Saturday, August 14, 2010

Summer Dance

In summer, on moonlit nights, I come to the all but desolate campus near my home, wearing my gold sparkled half shirt & a wine-colored Indian cotton skirt.

There's a music that wafts from the canyon, over the northern field. It reminds me of the gypsy dances I learned starting at age nine. Urgent primal movement, from India, w/ an Eastern European overlay. Dances of desire, longing, grief & ecstasy. They speak through me as I make my way across the moist grasses.

The first steps, deliberate, the balls of my feet testing the still warm soil, my arms raised high, the backs of my wrists gently kissing. Then the tempo increases--the 4 tiny cymbals on my fingers clashing gently.

Later, as my feet lightly graze the moist grass, I leap into the air & turn, circling clockwise. Faster & faster. In a waking dream I see campfire stars, feel the tremble of tambourines.

Still later, spectral fiddles slow the pace. & my body winds it's way through a sensual coda, ending in a split---my wrists venturing one last kiss. On the final beat, my back arches as I bring my arms down, hard at my side. Breath comes rapidly, filling me, as my chest rises & falls.




There's a springwater pool on the west side of the canyon, just below the field. Deep as an onsen. It's where I come to bathe, once the wildness of the dance has passed.


I make my way to the isthmus--west of the pool & about midway between the frog pond & the Blue Bridge--thinking of you...

To Be Continued

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

The Cloisters

My mother once told me that men never bother with married women. “A ring on your finger,” she said, “works on men, like Raid on roaches.” Which explains why, on one recent afternoon, I set out wearing my grandmother's gold ring—inlaid with turquoise, emeralds and diamonds (“Turquoise,” my grandpa said, “to match her eyes,” emerald for her birthstone and diamonds “because [he] could”). This I did on a recent trip to New York City. In addition to the ring I wore an emerald green sundress, sandals to match, and nothing else. It was so very hot in the city that day.



Because I teach high school French, I decided to visit The Cloisters This outing, plus my projected visit to the Librairie Française (which someone forgot to tell me was closed), as well as the “tasting menu” at a place called Dégustation, in the East Village, will make for a legitimate tax deduction, come April. But I digress.

There were very few visitors to The Cloisters, that afternoon. The venue is somewhat off the beaten track, in a part of Manhattan so far to the north, it might as well be the Bronx.
As I entered the building I felt immediately the pull of Medieval Europe. I felt drawn to the images, somewhat more by their vibrant hues than by any other aspect of their content. The blue of Mary's raiment in Les Belles Heures of the Duc du Berry that fascinates me. I don't know how long I stood there. But when I again became aware of my surroundings, I had the impression I was not alone. I turned and began to walk into the next room. And that's when I caught site of him. Tall, with a nicely trimmed beard, that looked as though it might tickle, in all the right places.

Since beards that tickled in all the right places were decidedly not what I'd come to New York to find, I walked a bit faster, fingering the thick ring on my left hand. I'd noticed he wore a ring as well. And at any rate I was determined to find the Unicorn Tapestries. Apparently toward the end of the 15th century it became necessary to document unicorn hunting. (No wonder the poor beasties are extinct.) Unicorns were handsome and beneficent beasts that boasted one very large horn, in the middle of their foreheads. Though they couldn't be hunted and caught in the usual way, they were suckers for a well-placed virgin. Upon finding one alone, a unicorn would just naturally approach and make himself comfortable in the damsel's lap.

I was busy reviewing all I know of the curative and purifying power of unicorn horn, when I stepped back to take in a fuller view of the unicorn and other fauna around a fountain. I felt a sudden heat on my neck, back and thighs. I'd stepped backward into someone. I whirled round to face the tall bearded fellow. He had a warm smile.

I hadn't come all the way to New York to be distracted by a warm smile, a potentially tickly beard and rock hard pecs. Which this fellow certainly had. He must work out five days a week. Holding my upper arms near the shoulders to steady me, he smiled, in a way that made me wonder if he'd read my mind.

