Conversation

You are magnificent. I have no idea how you do it, but you always know. Of course, that's nothing new, is it?

And oh, the wicked thoughts you put into my head. Sigh. I suppose I'll manage to suffer through it. Okay, okay, I love every minute of it, but you don't have to smirk like that. Yes, I know that's what you're doing.

And yes, I'm smiling.

Taking a break from our regularly scheduled love-fest to say Thank You to Chris. I've never won anything before!

I do enjoy your writing, and playing Devil's Advocate is my favorite sport. Okay, perhaps it is my second favorite, but you know what I mean.

Thank you again, and I do wish you and Buddy all the best. (Personally, I think you're both better off without her...)

I went for a walk today, back to the beach, along the sea wall. It was unusually windy, and for a while there, it felt as though I was going to be blown off the wall onto the beach.

I love walking there, where I would like to see you next. It was where I was walking when I made the decision to change my life. It was there that I practiced all the things I intended to say if we ever met. It is the setting for many of my fantasies, some of my photos, and most of my (imagined) conversations with you. It is good to know someone well enough to be able to carry on both sides of the conversation - with at least some possibility that you're getting it right.

I'm looking forward to the next time we talk, the next time we touch, the next time.

I wouldn't have thought it possible, especially for me -

You Are 0% Left Brained, 100% Right Brained

The left side of your brain controls verbal ability, attention to detail, and reasoning. Left brained people are good at communication and persuading others. If you're left brained, you are likely good at math and logic. Your left brain prefers dogs, reading, and quiet. The right side of your brain is all about creativity and flexibility. Daring and intuitive, right brained people see the world in their unique way. If you're right brained, you likely have a talent for creative writing and art. Your right brain prefers day dreaming, philosophy, and sports.

Hi there stranger,

Come home soon M, please?

I've written a long rambling post about how I felt this afternoon, and saved it as a draft. If you would like to see it, let me know and I'll send you a copy. It isn't pretty, but I'm doing a bit better now.

I love the way you feel, and would like nothing better than to have my arms around you right now.

Oh lord, you feel so good I don't know if I can stand it. You put your hands around my waist, holding me still. We stay like that for what seems like several minutes (although I know it was less than one) and then you slowly lift me. Your hands encourage me to get up on my knees in the sand, rising until you almost slip out, then slamming me back down. Again and again we do this, the long slow exit folowed by the swift and complete rejoining. I have to tell you that I don't think I can wait any longer, and you reply, "Just a bit longer, little one." And I melt.

You keep one hand on my waist while the other slips under my skirt. You tease me, rubbing me so gently I could almost be imagining it, then changing the pace and force until I can't possibly continue to resist. I start to whimper, not knowing how much longer I can hold off when suddenly you pinch my clit between your fingers, and whisper, "Now."

You hold me until I stop shaking and my breathing is once again regular. I find myself having difficulty looking you in the eye, but you kiss me on the forehead, and tell me how pleased you are with my response.

I finally look up, and you smile at me before saying, "Suck me off." You don't have to ask twice. I somehow get my knees to bend in the right direction to place me where I need to be, and I lower my head, my hair falling around my face, and take you into my mouth. You taste of me, and on you I taste wonderful. I lick you until there is no more taste of me left, only you. And God, how I love feeling you, tasting you, sucking and licking and kissing you. Too soon, you hold my head while you cum. I clean you with my tongue, and when I have finished you hold me close once more.

We stay this way for a few minutes, until the tide starts to come in. We get up and hand in hand we start back down the beach.

"Lunch?" you ask, and I smile and nod. We'll go to the little hole in the wall coffee shop on the other side of the hill, where nobody knows either one of us.

When we reach the spot where it is possible to climb to the top of the sea wall, you squeeze my hand once more, and I make my way to the top while you watch from the sand. (It seems I'm always the one who has to make the climb - why is that?)

When I reach the top I look back, and smile down at you before we go our separate ways, you to your car and I to mine.

You, you're laughing at me. I can see it in your eyes. I sometimes think you enjoy playing with my mind even more than... strike that. Not more than. Maybe a close second, though.

