I stand up. I pull my shirt up over my head and shuffle out of my running shorts. Fully naked, I lower myself to the floor and go into the obeisance position. This is my favourite position when I need to think. When I need to focus, it stills my mind like no other. There‘s no doubt in my mind that I have screwed up tonight. I have been heartless and cruel and now I am paying the price. It’s unlike me, but my ire got the best of me. I wish I could blame it on the ginger hair, but it’s much more down to wanting to get my point across rather than being kind and considerate. I let out a heavy sigh. Stupid. Definitely stupid.

out of my running shorts. Fully naked, I lower myself to the floor and go into the obeisance position. This is my favourite position when I need to think. When I need to focus, it stills my mind like no other. There‘s no doubt in my mind that I have screwed up tonight. I have been heartless and cruel and now I am paying the price. It’s unlike me, but my ire got the best of me. I wish I could blame it on the ginger hair, but it’s much more down to wanting to get my point across rather than being kind and considerate. I let out a heavy sigh. Stupid. Definitely stupid.

I close my eyes and take some deep breaths. ‘Still’, I tell myself. ‘Serve. Wait. Still. Serve. Wait’. The mantra cycles through my mind again and again. Each time, my heart slows that little bit more, my mind eases and releases the stranglehold it has on my self chastising thoughts spiralling downward. As everything disappears into a plane of emptiness, I take a moment and bathe in the silence of my mind and soul. I stay that way for several minutes until I allow one thought at a time in.

I’m surprised at the first thought that permeates my mind. ‘ What were you thinking bringing up how you and Master split ways the first time. I recognise now it’s the pain. The statement that seemed so innocent at the time. How many times now had you heard the words that they should have married you when I had the chance. That was it. That’s what triggered the backlash. It hit home and reminded me of all the times that I wasn’t enough or I was too much. Somehow, him saying it feels so much worse. Like a stake being plunged into my neck. Forgive yourself. Apologise to him. Try to explain to him. Resoloved.’ I push the words aside and move to the next.

Jealousy shoots through me. I want to lash out, to hit and scream and just release all of that futility. I have no right to be jealous, and yet I am. It’s undeniable. She gets to have his time, his attention, his energy. I miss having his eyes on me. He’s not mine, but there is no doubt that he owns me. I couldn’t get away from that fact if I tried. He just is. She gets the privilege of his attention, and so I may not see him this evening. I feel that small little knife of jealousy turn inside my heart. She doesn’t appreciate him, my Master. She doesn’t take care of him. She doesn’t help him. She just sits with her own lethargy. Date night. I try to wish them a happy evening, but it doesn’t come out quite right. I hope he believed it. Stop! Stop being jealous. It’s ridiculous! I close my eyes tighter, and try to let it all slip out, to drain away. In through my nose, out through my mouth. I try to regain the stillness.

Instead, I beat my fists against the floor. Not only does she not appreciate him, but he is not her Master. How do you come across someone so naturally skilled in the world of BDSM and not use those expertise. It’s like deciding not to use your raincoat in the middle of a storm because you don’t want it to get wet. What a senseless waste. I close my eyes and an image of the first time we met in person. I was walking down the steps to the basement when he turned, and quick as a flash, put his fingers of one hand around my throat. ‘You are mine. Do not forget. It is up to me how and when I use you. My choice of you get to come or not. My choice if I reward or deny you. Whose are you?’

A breath, rasping sound escapes my throat, ‘Yours, Sir. I am yours.’ I lower my eyes. I hope he will accept my submission. I want him to dominate me and right now. My arousal level shoots through the roof and I want this man, my Master, to do whatever likes to me. My pulse ratchets up. In that moment, I am utterly in awe of him. He controls me. He owns me. I know it, he knows it. Power and authority roll off of him and bathe me in waves of submission. I can feel my legs getting weak. The desire to bow down to him, overwhelming. That night he used me in ways I’d only dreamed and never told anyone about. My body and mind were a quivering mess, but there he is holding me, whispering in my ear, making sure all is well as I emerged out of subspace. I have marks on my body from the whip. They cross-cross my body which I love and adore. I can still feel the burning of my ass after the Spanking I’d earned by forgetting To address him as Sir in the midst of relishing the pleasure flowing through every part of my body. Man, but I could get used to this. But she doesn’t even show an interest.

She won his attention by having their date night tonight. I’m disappointed and jealous. I shall not speak with him today other than my heartless statements earlier. Are you kidding! She turned down date night to sit at home and watch telly! Is she mad? How should that ever take prority? Yikes! what A way for them to spend their engagement anniversary.

i pop online to see how he’s doing. Not great May be the evening will prove better. I get ready to slowly raise out of the vision in my head.