I quickly banished all thoughts of workouts, said, “Excuse me,” and walked off without a backward look. Who did he think he was, smiling his warm smile and sporting those pecs—the result of untold sweaty workouts? I felt a tingling somewhere deep down and there was the sharp scent of aftershave in the air, both of which I chose to ignore.

I walked out into the perfectly charming herb garden, at the center of the cloisters. There were tables and chairs beneath the roofed area that bordered the garden, but no one had yet come to dine. I reveled in the subtle fragrances all about me, the tiny delicately formed leaves of the medicinal and cooking herbs. I'd wandered to the far end of the garden, perhaps unconsciously seeking shade. I felt one strong arm encircle my waist from behind me, smelled the now familiar scent of aftershave. Let myself sway as I leaned against those manly pecs. Behind them throbbed life, power and , I knew, desire. My bearded stranger took me by the hand. He lead me through a door, all but hidden by an aggressive climbing plant.

We descended a series of roughly cut and slightly damp stone stairs. The air became cooler with each step. Our path was like a labyrinth. And for some reason I recalled the story my Medieval French History prof told about promiscuous nuns at the time when the catacombs served as brothels.

At last we came to an oaken door. My beautiful stranger pressed against it, then pulled me through. On the other side was a wooded area. He led me to the largest of the oak trees and pulled me to him. I felt the throbbing once again. This time lower down as well. The throbbing in my pussy was the response to his urgent call.

I took six steps back, crossed my arms and lifted the emerald sundress over my head. Then I stood there before him in my emerald sandals with the four-inch heels. I let him look at me, knowing his cock was becoming more and more engorged with each passing moment.

I walked slowly back toward him. All the while he was watching my tits, checking out the shaved spot where my pubic hair used to be. I reached forward and unbuttoned his trousers. That seemed to waken him. In seconds he stood before me, naked. His cock extended to the max. I wanted him. Wanted to feel his lips on my mouth, my neck. To feel his breath near my ear. And then, I did.

We knelt beside the tree and simply kissed. I climaxed three times just from the feel of his tongue in my mouth, my nipples brushing against his strong chest. I moaned, arching my back. “I need you,” I said, to this man whose name I didn't know, “inside of me.”

“Yes,” he said, running his hand over my belly and down to just above my clit.

“Now,” I said.

He placed his legs in a V-position and pulled me up on top of him. I bent my knees around him, as his cock slid almost effortlessly into my wet and welcoming pussy.

His cock seemed to rise and expand even more. I've never felt so full before. Then I commenced to rocking, ever so slowly. He let me set the pace. I thought only of my pleasure-—the pleasure of riding his hot cock to my bliss, over and over and over again. When at last I thought the pleasure would make me lose my mind completely, he came with more force than the unicorn's pure fountain.

We held each other and made love till nightfall, my beautiful bearded stranger and I. “I don't know his name, but I've been meaning to thank him."

Best,

Diane


PS So much for mother's advice.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

You Like To Watch Two

Wednesday 16 June, 2010

...before you is a curved bridge, it's trajectory all but obscured by the mists. You follow the bridge, its gentle arc drawing you across a sapphirine lake. Slowly, you walk, savoring each breath, pungent with green and flowers. Errant rays of sun slice the mist. The waters beneath the bridge gambol and glint.

Your breath is slow, your pace leisurely. When at last you step from the bridge, the grass beneath your feet is early-morning moist but warm. And before you, amidst the clearing mists rises a castle .

Finding yourself at the base of the helix, you slowly mount the staircase. As you ascend, ever higher, before your eyes light absorbs each shadow.

You make your way round to the rear of the castle. Leaning over the balustrade , you watch as the sun burns a fine vapor from each blade of grass, just below you, in the garden. You decide that this garden is where you want to be.

