Thursday, February 10, 2011

A New Home

And, my sweetest loves, you are all invited. Tumblr.

I hope to see you all there. <3

Monday, July 12, 2010


I love playing the innocent.

Little girl with flowers in her hair. Demure uniforms. Thigh high stockings. Proper. Perfectly made-up. Have to get your fingers under her blouse to feel how hard her nipples are, under her skirt to touch that perfectly bare pussy. Is she wet? Is she ready?

I love the idea of corrupting that purity.

Coercion, seduction. Take advantage of her hesitations. Eyes cast down and hands clasped before her. Such a good girl. He reaches out, she shies away with a soft intake of breath. He tries again, seeking the little buttons between her breasts. Her fingers instantly encircle his wrists as if to stop him, but they exert no effort. She just lays them there as she studies his face with an expression of surrender and.. Is it fear? No. Nervousness. Her breathing accelerates. She's almost hyperventilating. Lips slightly parted, quivering.

He makes quick work of her buttons. Once done, he shakes her hands off. They fall to her sides.

"Stay still," he says. She obeys.

Slowly, he slips his fingers into the opening, both hands acting in perfect unison. His nails brush her collarbone, her neck, up to the lobes of her ears and down her nape, savoring the soft skin on her shoulders, tracing the bones there, making her shiver as he gently pushes the shirt down, down, down her arms. Her breaths are becoming more shallow. She's shivering as she continues to watch him grin at the sight of her breasts, or mayhap of the black lace with which she had chosen to clothe them tonight.

The shirt dangles from her wrists. She makes no move to recover it or shake it off. She just stands there, the perfect vision of a deer caught in the headlights of a collision-in-the-making, unable to shake from the spell of her captor.

Like a child dipping his finger into the icing, he brings one hand to her chest, touching his index finger against one perfect breast. Slowly, he traces the curve, then unceremoniously slips it under her bra, finding her nipple as if out of instinct. Hard.

She gasps. He withdraws, chuckling. She still had not moved, so with the same finger, he caresses her over the luxurious lace of her undergarment. He finds her nipple as before and flicks it up and down, then in small circles. She hardens even more, but manages to cut a moan short before it came out.


Wednesday, July 1, 2009

The Collar

Two days ago, he bought me a collar. It was pink with a heart-shaped dogtag crudely engraved with words from our favorite games.

_ _ _ _’S LI’L SLUT

He got it from a local store. Nothing expensive, but we both knew what it meant for the two of us and for our picture-perfect union. We were escalating to a new level, skyrocketing to greater heights.

We were in my car the first time I put it on. I barely trembled; that, in itself, was a testament to how much I had learned to trust him (and us). Before I could secure the buckle, he leaned over and did it himself. The small act sent a shiver down my spine, which I hid rather skillfully by shifting in my seat. He then leaned back as if to get a view of the whole picture. We both chuckled softly. The collar made me nervous and giddy. I was crazy excited; I was already thinking of the next opportunity to be alone long enough to make good use of my new collar. What would our first time with this little accessory be like? Handcuffs and blindfolds were the first suggestions my overstimulated mind came up with. They were immediately followed by a barrage of other ideas that only an erotica writer’s imagination could come up with. I had just the right amount of heart-pounding fear to cause butterflies in my stomach. I guess he might have been feeling echoes of the same elated emotions, because he barely said a word. We both admired how it looked around my neck. I stared at the sun guard’s mirror while he stared at me. Baby, I love it. Thank you. I leaned over and gave him a kiss, before letting him take it off of me again.

Monday, September 15, 2008

Shh. Don't say a word. This is us. Just us. Our little secret. Resisting, craving, denying each other. The harder we push against the need, the greater it comes rushing back, like heavy waves against a tamed shore.

So we end up with my back on a wall and your body on me, driving, triumphant. So we end up under the sheets, touching without taking, then taking without thinking. So we end.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

A Secret

My name is _________________.

You can find me in Building *, in Room *4*. I'm the girl you have to please before you meet the big boss. I smile without reservation, give directions when someone stumbles into my office by mistake, rarely yell at people, and have no qualms about saying 'yes' to lunch or a get-together after work hours. I like coffee in the mornings but prefer it iced and laced with Hazelnut.
I have tons of paperwork on my desk and in my drawers. I always dress decently when in the office and I always carry a matching bag.

I like to read when I've checked all the tasks on my MS Outlook list. Over time, I've accumulated several books which cluttered one of my many desk drawers. Amongst all the spread sheets and hidden in plain sight in the company of King, Bradley, Greggory, Herbert, Stewart, Joyce and Woolfe is a book with an innocent flower painted on its cardboard cover. It looks like any other paperback literature and, without turning the first page, no one could know that within its pages laid a cheaply tactless, strangely loud, only-in-the-closet-should-you-read-me story.

I have yet to read past the first chapter. All the mention of trembling thighs, shuddering sighs, helpless moans, nylon ropes, panties for gags, wet pussy, hard cock, vigorous-- you get the picture. Each word tells me to look around, to make sure that I am not being watched, to check one last time that no one knows of the filthy things that make me bite my lip and color my cheeks a guilty red. I shouldn't ever be allowed to think these thoughts outside the safety of my bedroom.

And, oh god, it doesn't help that the prologue of my secret literature talks about masturbating to the office's surveillance camera.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008


I'm easy to panic, easy to scare. I guess it's expected. Inevitable, even.

Let's face it. Sometimes, my fantasies skim the borders of illegal acts. Rape, coercion.. Fear is part of the aphrodisiac, sure. That admission is easy when all I am really referring to is imagined fear and nothing more tangible than that. In fact, anything more corporeal, touchable, will probably trigger a complete shut down. Panic-stricken, I will most likely cry or run or.. I don't know. Who knows? Maybe even roleplaying will prove to be too much.

I am terrified of the countless moments when my dreams suddenly turn from erotic to nightmarish. Then I condemn my dark desires and resolve to never think of them again. To never write of them or speak of them to anyone, lest I wander into situations I will one day regret.

Tonight, I had one of those nightmares again, and I am scared. Afraid to close my eyes, to fall asleep. Appalled that, this time, I dreamt of someone I care deeply for. I'm ashamed of the dream-memory of that beloved face twisted with sadistic insanity. I feel disturbed. I said his name aloud. The sound woke me. Nothing but a whisper, though in my dream, I was screaming it at the top of my lungs, trying to stop something that, even now, I realize could not have been real.

God dammit, I can't rationalize it enough that it would feel less threatening. It was just a dream. Just a silly dream.

Tuesday, May 6, 2008