’Wait! What? She doesn’t want to go out regardless of the fact that she begged him to take her out. Now his frustration level is off the chart. Doesn’t she see what she does to him? In his frustration, he will work instead of spending time with me. That knife of jealousy stabs into that same old wound. It ripped through every thing. The sadness turns into rage when I learn he won’t be seeing me tonight, as he wanted to get away From her. So, she has won twice this evening. I’m defini not amused by the whole mess. That’s twice she’s taken him away and then desires nothing of him, not even his time.

I can feel my teeth gritting as I knot my jaw in restrained emotion. shes gotten the better of me time and again. She drives a wedge. I’m so angry, I can feel the rage building. It needed to dissipate.

I close my eyes again, I unclench my teeth, I let my fists let go and fall by my side. ’Patience and serve. Patience and serve. The words roll around in my head, releasing the stress. I will find a way to fix this. Just then, I hear the doorknob rattle. He enters the room. I hear his quiet laugh. ’Now that’s a lovely way to greet your Master. He steps up behind me and starts to rub his hands all over my ass. His eyes find mine. ’This is one hell of an apology’, he chuckles .’ I lower my head further. I listen as first I hear a small clinking sound. I try to place it and then it comes to me. It’s his belt buckle. Indeed the near silent swish as the leather leaves the hoops on his trousers. He walks up behind me and shoves two fingers into me. Hard. I moan as pleasure starts to build. I can hear it before it strikes, the belt slashing against my bare ass. That will definitely leave a mark, and I am so grateful. His fingers plunge in deeper and he adds another finger. I push back against him, grinding and swish, the belt falls again.

A small but happy voice answers the sound of the leather. ‘2. Thank you, Sir’ and the night suddenly is full of possibilities.

Olivia Chen stared at her laptop screen, the cursor blinking mockingly at the end of her latest online dating profile. At 32, she was the youngest VP of Marketing at PixelPerfect Tech, and her professional life was soaring. Her personal life, however, was stuck in an endless holding pattern.

She glanced at the handwritten list beside her laptop:

1. Ivy League educated

2. Speaks at least three languages

3. Runs marathons

4. Plays a musical instrument

5. Has traveled to at least 30 countries

6. Volunteers regularly

7. Practices meditation daily

8. Loves sushi and Thai food

9. Prefers dogs over cats

10. Enjoys both Shakespeare and stand-up comedy

Olivia sighed. Was she being too picky? No, she decided. She knew what she wanted, and she wouldn't settle for less. With a determined nod, she clicked "Submit" on her dating profile and closed her laptop.

The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans enveloped her as she looked around The Daily Grind, her favorite local coffee shop. It was her Saturday morning ritual – a chance to work on personal projects away from the office hustle.

As she stood to order a refill, her eyes met those of a man entering the shop. For a moment, the world seemed to pause.

He was tall, with warm brown eyes and a five o'clock shadow that suggested he'd forgotten to shave. His slightly rumpled button-down and jeans gave him a casual, approachable air. But it was his smile – genuine and slightly lopsided – that made Olivia's heart skip a beat.

She quickly looked away, chiding herself for the unexpected reaction. He probably didn't meet any of her criteria. Besides, she reminded herself, she wasn't here to flirt. She was here to work on finding her perfect match.

---

Ethan Rodriguez had been staring at his own list for the past hour, sitting in his car outside The Daily Grind. At 34, he was a successful corporate lawyer, known for his razor-sharp mind and unflagging work ethic. But today, he felt utterly defeated by a simple piece of paper.

His list read:

1. Has a PhD

2. Practices yoga daily

3. Vegan or vegetarian

4. Fluent in Spanish

5. Loves classic films

6. Enjoys hiking and camping

7. Plays chess

8. Has no debt

9. Wants at least three children

10. Comes from a large, close-knit family

Ethan crumpled the paper and tossed it onto the passenger seat. What was he doing? This list hadn't helped him find anyone in the past five years. Maybe it was time to try something different.

With a deep breath, he stepped out of his car and walked into the coffee shop. As he entered, his eyes met those of a woman by the counter. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

She was beautiful, with sleek black hair pulled back into a professional-looking bun and intelligent eyes that seemed to look right through him. Her posture exuded confidence, but there was a softness in her expression that drew him in.

Ethan felt his face break into a smile – the first genuine one he'd had in weeks. To his surprise, a faint blush colored the woman's cheeks before she looked away.

Intrigued, Ethan made his way to the counter. As he waited to order, he couldn't help but sneak glances at the woman, who had returned to her seat and was now frowning at her laptop.

---

Olivia was acutely aware of the man's presence as he ordered his coffee. His voice was deep and pleasant, with a hint of an accent she couldn't quite place. Against her better judgment, she found herself straining to hear his order.