As you descend the stone steps and follow the winding path that leads to a heretofore hidden portion of the garden, you hear gentle laughter, from somewhere not far off, behind the hedge.

Gazing out across this part of the garden, through the hedge, you see an large tree , near an emerald lake. Beneath that tree are two women. They're wearing summer dresses, talking and laughing together.

One woman is plump. She has long dark brown hair that falls in curls down her back. One shoulder is bare where the top of her blue cotton dress has slipped. She appears not to notice, as she reaches for a large strawberry--one of many, crowding a white bowl placed on the gingham cloth before them.

Her friend, a slender blond, with dark green eyes and a dress to match, says something that sounds like a dare.

You draw nearer, watching them through gaps in the hedge, yet unseen by the two women.

The dark-haired woman reaches across the gingham cloth to the edge farthest from her. There she dunks the strawberry into a small pot of chocolate syrup. As she does so, the strap of the blue cotton dress slips farther down her arm, exposing a breast, golden in the sun's rays. A very ripe and pink nipple and aureole. When she withdraws the berry, you see that it wears a thick coat of the creamy black syrup.

The blond raises her hands before her, as if to say she's had enough, and doesn't fancy dessert.

But her darker friend leans close, holding the chocolate-smeared berry to her lips.

You watch as the blond woman's lips part, her tongue darting about the base of the strawberry. Licking it, teasingly.

The brunette leans closer. You hear her say something like, "Come on now; you know you want it all."

Just then the blond woman bites the strawberry, clean in half.

The brunette lifts her arm and what remains of the berry, as if in surprise.

When she does, the blond woman, her mouth still ajar, brings herself level with her friend's breast.


She closes her mouth over the pink nipple, covering the aureole as well with her lips.




As the blond woman begins to suckle, her friend drops the berry half. She caresses the blond head at her breast. Gently--slides down to recline on the gingham cloth, at the base of the tree.

The blond woman, straddles her, still sucking at her breast. You watch as the blond woman's left hand travels beneath the skirt of her brunette friend's dress. Watch as the plump brunette moans, helpless. Now at the mercy of the friend she taunted. Till the time comes for turn-about.

Watch as the blond turns her green eyes toward you. Locking your gaze in hers. Till your time comes, for fair play.

Best,

Diane

Monday, June 7, 2010

“...Nothing Like A [Domme]”

Monday June 7, 2010


Today, just for fun, I'm wearing my leather bustier, trademark fishnets and thigh-high leather boots.

"What if,” Tommy says, his voice, across the phone wires, just breaching the level of whisper, “what if I were tied to a table?”

Already I'm readying the restraints.


“And what if you were the doctor, and you had this orderly?”

I signal to my favorite sub. “Oui, Maitresse," he says. I've taught him to speak French. When we first met he had a facile tongue. But I taught him the vocabulary appropriate to his station. He can do no other than obey.

"And what if he had a really big cock?" Tommy whispers.

There is a world famous domme, her name is Maitresse Françoise When one enters her site, one finds what appears to be a poem, entitled "L'Extase". In it the compleat domme states, in effect, that your desires are her command. "I shoulder the responsibility," she writes.

After all, how can you be held accountable for transgressions you commit under duress, under the powerful spell of a dominatrix? The answer, of course, is that you cannot.


Poor Tommy, strapped to my flexion table (also, and rather aptly, known as a cox table). He can neither move his arms nor his legs.


My orderly holds his head. But Tommy will move. And he cries out.


This will not do.

I order my sub to tighten the head restraint I've had specially fashioned to fit my cox table. Tommy whimpers.


Then I command the orderly to insert the feeding apparatus. He wedges it firmly into Tommy's mouth.

Tommy is able to make only the tiniest of mouse-like noises. This pleases me. I will soon be wet.



I signal my sub. He lowers the cox table. Tommy's head is level with my sub's thigh.

Tommy's eyes look beseechingly at me. This makes me smile.


I nod to my sub. He descends his trousers. I had him wear a green neon thong. His cock is bursting out the side.

