It’s raining here today. Big globs of water dripping off surfaces with a cold air that invades under my coat, next to my skin. If you lifted your head to it there would be tickle-thin drops on your lips, and on your eyelashes… And I’m walking in it, letting it touch my face, letting it to anything it wants to, while all the while I do my best not to pant, and not to give in yet.
Insides all aquiver, anticipating, my lover.
It starts quietly.
Some word or gesture, some moment remembered. Before I know it I am back to the same hungry craving. The desires that never really leave me mount higher and higher, and I am beset by wantings, like bees that sting over and over…
Does the flower ache like I do?
Right now I am dreaming of hands gentle but strong, slowly parting my legs in this office. I want them to ease up closer and closer to the dark, safe place that wants them so, and to tease and tickle me there. I want them to answer my need, to want me back, to say yes, yes, I will, and we will, but ssshush, don’t make a sound, not a sound, no….
I know myself enough to know that this is merely wish fulfilment; the ideal lover who never makes any mistakes, always knows what to do, is there when I want him and is gone when I don’t. I don’t have to take into account his fears, wants, insecurities and needs. As I said, fantasy.
In any case, my lovers… I’m picturing doing filthy, filthy things to you. I promise, if you were here, you would enjoy them.
A second imaginary love letter has reached me, my lovers, a few weeks after I imagined the first. In it, my mystery correspondent expands on his original theme:
Working at my desk, head bowed and computer woring away, I hear the same soft thud on the hall mat. I get up and see it is the same cream paper, the same black inked penmanship. It’s him. It is, surely, him. Quickly I open the door and look out, but there is no one about. I shut the door again and go to my desk.
Not letting myself react too much, I slice open the envelop and again, receive the same burst of sandalwood scent as last time. Oh, yes, it must be him!
I draw out the inscribed pages. He has written to me again. With a pulse that quickens, I start to read;
My dearest lady,
I, foolish dreamer that I am have been so bold as to hope, and in that boldness to see my hope made real. For I have been lucky enough to see you, beautiful lady, wearing your sapphire hair pin for several days in a row, and am thereby made hopeful enough, foolish enough, to make my words reach out to you again.
How can I describe to you the wonder of believing you might, some day, be mine? How can I convey to you the sheer majesty of the peak you represent? I, mere mortal, can only look upon the wonder that you are and dream. No, not dream, for a dream is a fickle thing, gone as soon as one awakes and is no more. Instead, I aspire. I aspire to you, to the fact of you. I aspire to behold your beauty, your nobility, your majesty. I aspire to your example, your wisdom and to your skill. I aspire to your accomplishments, to your tenacity, and to your capabilities.
And at night, when the wind blows about as it has for the last few days, I think of you in the darkness where you are unseen and unnoticed, and wonder at the foolishness of this world. Humanity seeks to spin and learn and grow, yet none of them has the wit to aspire to be the one that might see you. To see you, and to notice you, to let the moonlight light the paleness of your perfection and to let you be adored. You are the dream that foolish men would dream of, when they find something they cannot have. You are the wonder that wise men would think of, when they find something they do not understand. And I, I my lady, may only cast my petals at your feet, and be glad I may go so far as that.
I remain most passionately yours,
Your eternal admirer.
He worships, rather than loves, don’t you think? Putting me on a pedestal no mere woman could reach. Still… as I fold my second epistle from him, noting all the tiny details of it, I am moved and wondering by his letter. I hope so very much that he sends me another….
Don’t look at me like that.
It isn’t going to happen.
Even though I do with all my heart want it to happen.
Oh, I am so glad you can’t hear my moans. Have a good weekend, my lovers.
I love to think of you reading this…
I love to imagine you reading this. My words lined up all neat and precise across the page, while your eyes flick from left to right, following the curve of my thoughts, the white words made out in the blackness.
I love to imagine your face as you take in each word, each syllable of my thoughts, my breath from my mouth reaching out to touch you as I do.
I love to imagine your lips parting as you see what I see before me, my heart beginning to beat just that little more fast as I sigh, and imagine, and plan…
…. plan what? A caress, given on the back of the neck, where the hair is fine and the perfume is warmed by your skin? I might put my lips there, let my senses dwell there, see how your nerves react to me.