"One large Americano, please," he said. "And..." he hesitated, glancing at Olivia's table. "Whatever the lady in the blue blouse is having."

Olivia's head snapped up, her eyes wide with surprise. The man was looking at her, that charming smile still on his face.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, approaching her table. "I'm Ethan. And you look like you could use a refill."

Olivia knew she should politely decline. This man was a stranger, after all. He probably didn't meet any of her carefully curated criteria. But something in his warm gaze made her hesitate.

"I'm Olivia," she found herself saying. "And... thank you. That's very kind."

"Mind if I join you?" Ethan asked. "Unless you're waiting for someone...?"

Olivia glanced at her laptop, where her newly submitted dating profile waited to attract her perfect match. Then she looked back at Ethan, whose eyes held a mixture of hope and uncertainty.

"No," she said, surprising herself. "I'm not waiting for anyone. Please, have a seat."

As Ethan sat down, Olivia couldn't help but notice how at ease she felt in his presence. It was strange – she usually felt the need to be "on" around new people, especially potential romantic interests. But with Ethan, she felt... comfortable.

"So, Olivia," Ethan said, his eyes twinkling. "What brings you to The Daily Grind on this fine Saturday morning? Let me guess – you're writing the next great American novel?"

Olivia laughed, the sound surprising her with its genuineness. "Not quite," she admitted. "I was actually... well, this is a bit embarrassing, but I was working on my online dating profile."

Ethan's eyebrows shot up. "No way! That's... actually why I came here too. I've been sitting in my car for an hour, trying to work up the courage to revamp my profile."

Their eyes met, and suddenly they both burst out laughing. The absurdity of the situation – two people working on their dating profiles separately, only to meet in person – wasn't lost on either of them.

"Okay, now you have to tell me," Olivia said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "What's your secret? What are you looking for in a partner that's so hard to find?"

Ethan's smile faltered for a moment. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled list he'd tossed in his car. "Well, if you really want to know..." He smoothed out the paper and slid it across the table.

Olivia's eyes widened as she read the list. It was so specific, so detailed... and yet, not a single item on it described her. She should have felt disappointed, but instead, she felt an odd sense of relief.

"Your turn," Ethan said, his voice gentle. "Fair's fair."

With a rueful smile, Olivia pulled out her own list and handed it to Ethan. She watched as his eyes scanned the paper, his expression changing from curiosity to surprise to... was that amusement?

"Well," Ethan said, looking up at her with a grin, "I guess neither of us meets the other's criteria, huh?"

Olivia couldn't help but laugh. "I guess not. Although I have to say, your list is pretty impressive. A PhD, fluent in Spanish, plays chess... you're not asking for much, are you?"

Ethan chuckled, running a hand through his hair sheepishly. "Yeah, I suppose I aimed a bit high. But look who's talking – Ivy League educated, speaks three languages, runs marathons? You're quite the catch yourself."

As they continued to chat, Olivia found herself relaxing more and more. Ethan was easy to talk to, with a quick wit and a self-deprecating humor that she found endearing. She learned that he was a lawyer who specialized in environmental law, that he had a passion for cooking (though he admitted to being a disaster in the kitchen), and that he had a golden retriever named Scooter who had chewed through three pairs of his favorite shoes.

In turn, Olivia shared stories about her job in tech marketing, her love for obscure foreign films, and her recent disastrous attempt at learning to surf. With each anecdote, each shared laugh, she felt the walls she'd built around her heart begin to crumble.

Hours passed, their coffee growing cold as they talked. It wasn't until Olivia's phone buzzed with a reminder about a dinner engagement that they realized how much time had elapsed.

"Oh my gosh," Olivia exclaimed, looking at her watch. "I can't believe it's been four hours!"

Ethan looked equally surprised. "Time flies when you're having fun, I guess," he said, his eyes never leaving Olivia's face.

As they gathered their things, a sudden awkwardness fell between them. They had shared so much, laughed so freely – but what now?

Ethan cleared his throat. "Olivia, I... I know I don't meet any of the criteria on your list. And you don't meet mine either. But I have to say, these past few hours have been the most enjoyable I've had in a long time."

Olivia felt her heart racing. "I feel the same way," she admitted. "It's funny, isn't it? How we can plan and make lists and think we know exactly what we want, but then..."

"But then life surprises you," Ethan finished, smiling softly.

They stood there for a moment, the possibility of something more hanging in the air between them.

Finally, Ethan took a deep breath. "Would you like to have dinner with me sometime? I promise I won't try to impress you with my non-existent PhD or my terrible Spanish."