Tommy's eyes veer in the direction of my sub's massive cock.

"Tommy," I say, "time for your feeding."

I know Tommy is screaming. But all I can hear are high pitched squeaking noises.

"Maintenant," I say to my sub. He inserts his cock into the feeding apparatus, wedged handily inside Tommy's mouth.

My hand finds Tommy's scrotum. I squeeze his balls together. "Suck," I say, "or lose them."

Tommy knows I'm in deadly earnest.

He can do no other than suck.

Best,

Diane

Sunday, May 30, 2010

Student/Teacher Ratio--Part Two

Sunday May 30, 2010



...I stood up, wedging my legs between his. I could feel the scratchiness of the black tulle petticoat against my thighs. At first Mr. Martin didn't seem to be breathing at all. But he didn't pull his chair away.

So I started on the second button of my blouse. Clumsily. I felt a little dizzy myself.That's when Mr. Martin decided to lend a hand. Before I knew it, the buttons on my blouse were completely undone. “See,” I said, but my voice sounded strange to me, deeper and sort of honeyed, “it matches.”

Mr. Martin's hands fell to his sides. I looked down and noticed the crotch of his trousers had taken on a life of its own.


I tore my eyes from Mr. Martin's bulge. His grin was lopsided. I watched as his chest expanded with each subsequent intake of breath.


But,” Mr. Martin said, very quietly, “you said, 'they match'.”


He was right of course. And I suppose I was bound to prove that too. Mr. Martin always says doing things halfway is “a sign of intellectual laziness”, something he abhors.


I placed one hand beneath the waistband on either side of my skirt. I wouldn't tell any of the other girls this, but I got it in the children's section. That's how tiny my waist is.

Mr. Martin looked in my eyes. His are green, like the new growth on a fir tree.


I couldn't stop thinking about his cock. How eager it seemed.


As I pulled the skirt down past my panties, I could feel moisture, falling down from somewhere inside of me, coming to rest at the center of my pussy.


I reached behind my back, unhooking my bra. I shrugged my shoulders. The bra fell onto Mr. Martin's lap.


He placed his hands on my forearms, pulling me to him. As he began to nuzzle my right breast, I felt a weakness in my thighs.

I knelt before him, as he undid the button and descended the zipper on his trousers. On his briefs was a picture of a vanilla ice cream cone, just beginning to melt.

I freed Mr. Martin's cock from his briefs. It seemed even happier now. Then I turedn my head sideways, so I could watch his face as I licked and sucked at his cock.

It was my first time. But I already knew a blow job didn't mean you blow. My girlfriend has a lot of experience. And she told me all about cocks and what they like.

I could feel Mr. Martin, so hot and growing inside my mouth. And even though I'd seen pictures of cocks. Nothing prepared me for the beauty of his cock. So smooth, I think he must have shaved it. And the sack that held his balls, felt so soft and wrinkly in my hands. I tasted that too.

Mr. Martin was making noises, quietly. The whole building was quiet. As if everyone else had left. And we were the only ones in the school—maybe in the whole world.

That's when I stopped blowing him. His cock was still reaching for my mouth when I stood up. I almost felt sorry for him. “Mr. Martin,” I said, and he saw I was taking off my panties, “I want you to be my first.”

He shook his head. And started to try to get up. But I sat myself firmly on his lap.

He moaned and said, “We can't.”

Maybe you can't,”I said, “but Mr. Happy's saying he really wants to.” And I spread my pussy lips as wide as they could go, lowering myself onto the head of Mr. Martin's hot cock.

I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt at all. It hurt. But the pleasure that crawled up from my pussy and wrapped itself around my tits. The tingling that fell from my belly to my toes. They were more than worth a little soreness.

Once his cock was deep inside me, I began to move. Any way I chose. If Mr. Martin had other ideas, he wasn't voicing them. He held me from behind, as if he was afraid I might fall off.