I stick my tongue out at you, just to let you know I've caught on. You respond by pulling me up and over, so I end up sitting on your lap, facing you, my knees half buried in the sand. My skirt has flared out, and is covering us both, although beneath it I am still caressing you with my fingertips.

You wrap your arm around me and pull me close. Very close. You are holding me so tightly that my face is buried in your chest, and while I'm thinking how wonderfully romantic you are, I hear it. Oh, God. A voice. Talking to you from the sea wall. You can't be seen with me - it would be a disaster. So I huddle there, face averted, hoping that whoever it is won't ask about or speak directly to me.

You continue to make small talk, and all of a sudden it hits me. I know this guy. I mean, I know the voice. I can't put a face with it at this moment, but this is someone I talk with on a regular basis. Why do we come to this beach again?

"I know him," I hiss, and you start stroking my hair, effectively hiding my face from his view with your hand. I can't help thinking that you should really be encouraging this guy to go away rather than exchanging gossip with him, when you tell him good bye, wait a few seconds, and lift my chin so I'm looking at your face instead of your shirt.

You draw me closer, making me get up on my knees to avoid straining my neck. You pull me forward, and I feel you beneath me. "Here? Now? Still?" I ask. Your reply comes in the form of a quick thrust, and then you're inside me.

The way we're sitting, or half sitting half reclining, I can just reach you with my free hand. I grasp the tab on your zipper, sliding it down and reaching inside to feel you. So warm, so smooth, so wonderful. I gently pull my hand back out of your pants, bringing your cock with me. I lean closer, but the way you're holding me and the position of our hands prevents me from being able to do the things I'd love to be doing. So I have to content myself with teasing you with my fingers and the tip of my tongue.

I hear something, and a stream of sand and gravel slides down onto my back. I start to move, watching as you look around. You smile, and say "Just a squirrel". I relax, because while you sometimes don't tell me everything I might like to know, you never, ever lie to me.

You lean over me, and I think you're going to kiss me again, but you put your lips near my ear and whisper, "Are you ready to head back now?"

I can't have heard you correctly. You still have your hand on mine, rubbing, teasing, probing. You can't have said what I thought you said. But you repeat it, "I asked if you were ready to go." Of course, as you say this you're plunging your fingers into me, making me gasp with pleasure and shake my head in confusion. How can you be asking me if I'm ready to go, when you are busy making certain I will never want to leave?

Part of me wants to say yes, that I'm ready for whatever you have in mind, because I really hate saying no to you. But most of me wants to keep doing exactly what we're doing, to keep feeling you, so firm in my fingers, but with the softest skin I've ever felt. I want to continue to feel you, to taste you. I want you to keep doing what you're doing to me. God how I want that. But how can I say no?

Again, you probe for an answer. I open my mouth to say yes, but that isn't what comes out. I can't do it. I have to tell you. "No."

"No? Why not?"

Oh God, you're going to make me say it, aren't you? "Just, just no... please. Please." But that isn't enough for you, and again you question me, "Well, if you don't want to go, what do you want?"

Of course, the whole time we're talking you have continued to guide my hand where you want it, applying just enough pressure to make me crazy, and not enough to give me any relief. "Please, Oh,God,I want you to fuck me. I need to feel you inside me. Please."

And you're kissing and biting my throat, sliding your hand under my thigh. I bend my knee, and you reach just a bit farther and grab my ass.

Oh, my God, I can't wait. But you know... you always do, and you put your hand over mine, slowing me down, bringing me back from the brink. I make some sound of protest, maybe a moan, perhaps a whimper, I couldn't begin to describe it.

Again, you silence me with your lips, kissing me while you continue to rub, varying the speed, the pressure of your hand on mine. I lift my hips, straining toward our fingers, willing you inside me. I look up, and see you watching me, changing your movements as I react, keeping me *this* close, backing off when you see my expression change, adding or subtracting pressure and speed, keeping me exactly where you want me, completely at your mercy.

Oh God, I hope you never stop touching me.

I reach out to touch you, to feel your cheek, your body. You capture my hand with yours, trapping it between your hand and my thigh. You hold it and slide both our hands under my skirt, past the tops of my stockings. I hesitate, and you pinch my nipple with your other hand. You keep pinching, and while my brain is occupied elsewhere, you take my hand between my legs.

