Resurrection

Tweet On Friday I will attend a Seder. I will bring an Israeli salad, drink kosher red wine and read from the Haggadah as it is passed around the table among my friends. I will be with peers, although I am not Jewish. “You are a Jew at heart,” my friend said when I told him that I’m emptying my house and starting over, filling it with things I love, things not from the past, things nobody has ever touched, things without memory. From the bottom up, I am purging. I do not believe in God and I say this. But I do believe in Spring. I do believe in Resurrection. I do believe in rebirth and emerging nearer to our truer selves. For me, it is a seven year cycle and my lover — who forfeited me swiftly and decisively — appeared midway and disappeared just in time. In two weeks I will meet someone else. He will push my curly hair from my face and tell me that I’m a dream. I do not yet feel like a dream, but I will accept that intangible compliment. I believe in dreams. I believe that a person can be another’s dream. When my lover declared that I was nothing, I became nothing. How does that happen? How does a woman like me allow that to happen? What powers he must have. I declare myself a millionaire; I wish it were that easy. “You are Jewish. You are a dream.” I […]

So, she wants to be spanked: FAQs

Tweet She may have blurted it out, or hid her face in her hands and confessed it, but the news is out: your girlfriend wants you to spank her. Outside of sex, the thought had never occurred to you. After visiting Spanking Tube and perusing the internet, the idea begins to grow. It’s kind of sexy, no? Her round bottom over your lap, flesh connecting with flesh. There’s something attractive about her being “at your mercy”. And she did ask you for it. As an obliging lover, you are game. Now what? Here are some very basic answers to help get you started, written from my perspective: 1. Is it okay if it hurts? It’s thoughtful that you’ve asked this question — and one of the reasons I chose you — but I’ll be disappointed if it doesn’t hurt. If I want you to spank me, it’s because I trust you with my physical well-being. While a spanking should be, at the very least, mildly uncomfortable (and embarrassing), it shouldn’t do any lasting harm. My bottom, with its full cheeks and feminine padding, was designed to be spanked. For me, the pain is a fundamental part of the psychology: I’m submitting to you, a man I respect, despite the discomfort. That’s a huge turn-on and an opportunity for you to show me that I was right in trusting you. Don’t waste it. 2. You are struggling. Does that mean I should stop? Unless my safe word has been spoken (we […]

In the Dust

Tweet If this were her autobiography of her kinky pursuits, she would start in a hotel room with the closing of a door, a pointed finger and anticipation unfurled. If she were telling a tale the way she wanted it to be told, she would be swimming in his orders and kicking over his lap, bucking wildly against his knee while pounding the carpet. If she were writing her erotic autobiography, her story would begin where she last left it: with a disciplinarian and a notebook now covered in three years’ dust. If she were writing her own story, she would skip what transpired in that dust — a friend found and lost, a heart fulfilled and discarded, the best and worst years of her life. It’s going to be good again. It will be. It starts today. It starts in a hotel room with one door closing and another one opening. *** The bag of apples hit her knee as her right hand lowered to swipe the key card.  With a curse, she fought the door open and dropped her two totes, the offending fruit and her purse in the entryway to her suite. She should have made two trips in from the car, but she felt him waiting in the parking lot, probably watching her, assessing how she’d changed in the three years since he’d seen her.  It made her nervous, knowing that he could see her when she couldn’t see him. Her hair, darker and curlier, longer. […]

The Pink Bedroom: Infatuation

Tweet It was enough until it wasn’t. “Did he fuck you?” Her lover asked as his striking hand covered the other man’s marks. “Did he. FUCK you?” She had hoped he’d never see those marks — so deep, so telling.  Their lives outside of her home were, until then, kept wholly separate from the cocooned dynamic they’d shared.  Who she saw, what she did had no impact on what they were. His unexpected, midnight visit and those marks merged their worlds, revealing her activities to him. By his feral reaction, she believed a part of him hoped she had slept with the other man.  His jealousy was their aphrodisiac she wanted to feed.  What answer would she give him?  The truth or the lie?  The reality or the fantasy? “No,” she cried.  The reality. He continued to spank harder, pushing her tummy to the bed, yanking her hips higher. This spanking on her yet unhealed bottom was approaching more than she could take. “I did not….fuck him.” “Liar!” He accused with a ferocity she’d never heard, shocking in its intensity and her attraction to it.   “LIAR! Did you suck his dick?  Did you. SUCK. His dick?” “Yes,” she whimpered.  The fantasy. “Yes!” Confident in her lie, she took it further, “I dropped to my knees in the hotel room and I sucked his cock until he came. Happy?” The woeful sound of his belt filled the room. *** Days later, after fretting over their new circumstances, she decided to […]

The Pink Bedroom
Pink Bedroom

Tweet   This pink bedroom. Incurable disease. Worse than drink or drugs it has broken my will and made me a lump of flesh. -Tennessee Williams An affair confined within the walls of her home, at regular hours on predictable days, it began with a series of dry pecks delivered rapidly to her dissatisfied lips. Have I just been kissed? She wondered for hours after, marveling that in all her years of kissing, she’d never experienced anything similar.  His lips did not know where to start, which spot to aim for, or how long to visit.  That obligatory kiss, she decided, was too sad to repeat. It might have ended there if it weren’t for his hands. Like scholars, they wrote full dissertations on her bottom, highlighting in red the places to linger: correcting the edges where cheeks met upper thighs, leaving her lower globes punctuated in perfection. In her kitchen he kissed her again and she delighted when that kiss deepened; her legs gave way as his teeth lightly battled her lips, as his tongue overpowered hers, and he kissed her until it hurt, forcing her to succumb to his mouth’s superiority.  He set the kitchen timer and he caned her over the table. In her living room, he tied her to the chair and whipped her with leather belts and jumping rope — a silly thing until she learned how much it stung.  His arm lifted and fell, mingling his sweat with her tears, stopping only when they […]

The Easy Piece

Tweet I can feel it. Anxiety rolls off of him like a bellyache. The thoughts of somewhere else — someone else — are torturing him. Married. Or might as well be. The house. The kids. The other woman. Or is that me? Am I the other woman now? I don’t feel like an ‘other’; I feel like the most important woman in his life. I feel like the breath that he breathes, the sun on his forehead, the jiggle in his thighs. Here and now though, I feel his tension and the reality is jarring. He’d rather be somewhere. I am the other woman. Now that we have that out there, those words that should never be spoken, much less internalized, I can begin squarely in the middle of things. I stop existing when he isn’t here. That isn’t true. I’m not breaking any rules and living in his circle only: I have a solid career, as opposed to a job; I have a beautiful house and child and shoes that need their own closet. I have interests and dancing in the kitchen and my secrets-never-to-be-shared-with-anyone-no-matter. I have the illusion of balance. But days are cast in a grayish hue when he is living his other life (his real life?). His other life. When he is here it is magic. ‘Magic’ in the most un-cliche sense of the word, of course. Sidenote: don’t you hate how sometimes the only way to describe something is to resort to the cliche? (But, […]