He leaned forward and kissed me, my nipples brushing his chest. I couldn't breath and I didn't care. I felt so weak and so strong, at the same time.

When he came, he cried out. I held him tight. “Okay, Jamie,” I said, “next time, I get to be teacher.”


Best,

Diane

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Student/Teacher Ratio--Part 1


Thursday, May 27, 2010

When Jamie Martin called last night, I happened to be wearing my (Rob Roy) tartan skirt--the one with the black petticoat underneath. He's a high school teacher like me, but in this scenario, I was his student. And he asked me to stay after class.

It's an all-girls school. As my classmates filed out, I felt how stuffy the air had become, over the course of the class period. Beads of sweat had formed beneath my blouse. They'd begun to trickle down, slowly, between my tits. I shifted in the seat nearest the teacher.

Mr. Martin pulled his chair out from behind his desk, up close to mine. "I wanted to talk to you, Diane, about the school play." He's in charge of the play this year. We're doing "Winterset." It's quite eery. So naturally I'd like to play a leading role.
"I'm considering you, Diane," Mr. Martin said, leaning toward me, "for the role of Miriamne."

That made me sit up as straight as I could. Which is good if I want to impress him with my posture, but not so great when it comes to sweating. New droplets of sweat that had beaded up on my chest, all at once streaked down my cleavage. It tickled like crazy. So I reached my right hand up and pressed on my blouse, to sop up the moisture.

That's when Mr. Martin said, "Here, allow me." He took a perfectly folded handkerchief from his jacket pocket and daubed at the space where the buttons---three of them---lay open.

It gave me a funny feeling, down there. And I started to think about all those times when I was home in bed, thinking about how cool it would be if Mr. Martin only knew. So I said, "Mr. Martin, I think I ought to tell you that my bra and panties match my skirt."

And that's when he said, "Prove it."

To Be Continued...

Best,

Diane

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Thursday, May 20, 2010

School Daze--Part 2

Thursday, May 20, 2010

The chair slid slowly out from beneath the desk. Someone's hot breath trailed up under my skirt. "Say 'please' again," he muttered, his face nestled against my pelvis.

My pussy still throbbing, I meant to beg him once again to stop--to have a care for my job. But all I could say was, "Please--" He lifted his face and I saw the clear green eyes of my lanky student. He stood, lifted me out of the chair and turned round to place me on the rough wood of the desk.

I wondered what time it was. I wondered what year it was. Above me loomed my student--the one who seemed daily to daydream his way through class. I heard a descending zipper, glimpsed a wayward cock. "Wish me Happy Birthday," he said, his smile lupine.

"No," I said. But I could feel myself wanting him. Weakness pervaded me. It seemed to start at my wrists, or maybe in my cunt. Aching for his ripe young cock. Knowing I'd been wanting him for a very long time.

He rubbed the head of his cock across my pubic mound. I wanted to scream. But all I could say again was, "Please."

"Mmm," he said, and I heard him chuckle. This boy was laughing at me. I twisted to my right. Trying to gain purchase, trying to sit up.

He caught my wrists with one hand, pinning them to the desk. I felt the head of his cock--just the head--enter my already moist pussy. I moaned, struggling a good deal less. I was so distracted by that cock head. Only about an inch or so inside my pussy, it was triggering nerve endings that reached all the way to my nipples and back. I felt a wave of cream, my cream, rush down to cover his cock head.

He began to move. I felt his desire rise and strive within me.

I heard the clock ticking. But my hips heeded only his rhythm, which became mine as well.

Somewhere far away a shout echoed in a hallway. The air was filled with his scent. And there was only wanting. His and mine.

I heard myself say, "Please," again, and knew he knew I wanted him. My nails dug into the plaid of his shirt as I came. I felt his heat rise up inside of me.

Later, as we rearranged our clothing, he chuckled once more, pulling me close with one arm. And I knew we'd be doing this again, quite soon.

Best,

Diane