You direct it to my cunt, moving it where you would move your own, encouraging me to touch myself the way I want you to be touching me. You keep your hand over mine, determining the speed, direction and pressure of each stroke.

I am still just a bit reluctant, until you look me in the eye and say, "For me." I melt. Hearing you say out loud what until now I've only whispered in the privacy of my bedroom, feeling your body so close to mine, I give in to my desire, and don't even notice when you take your hand away.

You softly run your fingers up and down my thigh, watching me masturbate for you. And that is my mantra, you know. Every morning, I repeat it over and over... For you. Only for you.

You reach up and using just your fingertips, you brush the hair away from my face. We're at my favorite beach, just past the golf course. The beach curves away from the pier, so we're nestled in an almost private spot.

I took off my heels before we started walking down the beach, and they are hanging by the straps from my fingers as we stroll. It has gotten windy, and the fog is rolling in. You wrap your arm around my waist, and direct me behind an outcropping of rocks.

We sit on the sand, our backs against the sea wall. The waves are breaking close by, and the roar of the surf drowns out the sounds of the people walking above. I lean back and close my eyes, savoring the moment and the company. I feel you beside me as you lean over and hug me.

Of course, there's more to it than that. While you have your arms around me (and believe me, I'm loving every second of it) you unhook my bra, allowing it to fall foward away from my breasts. The combination of having you near and the chill of the ocean breeze has made my nipples harder than I can ever remember them. I reach out to pull you closer, and you back away. I open my eyes, just in time to see you reach for the buttons on my blouse. "Hey! There are people..." You shut me up by kissing me, while you continue to unbutton my blouse. My bra is hanging now, no longer trapped against my body by my clothes, and you reach up under it to rub one of my nipples with the side of your thumb.

It is raining and dark here in San Francisco. Sounds like a Jim Croce day to me.

"If I could make days last forever, if words could make wishes come true, I'd save every day like a treasure and then, again I would spend them with you."

Hopefully tomorrow will be sunnier.

You opened the door, and invited me in. I'll never forget that. And I will always love you for it.

You're a good man. And I have been very lucky to spend this time with you.

The threats have started again. I had to go over there because I couldn't find Maria, and evidently I angered him. Again.

It isn't difficult.

I don't know what to do... change email addresses? Change blogs? Just stop talking at all?

I swore he would never make me cry again.

Happy Valentine's Day!

I wish for you a love that makes your heart sing.

Always.

I haven't decided yet if this will be something I publish right away or, if like a number of others, it will be held as a draft, waiting for the right time. Of course, the right time never comes, but I really do intend to show you everything, one day.

I miss you. I miss your eyes, your smile, the way you hold your chin in your hand while I'm confessing all my mistakes. And God knows, I make enough of them.

I miss the gentle way you hold my hand, your arm around me while we drive (even when it doesn't seem possible, you find a way), the way you can make me squirm with words, or with no words at all. From across the room, you look at me and I melt. I love the way you make me feel, the words you encourage me to use, the fact that you enjoy my sexuality, and aren't threatened or disgusted by it. You broaden my horizons every time we speak.

I love that you know I'll always be here. Always. I must admit, it does get lonely sometimes, and I get frustrated and sometimes I weaken and tell you so. But I know that when it does happen, it will be all the more special as a result of our time apart. And yes, I do know that you're always with me, in one way or another; I remember to whom I belong. Thank you. For making certain I always know, for understanding that even though I know, sometimes it is difficult not to feel forgotten. Goes with the territory, I suppose.

I love the way your mind works. I respect and would appreciate more of your opinions on things. (hint...) I harbor an endless curiosity about your life, about each and every thing you do during the day, about how you feel.

I like the red nail polish. Yes, it goes back on today. I'm finished with the heavy lifting portion of the move, and so I won't have to worry (so much) about chips. Nothing worse than chipped nail polish. Okay, we both know I have bigger things to be embarrassed by than my nails, but still... thank you for noticing when I do them.

