers press just slightly in, letting you have a taste.

Helen shivers and moves her mouth against yours, parting your lips with her tongue and kissing you deeply.

D’jaevle holds you against the wall, his eyes on yours, fingers tightening as two slip a bit deeper inside, then out, trailing against your thigh as he simply teases. His fingernails bite into the skin as his lips meet yours, slowly, taking his time to taste. He speaks softly as his fingers move against your thigh, tantalizing slow as it slips along the silky inner thigh, “I could make you scream.”

Helen tenses her body as she feels your touch, she reaches up to pinch her nipples as you stroke her.

D’jaevle keeps you pinned against the wall, his fingers moving along the outer thigh, and around, against your bare ass, drawing you hard against his knee as it rubs along your thighs. His teeth graze your neck as he slips lower. Slowly he applies more pressure, letting you feel his knee slip up against you, “More?”

Helen breathes heavily into your ear, moans louder this time, and whispers, “Spank me.”

D’jaevle runs a finger slowly along the crack of your ass, letting it linger the small of your back, “Say please.”

Helen looks desperately into your eyes and says softly, “Please…”

D’jaevle grips your arms, hands coming up as he turns you, pressing you hard against the bed, bent over, his fingers curling as it draws your bottoms to your ankles roughly.

Helen says again, almost whimpering. “Please…”

D’jaevle runs his hands over your bare cheeks slowly, savoring the taste of flesh as you feel yourself bared, bent over, vulnerable. He brings his hand back, and you can feel the tension just before the slap as it meets your flesh, burning, a red imprint on your ass.

Helen moans loudly as she catches her breath, tightly closing her eyes. “Again. Please.”

D’jaevle leans over, his fingers dancing on the small of your back, “What will you do for it?”

Helen slips her index finger down to her slit, slowly tracing it through the moist patch of trimmed hair. “Anything.”

D’jaevle brings his hand down again, the *slap* of his hand meeting your ass loud even in your ears, your skin shivering as you feel it burn. He runs a finger over the burning skin, “Anything?”

Helen says, “Anything. Punish me.”

D’jaevle runs a hand down to the apex of your thighs, almost tickling the skin before you feel the harsh bite his hand again, then again, and again, leaving your skin sensitive and red, “You have to be bad to be punished…” He slips his fingers over the red splotches on each cheek, “Anything? Tell me your phone number.”

Helen says, “Rob should be home any second, I can’t be caught. He wouldn’t understand.”

D’jaevle says, “I didn’t say I’d call. Just asked for your number.”

Helen says, “(home phone number)”

D’jaevle brings his hand down hard, letting the sting hit you, like plucking a tight string between your inner lips and ass. He says, “You want me call you, so badly, don’t you? You need it, to be taken, used.”

Helen almost screams, feelings the waves of pain and pleasure consume her individually. “I want to be used for your pleasure.”

D’jaevle runs his tongue along the edge of your ear from behind, your head pressed into the bed as his hand comes down hard, your skin becoming almost unbearably hot as he stripes it with red handprints.

Helen cries out as you slap her. “Promise me you’ll call tomorrow. Please. I can’t believe how hot you make me.”

D’jaevle brings his hand down hard again, at the apex of your thighs, and you feel it, the sting just at the edge of your pussy, “Maybe.” He leans over, his breath tickling your neck, “I can. I can feel it. I would have made you cum hard on the phone tonight. Would have had you thighs spread, begging for more.”

Helen says, “I want to hear your voice telling me when to orgasm, I want you to hear my moans and screams for you.”

Helen says, “Rob is home.”

D’jaevle smiles…I want you to remember tonight, and tomorrow, how wet I made you. How badly you need it.”

Helen says, “I don’t think I could forget.”