Craigslist is for the illiterate crazies of the world who seek the zipless fuck. No emotions, virtually anonymous, greasy, guiltless fuckery. That’s what she always thought. So what was she doing here on a Monday evening, lights blazing and no wine in sight, creating her own post in the Missed Connections section of Craigslist? She was looking for the man who said to call him Mister. He said he liked my shoes. “These shoes?” I asked, looking down at my worn and cracked, red Mary Janes. “They’re so old. But thank you.” “Old is good. I like pretty shoes, worn shoes. And you’re welcome,” he said, tipping his graying head forward in a mock salute before strutting away toward the produce section. It was a simple compliment, undeserved in my opinion as I knew, firsthand, that these shoes had seen better days. His kindness stayed with me as I made my selection from the olive bar and built a six-pack out of varied Arcadia Ales, all the while aware of the soft leather encasing my feet. This attractive gentleman had noticed me. And he said something without expecting anything in return. In the parking lot, he was loading his black SUV with groceries, a line of perspiration at his back where his shirt clung. I sensed his slow approach as I placed my own paper bags in the back seat of my soccer-mom Honda. “Because you are so pretty,” he said as I turned and saw a pale yellow rose […]

Am I Right?

I do not feel selfish. I do not feel guilty for basking in the pleasure of being over his knees, or bent roughly over the arm of the couch and rapidly man-handled. I know it’s not one-sided — and I think I know what he gets from all of this. I trust he will tell me if I’m wrong. He gets the warm willingness of a beautiful woman succumbing to his demands. He gets the freedom to make those demands, able to command in such a way that is impossible outside of this. When you are in position and looking questioningly at him from over your shoulder, hair partially obscuring your dilated pupils, back rising with each quick intake of breath, your anticipation is a welcome invitation: do what you will, Sir. And he knows he can take it as far as he’d like, whether it is short and intense, or prolonged and sensual. When you present your pantied bottom to him, he is free to admire it for as long as he wishes. He can smooth those panties over the cheeks, adjust the elastic so they lay just so, or perhaps he will yank them upwards into a “Y” and expose the blank and quivering whiteness beneath. And when he begins, he gauges each effect his hand makes. He admires the fingerprints he creates; he presses and kneads your bottom for as long as he wants, turning the freshly pink area white again under his touch. Lifting each cheek […]

Dear Sir

Dear Sir, I fear that I’ve hyped this fantasy disproportionately. So much so, I feel inclined to embellish it — but I will refrain. Awhile ago you told me about an old friend in Florida who you were thinking about arranging a session with the next time you traveled there. I don’t know where that stands, but it popped into my head last night. And I could not stop thinking about it. Sort of like a fly on the wall, I imagined all kinds of scenarios between you two. Rather than feeling any sort of jealousy — which, by nature, I’m usually immune — I was incredibly turned on. If I had thought about anything beyond the punishment of this stranger, I may have been jealous, but my thoughts just went to you spanking her and me watching avidly as she submitted to your expert maneuvers. I’m not saying that you should or you shouldn’t, or that you are or aren’t, but the thought of you spanking any woman (myself included) makes me dripping wet. It’s an intimate exchange worth studying: how your face looks while you administer the punishment, how she loosens her anxiety and just lets it happen. Perhaps it was because I haven’t orgasmed in so long — not since we last played (for shame!) — but I came multiple times picturing the set of your expression and the bouncing yield of her bottom. I don’t know that I’d enjoy it in reality. The fantasy is probably […]

What he should do with a girl like me

Five transgressions. He says ‘premeditated’; I say ‘mistakes’. So four of the five were ‘premeditated mistakes’. Based on my affinity for premeditation, he says, I should enjoy planning my punishment. He is wrong. Choosing my own punishment is a bit like cutting my own cake: if I weren’t concerned about my ass, I’d take a bigger piece. Those details are better left to someone who doesn’t have to fit into my unforgiving jeans come morning. But as any girl like me can tell you, there is no reasoning with a man like him. And so the fine print will be left to my imagination and my hand, written shakily in my punishment notebook. What should he do with a girl like me? I think on it for days. There is a part of me that wishes to outline, step-by-step, my impending punishment. First a hand spanking — perhaps not so soft. And then twenty-five with the hairbrush, followed by twenty with the cane, and fifty with the strap. Over his lap, over my dining table — with my knuckles bulging white — and then over the foot of my bed. This same part wishes to time my punishment: five minutes with each implement until my bag is empty. I look longingly at my kitchen timer. I count the number of implements. I begin to write, but it seems unrealistic. Too much? Not enough? I rip the page from the spiral notebook. What does a girl like me need from a […]

That thing you do

It’s too easy to blame it on the build-up: those anticipatory moments when our back-and-forth grows a frothy vibrancy. The build-up is good, delicious, lip-wetting, thigh-clenching, just-gotta-have-it good. The shared photos, the promises of pain and pleasure, the powerful mind games, the bulge in your pants — all certainly contribute to but are not entirely to blame for how you make me feel. I have a haunting awareness of what’s going to happen when my front door closes and you walk in, set your bags down, lose your keys, and embrace me. It distracts me every day, every night, with every shower and every pair of panties I wear. Will my Sir like these? What would Daddy think about this dress? How does it look around my waist? Hyper-sexualized. Sensual. Dripping. Every. Day. You do that to me. Yes, the build-up could easily take the blame if it weren’t for the follow-through on texted promises. It’s awful when you think about the things you make me do. It sometimes scares me that I want tears and pain and cum and an ass and pussy so sore that I can barely walk. You want me to bend entirely over so you can see my gaping wetness and tight asshole? Yes, Mister. You want me to stay in position while you spank, paddle, cane and whip my ass? Yes, Sir. You want me to call you ‘Daddy’ and pretend to be your innocent little girl? Yes, Daddy. You want me to wear…what? […]


A guest post from a long-lost friend. I miss you. I miss the “never.” **** The Perseid meteor shower was forecast to peak that night. Despite a call for storms, the couple stayed on due course for their destination. As always, he drove. Her role, as always, was to anchor his muscular limb with her soft body. No matter what ferocity ahead, she wouldn’t get lost. He knew the course: a seasoned Captain bound for a comfortable harbor. The horizon cleared enough to see their destination; yet a tense anticipation began. The weight of her thoughts pulled on his arm. An easy end to the journey was welcomed by both. In the nightly pallor, he methodically unpacked his trunk and bags into a large chest of drawers. He instructed her to do the same into a beautifully carved armoire. However, she was distracted. Her concern was with the odd but interesting items he was thoughtfully and intently unpacking. She first saw belts — not just one belt, but belt after belt after belt. Leather, woven, rope, black, brown, blue, white, thick, thin…shiny? Was she imagining this? Not yet meeting her eyes, he placed a black leather paddle in the drawer, followed by several larger wooden paddles. It was shocking to see a man she knew so well stocking his drawers with sadistic implements. Next, several riding crops were pulled from a long bag and set upright in the closet. He slowly turned to look at her. He knew she was […]