And you taste good. By now, I think I've probably tasted you everywhere it is possible to taste, and you just plain taste good. Okay, I know that's a personal opinion, but it is my blog, and I'm allowed to think you taste good if I want to. So there! (I'd stick my tongue out at you, but I'm somehow certain I would pay dearly for it later. Or perhaps not... you have a good sense of humor as well.)

And you care. And you aren't afraid to show it. And that, my dear, may be the sexiest thing any man can do. You want me to take care of myself, in fact, you insist on it. (And yes, I can read that tone in an email!) You always have my best interests at heart, even when it is inconvenient, or even painful for you to do so. How could I not love you? How could I not want to feel you here, next to me, inside me, every day?

Oh, and don't forget the fact that you fuck better than anyone else I've ever met. That does make a good impression, you know.

I decided on the little black skirt with the top you liked. I was hoping it would draw attention to the places I wanted people to look, and away from the things I don't really like about myself. I don't think it worked.

I left the apartment at about 5:30, hoping to beat the traffic over the bridge. Ha! Not on a Saturday evening. But I did make it to the bookstore by twenty till seven, and found parking directly in front of the store. It is a nice little independent bookstore, and the place was completely deserted when I walked in. The owner was in the back making tea sandwiches, and I wandered around for a few minutes looking at some of the books.

She eventually noticed me and asked if she could help me. When I told her I was there for the reading, she came out and shook my hand and asked if I was one of Mark's friends. We laughed about the fact that I was the only one of his friends who called to say I was coming, and I didn't get around to it until yesterday. Then we talked a little bit about California time, because at ten till seven, there was still nobody there.

They did finally get there, all at once, at about five minutes till seven. Mark hugged me and introduced me to Cris, his wife, and we chatted about her law school, my miserable job, the state of the economy and the obvious. (and yes, even though it may not look that way via the camera, it is still my most prominent feature.) She's a lovely woman, far shorter than she looked in their wedding photos, but just as sweet as can be.

A few other friends came in and we chatted and then made our way upstairs for the reading. Once upstairs, we were surrounded by the most graphic paintings I've seen in a very long while. The artist was in attendence, and I met her. She and Mark have a history, as she did some illustrations for a 'zine he once published. One of the paintings was of a scene I've described in here probably half a dozen times. And I was seated directly across from it for the readings... okay, perhaps my mind did wander just a bit.

Pam Rosenthal, writing as Molly Weatherfield wrote the "Marketplace" series. She read an excerpt from Safeword as well as one from one of her romantic novels. It was fascinating, meeting her and hearing her interpretation of the works.

After her reading she introduced Mark, and during her introduction she embarrassed him just a bit by reminding him that she had made a submission to his 'zine, and had received from him her first ever rejection letter. Oops!

Mark read from Too Beautiful. It was the story of the stripper with the summer fling. It was funny, and touching, and I didn't even cry once.

Afterward, there was a short break before some additional local authors were to read, but I needed to get back here to make this report. Not to mention if I hear one more erotic story tonight I'm going to go crazy.

All in all, it was a lovely time, and I hope to enjoy more of Mark's readings when he has them.

Sleep now. (and I'll bet I have just the best dreams...)

One of the best things about a teenager-free weekend (other than the fucking your brains out)is that I can breakfast on sugar-free jello without getting that look. You know, the "Mom, you're supposed to be doing (fill in whatever I've done/not done here), not (pick your favorite transgression)" look!

Still, it doesn't hold a candle to curling up with your arm around my back, my head on your tummy, with your "fits me perfectly" penis in my mouth. That's the weekend I'm looking forward to.

Oh, or a smile. That might just beat out everything else for my favorite thing of all time.

If you were here, if I had you for an entire weekend, what would we do?

Talk. And listen, and listen some more. Take a walk on that beach, by the pier.

I would try very hard not to burn breakfast, but if you insist on fucking me on the kitchen floor, the pancakes will burn.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. It is Friday night, or early Saturday morning. So what would we be doing now? Would we be sleeping, all wrapped up in each other, or still talking?

Drinking coffee and making small talk?

Or fucking our brains out, and not stopping until Monday morning? (I like this idea, although we probably should stop long enough to have at least one meal. Maybe Sunday brunch?)