I feel my pupils dilate with the want, the need to be near you, to see you. I want to unbutton with command the clothes separating us, to let my eyes feast on your skin, to see your nipples made free, to let your chest become bare, to unzip you with enormous slowness, calmness, restraint… I wish to be free, but free with you, to see you burying your face in my hair, to see you lost in the desire for me.
I love to imagine all this. At my window, at night, the moon so high in the sky, I think of you, and want you, and kiss you good night. I imagine you, and imagine, and desire, and finally fly free..
Good night, my lovers, good night. Sleep well, where ever you are.
If you ask nicely, I’ll follow your blog.
I’ll follow all your blogs.
Oh my.
Till tomorrow my lovers. I’ll be dreaming about you.
I would love to get a love letter. Something old school and done with care, that I find on my mat one afternoon. I could hear it fall through my letterbox with a thump, and surprised, I would get up from my desk and go to the hall.
A letter, I’d think. Gracious. How strange. And walking back to my desk, I look at the envelope. Creamy coloured, thick paper, with a penmanship inked in black. Slicing it open with my pen knife, I get a burst of scent. Sandalwood? Maybe, it’s a masculine woody scent I know from somewhere but can’t place.
I pull out the thick sheets of paper and unfold them, pushing away my pen and notebook as I do so. A letter, I’ll think. How strange. No one sends letters any more. As I look over the penmanship I see it is flourished but not too excessive.
‘To the Beauteous Lady”, he’d write, “My thoughts, no matter what my distractions, tend and fly towards you. Failing in my endeavours to remove you from them, I thought it best to give them air and light, and even grew so bold as to let them fly to you, so that you might spurn me and let your cruelty be a kindness to my foolishness. For how could one like me ever hope to worship at the feet of a lady like you?”
A wordy opening, I think you’ll admit. But he would go on…
“Let my words kiss your hands, dear lady, let them impart to you with modest methods those most immodest thoughts that grow in my heart. My cold and unfeeling days are met with hot and impassioned nights, nights when a man might be forgiven for believing in the true nature of his love, in the passion her sight inspires, and in the sweet purple lips of night that kiss his dreams and make them a reality. I seek only to honour, but honour in both word and in deed. To honour you in Spirit and in Body; to let my body honour yours as you wish, and as you only wish. A man, foolish with love, believes he can climb mountains, and there are mountains and peaks, my dear lady, that I wish so very much to explore, to find, to … drink from.”
A blush, a blush, he has raised a blush! And how would he close this message from his heart?
“Let not these words offend you. If I may be so bold, if you wish to receive another please wear your blue sapphire hair pin three days in a row, and I will be so bold as to send you another correspondence. I would never be so bold as to hope for more than that. I close, dear Lady, your eternal admirer.”
And I, holding my hair pin, would softly stroke my finger across it, and wonder if I should…..
A yes? Or a no?
Oh, to receive such a letter like that! A very good weekend to you all, my lovers…
Or don’t. I like punishment, either way.
None the less, I’m in a very good mood today….
Here is my cover!
My wonderful little book is coming to horny, sweaty, life any minute now, and I can’t wait. I’m so excited, almost as much as those two on the cover.
I’ve noticed a tiny error on the cover, which I’ve asked to be corrected and should be done so shortly.
Oh, I hope folks enjoy reading it, almost as much fun as I had writing it. This is a wonderful feeling, a feeling of accomplishment. How marvellous!
As soon as I can I’ll post up a link. Hurrah!!
This music video shows us explicit and adult material. However, in a nice twist, it is neither pornographic or sexual. Everything is left up to the imagination, and I find it marvellous. It is also showing us a private moment, a moment of intimacy, but one that we don’t share so we can explore it with curiosity rather than sharing our own passion. It’s unique, and I love it for that.
Pleasant enough tune, as well. It is Mooncake – Cast the Route, and I very much enjoy it.
Enjoy, my lovers. May your own bodies always be a source of harmony for you.
Shameful Desires 