Or how about a combination of all of the above, mixed liberally with both kisses and laughter?

Well, sir, it is happening. We knew it would, just not this quickly. And it would have to be on a Friday night, wouldn't it?

Yes, Maria is off to spend the night with friends (after the meeting) and I will be spending my first night alone here. Pity you couldn't be here. I would have enjoyed that, and I think you might have had some fun as well.

Perhaps another time.

And just when I think I can't go on for another minute, you pop up unexpectedly. A bumper sticker here, a street name there... thank you.

I love you.
I love Maria.

I go on.

I write here about what I want, what I desire, what I need.

Today I have been thinking some very selfish thoughts.
I know it would hurt the people I love.
I know it would hurt the people who love me.

And I can't allow myself to be that selfish. So I will continue to crawl out of bed, to go to work, to do what needs to be done.

But today I just want to stop.

I share so much of myself with you, my feelings, my thoughts.

But, I must admit, not all.

Finally, the dsl line is in. No more dial-up, with its horribly slow delivery and the necessity of logging off in order to make a phone call.

No, I'm going to be able to stay connected all the time, and you know what that means...

I'll leave the light on.

- Ouch-

You do remember how to do that, don't you?

Sometimes in the mornings, when I am getting ready for my time with you, I have trouble relaxing and just letting things happen. Sometimes it feels as though my body is fighting me - I want to cum for you, and it just won't let me.

I'm finding that remembering that it isn't about my relaxation, or my latest fantasy, or even my pleasure (although I know you want me to have all those things) makes it so much easier. Just closing my eyes, and reminding myself aloud that it is for you, sets everything in motion at least 98% of the time.

Because, if it hadn't been for you, I would never have come back to life.

Thank you.

Yet another long, rambling post, possibly containing a nugget or two of gold, surrounded by the ordinary.

By this time tomorrow night, the dsl should be on, installed, and running properly. (God willing and the river don't rise.) I'm looking forward to being able to fall asleep knowing you're out there and may be keeping an eye on me. I know you don't make a habit of it, but you always seem to be there when I need you. Anyway, I think I'll sleep better.

And I'm certain it will encourage far better dreams than the ones I've been having lately.

Yes, I'm looking forward to dreams of lovely, friendly, adverture-filled visits, long conversations and lots of sex. Lots.

And no matter what anyone thinks, (and no, I don't mean you.) I can be a strong, capable, intelligent, successful woman and still desperately want and need someone to take care of me sometimes. And that's okay.

And now, before I go to bed, I'm going to close my eyes and picture you, naked and next to me.

Good night.

You slide your hand along my skin, making me melt. The way your hand feels, cupping my ass, holding me. It is magnificent. My God, the things you do to me. The things you encourage me to do. I can't wait to feel you inside me. I begin to sway, rubbing my ass against your hand.

You draw away slightly, and I listen for the sound I want to hear. "Oh GAA!"

"I told you that was just the beginning." You draw your hand back again, and I try unsuccessfully to twist away from you. But you've already got a good grip on me with the other hand, and you have me wedged between your hip and the car door. I'm not going anywhere.

"But..."

Whap! "No buts. You knew I was expecting something from you, and you procrastinated until there was no time to finish." Whack!

You proceed to give me the standard lecture about responsibility, punctuated with frequent reminders that your hand is tougher than my ass. I can feel it getting hotter, turning red and burning under your ministrations.

You finish saying your piece, and the spanks slow down. They become less sharp, your strokes more caress than punishment. You begin to rub my hot, sore ass with each stroke. You continue, waiting for my response to change from one of fear and pain to one of acceptance, surrender, pleasure. You watch as my neck and shoulders relax and I arch my back, laying my head on your shoulder. I lift your hand from my hip and clutch it to my breast, closing my hand over yours as I push back toward you.

"Please," I whisper. You lean in close and ask me to repeat myself. "Please," this time a little louder. You continue to caress me, widening your strokes to take in my hip, my thigh. Again I say "Please." And this time you respond in a way guaranteed to make me ask for more.

You move your hand down and between my legs, just barely touching me. "Oh, God, please," I repeat as I reach behind you to try to pull you closer.

You put your lips next to my ear and ask, "Here? Now?" "Oh, yes. Now, please now. I need you."

And finally, finally I hear the sound I've been waiting for.

"Why are you in such a hurry?"

No answer. You're too busy dragging me through the mall, headed who knows where, late for who knows what. Sometimes surprises are wonderful, but after the last surprise you gave me, I'm a little bit reluctant to find out what this one is.

"Here." "Okay, what am I supposed to be seeing here?" "Those," you reply, as you point to an item in the window.

"They are very pretty, but why the rush?"

"Someone else might have gotten them. Go. Now. Before they're gone."

I go into the store, and yes, they are beautiful. And they flatter me. And they accomplish everything you could want them to accomplish. The fact that you're always right is both endearing and really irritating. And you know it. I can tell by the smug look on your face as you watch me through the window.

I pull out the credit card, and your smirk turns into a grin.

As I meet you at the entrance to the store, you reach for my hand once again. "Now we can go."

Once again we're strolling through the mall, looking in the windows. No more rush, and I'll never understand the reason you were so determined to get me into that store, but you seem happy, so I'm not going to question you.

We work our way out to the parking lot, half empty at this hour. The car is toward the back of the lot, and we walk toward it, laughing and talking together. As we approach my side of the car, you spin me around and press me up against the door. You wrap your arms around me and kiss me, and my knees turn to jello. You lean in close enough to whisper in my ear, "Turn around."

I hesitate, pulling my head back to look at you. You say it again. "Turn around."

I comply, not really understanding why you want this, but believing you have your reasons. You rarely do anything without having thought through it, so I turn around to face the car.

I feel your body against my back, your arms around me. It is wonderful. You feel so good next to me, I don't really want to get in the car at all. You run a hand down my side, my waist, my hip, my thigh. I can't remember the last time I felt this good.

The hand on my thigh moves upward, lifting the back of my skirt.

We walk, and once again you slip your arm around my waist, your hand resting on my hip. You head away from the center of the mall, to the outskirts where there are more empty storefronts than customers.

"Can we go home now, please?"

"We can't leave yet. I haven't had the chance to admire my handiwork."

You stop in front of an empty storefront, about halfway between the main part of the mall and the exit to the parking lot. I turn to face you, and look up, waiting to see what you had in mind.

You put your hands on my shoulders and turn me until we are both facing an empty display window. I can see your reflection, and I watch as you take a step back. In this position, you are shielding me from casual viewers, although anyone approaching us would have the same view you do.

"Show me," you command, and I use my free hand to lift my skirt. "Higher." I comply, as my face begins to burn.

You take the cup of ice from my hand and roll it across my hot, red ass. As I breathe out a sigh of relief, you chuckle at my reaction. You continue, soothing every spot you had reddened just minutes before. You roll the cup slowly, from one side to the other, making sure not to miss even a little bit of the now-pink skin. As you reach the other side, you lower the cup just a little, overlapping your passes across my flesh.

You reach the area where ass meets thigh, and pull the cup away from my skin. Without thinking, I lean back toward you, toward the sensations you have just removed. Again, you chuckle, and tell me it is time to go. You take the edge of my skift from between my fingers and allow it to fall into place.

You take my hand and lead me back, back into the crowd, back to the planter. I close my eyes as we approach it, following you blindly, picturing what we must have looked like, you sitting there looking down at me, while I, like a pampered child who has finally pushed just a little too far, accept my punishment.

To my great relief, you don't stop. In fact, you don't even hesitate, walking past the planter and turning back into the main section of the mall. You pull at my hand, bringing me back to the present, and I open my eyes and increase my pace to keep up with you.

You hustle me back into the main corridor of the mall, and turn left, toward the theater. It is early in the day, no movies are playing yet, but there will be several starting within the hour, so people will be gathering soon.

You turn another corner, stopping beside a large planter just a few feet beyond the intersection. It is one of those planters that were so common a decade or so ago, filled with tropical plants, and surrounded by wide cement walls. The walls are just about high enough to make a comfortable seat for you, so you put the Coke down and take my cup of ice, placing it beside the Coke. You turn to sit down, and I move to join you, but you keep me standing by your side while you take your seat.

You look up at me and smile, patting your lap with one hand as you say, "It's time." I just stand there, looking at you, and you gently wrap your arm around my upper thighs, moving me closer to your legs and repeat, "It is time."

I'm beginning to think I understand what you intend to do, and start to move back, only to be stopped by your arm, tightening around me, keeping me close. You reach up with your other hand, taking mine and slowly drawing my torso across you, positioning me where you want me. One swift movement from you, and I find myself face down across your lap, arms and legs dangling above the floor.

I, of course, am squirming like crazy, trying to slide off your legs. You increase the pressure of your arm on my lower back, pressing me into your lap, and remind me, "The longer you wiggle, the longer we're going to be here..."

And damn, I know you're telling the truth, so, much as I hate it, I try to relax. WHAP! I can't help squeeling, just a bit, trying to stay quiet. Trying to attract as little attention as possible.

WHAP! Again, and again. I close my eyes, trying to shut out the pain, the embarrassment.

A pause, and I hear something. I cautiously open my eyes, and see a pair of shoes. Plain, black shoes. The sort of shoes security guards wear. Oh, no.

"Are you okay, Ma'am?"

I manage to say yes, when your hand comes down again. Ow!

"You're sure?"

"Yes, thank you. I'm sure." Yeah, I may have said it, but I didn't mean it. How could I be okay? Over your knee in the middle of all those people, being spanked. Was he insane? Was I insane for telling him it was all right?

"Very well, but sir, it would be best if you pull her skirt back down. There are a lot of children around."

My heart sinks. How could you? I give up and just close my eyes again as I hear the man walking away. Like a camel, perhaps I believe that if I don't see them, they won't see me.

WHOP!!!

Really hard. God that hurts. What am I going to do if you keep this up? I don't know how long I can go before I start crying out, and...

You remove your arm from my back and slide it under me, lifting me off your lap. You spin me around and sit me down, hard. Ow!

I keep my eyes closed for a minute, praying that everyone else has disappeared, and that when I open them we'll be alone. I feel something cool next to my hand, and open one eye. The ice. You have the cup of ice in your hand, and you give it to me, saying "You might want to hold this against your face, because it has gotten terribly red."

I take the ice and thank you, holding it up against my burning face. God, I've never been this embarrassed. You keep your arm around me, and we sit for a few minutes while I keep the ice on my cheek. I repeat the same phrase to myself over and over, "Thank God it's finished."

Finally, I relax into the circle of your arm and rest my head against your shoulder. I open my eyes to see that while the people haven't all disappeared, there is no crowd gathered, and nobody seems to be looking at us too closely.

I look up at you and tell you that I will publish the story as soon as we get home. You hand me the Coke, and as I lower my head to take a sip you hold me close and rest your cheek on my hair while you whisper, "And that was just the preview."

Your grip on my waist gets just a bit tighter, and we aren't quite strolling anymore. You're leading me somewhere, and I'm beginning to get the impression that whatever you have in mind, it isn't going to be the fun surprise I've been anticipating all day.

I slow down, watching your face instead of where I'm going, trying to catch your eye. But you are looking straight ahead, moving just a bit more quickly now, the pressure of your arm on my back and your hand on my waist making me keep pace with you.

Rather than slowing our progress toward whatever lies ahead, my hesitation has cost me even the appearance of a leisurely stroll through the mall. At this pace, we're obviously not doing any window shopping.

I open my mouth to say something, and you look down at me for the first time since you let go of my hand. Yes, the smile is still there, but the expression in your eyes doesn't match it. It isn't anger. I would recognise anger in you. No, this is something different, something new.

It looks like a mixture of a couple of things... I can see the disappointment, but there's something else. It wouldn't be visible to anyone who didn't know you so well, but I can see it, and it almost looks like excitement. As if you've been waiting for me to mess up (again) just so you could do whatever it is you have in mind. Almost as though you're enjoying this.

And that both frightens and reassures me. I know that you are capable of subjecting me to things I couldn't begin to imagine, but I also know you won't do anything rash.

"You had this in mind all along, didn't you? You already knew there wasn't a new story up there."

We turn the corner into the food court. You propell me toward the back corner, where you order a Coke and a large glass of ice. "Ice?" I ask. The smile starts to creep into your eyes as you reply, "You're going to need it."

We are walking hand in hand through the mall. Not the large, impersonal one, but the one we frequented before. Walking with you this way is one of my favorite things, and I am just enjoying the moment when you slip your hand out of mine and drape your arm over my shoulders.

I wrap my arm around your waist and look up into your eyes. You're smiling. I smile back and relax into your embrace. Walking this way is unusual, but we've done it before. Nothing to worry about.

And then it happens. You ask the one question I've been dreading, "So have you started writing that story you promised me?"

"Um, no." "Oh? Writer's block?"

Now, that would be a valid excuse, because you know it happens to me often, but unfortunately it just isn't the case this time.

"Not really. I mean, I did have some trouble coming up with an idea, but you offered me a suggestion, and I started to think about it, but then I got caught up in reading someone else's journal, and before I knew it, it was time to go."

"I see." You're still smiling, but you won't meet my eyes, so I can't tell what you are really thinking. "So it's okay?"

You slip your arm around my waist and pull me just a bit closer. "Oh," you say, "It will be."

We have furniture!!

One of my friends gave me movers as a housewarming gift. She's incredible. I really do think you would like her.

I'm still working on that story idea... just can't find something that sounds realistic. I suppose it could be as simple as saying "No", but how often do I actually use that word? (Outside of the time I spend with teenagers, that is.)

The place is feeling more and more like home, and now that Maria is surrounded by all her things, and has found that yet another of her classmates lives nearby, she's beginning to feel better about everything. Beginning. It will take a while, I'm sure.

Thank you again for this morning. It was so thoughtful, and so very well thought-out, that I felt better all day. I'm starting to feel a little icky again now, but that's because of the moving, I think. It doesn't bring out the best in me under any circumstances. And under these? Not hardly.

I must admit I'm looking forward to what we discussed this morning. I'm hoping to inspire myself to do some writing in the morning, and to sleep really, really well tonight.

You take such good care of me.

I didn't think this would make me feel so much better. In fact, I was afraid it might make me feel worse.
But you knew better.

And I was able to relax and curl up and sleep for about an hour - after which I'm almost (almost) ready to try drinking something again.

Thank you. For knowing me so well, for understanding even the things I haven't said, for caring enough to give me this relief.

Yes, I know it is for you. That is what makes it so very comforting.

It is almost seven in the morning, and I need to start getting dressed for work soon, but I'm looking for inspiration. I think that now that the color is leaving my face (slowly but surely) and most of the moving is done (last loads tonight, thank goodness) although we will probably be unpacking for months, it might just be time for another story.

Should it be fact-based, like the one about the picnic? Or strictly a fantasy? Will you be spanking me for being so foolish as to fight over something replacable, or comforting me because I'm on my own again for the first time in years?

(Personally, I think the spanking is hotter, but the comfort would certainly be welcome right about now.)

Oh, and about Ladies day out, did you want her to cake me in enough makeup to cover it, or have you absolutely no intention of looking at my face anyway? (Just askin')

I'll tell you this, I am looking forward to getting back to a routine. I know we both love those surprises, and heaven knows I would probably melt if you knocked on the door, but still...

On the other hand, I really do like it when you surprise me, so perhaps routine isn't really what I'm looking for.

Anticipation is almost the best part. New and just a little bit scary, as it is so very different from the one I'm used to, but I'm looking forward to morning.

Of course, these days I always look forward to mornings, don't I?

It is a great thing, looking forward to the new day. Thank you.

It arrived.

(IgotitIgotitIgotitIgotit)

(That's me celebrating.)

It lives under my pillow, until you say otherwise.

One of my most frequent fantasies is of being in your arms, drifting off to sleep after a day, evening, or night of wonderfully wicked sex. I sometimes think that if we were ever to live together, we'd get nothing else accomplished.

I would certainly love to keep you in bed for days on end.