Olivia laughed, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. "I'd love to," she said. "And I promise not to drag you to any marathons or quiz you on Shakespeare."

As they exchanged numbers, Olivia felt a sense of excitement she hadn't experienced in years. She didn't know where this would lead, but for the first time in a long time, she was eager to find out.

---

Six months later, Olivia and Ethan found themselves back at The Daily Grind, sitting at the same table where they'd first shared their lists. But this time, instead of laptops and crumpled papers, the table was adorned with a small cake that read "Happy 6 Months!"

"I can't believe it's been half a year already," Olivia said, her hand intertwined with Ethan's.

Ethan squeezed her hand gently. "Best six months of my life," he said, his eyes shining with affection.

As they enjoyed their cake, they reflected on their journey. There had been challenges, of course. Olivia's workaholic tendencies sometimes clashed with Ethan's desire for work-life balance. Ethan's messy nature occasionally drove the neat-freak in Olivia crazy. But they had learned to communicate, to compromise, and most importantly, to see each other for who they truly were – not who they thought they should be with.

"You know," Ethan said, "I think I owe this cake to Scooter. If he hadn't chewed up my shoes that morning, I might never have come to the coffee shop in such a frazzled state."

Olivia laughed. "And I owe it to my terrible dating profile. If I hadn't been so focused on that ridiculous list, I might not have been here either."

They fell silent for a moment, each lost in thought. Then Olivia spoke up, her voice soft but determined.

"Ethan, I've been thinking... maybe it's time we made a new list."

Ethan raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh? What kind of list did you have in mind?"

Olivia pulled out a notebook and a pen. "A list of all the reasons we work together. All the things we love about each other, lists and criteria be damned."

Ethan's face broke into a wide grin. "I love it. Can I start?"

At Olivia's nod, he began: "Number one: Olivia's laugh. It's the most beautiful sound in the world, especially when she's laughing at one of my terrible jokes."

Olivia blushed but wrote it down. "Okay, my turn. Number two: Ethan's kindness. The way he always thinks of others, whether it's buying coffee for a stranger or volunteering at the animal shelter."

They continued, taking turns adding to the list:

3. The way Olivia's eyes light up when she talks about her work.

4. Ethan's patience, especially when teaching Olivia how to cook.

5. The feeling of home when they're together, no matter where they are.

6. Their shared love of trying new things, from salsa dancing to escape rooms.

7. The comfortable silences they can share.

8. How they balance each other out – Olivia's ambition and Ethan's laid-back nature.

9. Their ability to make each other laugh, even on the toughest days.

10. The way they inspire each other to be better, not by demanding perfection, but by loving each other's imperfections.

As they reached the tenth item, Olivia felt tears pricking at her eyes. This list, born out of love and experience rather than expectations and societal pressures, felt more real and valuable than any she'd ever made before.

Ethan leaned over and kissed her softly. "You know," he said, his voice husky with emotion, "I think we could keep adding to this list for a lifetime."

Olivia's heart swelled at the implication. "I'd like that," she whispered. "I'd like that very much."

As they left The Daily Grind hand in hand, their new list tucked safely in Olivia's purse, they both felt a sense of gratitude for the twist of fate that had brought them together. Their original lists, with all their specific criteria and lofty expectations, lay forgotten. In their place was something far more precious – a love born of connection, understanding, and the willingness to look beyond the surface.

Olivia and Ethan had learned that sometimes, the best things in life are the ones you never thought to put on your list. And as they walked into their future together, they were excited to discover what other wonderful, unplanned surprises life had in store for them.

I unlock the front door and walk in. I’m hot, sweaty and smelly. It’s definitely time for a shower. I’d managed to squeeze in my 5km run just before heading over to the food bank for my shift volunteering. I love lazy summer days. As I hang up my keys, I notice the house is unexpectedly quiet. Could it be? Do I actually have the whole house to myself. A wicked smile sneaks across my face. Best to double check. ‘Hello! Anyone else home?’ No response. I can’t believe my luck. I run up the stairs with a sense of anticipation.

I close the bathroom door behind me and turn the key in the lock. As I pull off my top, I reach across and turn on the hot water on the shower. I shuck my running kit and strip off my sports bra and panties. I reach up as I stand on my tippy toes giving myself a good long stretch. As I step into the shower, the warmth of the water starts easing some of my muscles. I laugh to myself. That won’t last for long.

Reaching across to the shower controls, I change the flow from the overhead shower to the handheld head. With a deft flick of my wrist, I change the water flow from dispersed to a tight stream. I close my eyes and reach down between my thighs and open up my pussy lips wide. With practiced ease, I direct the flow so that it hits right on my clit. A moan escapes me and I lean my head forward against the wall as the water pounds between my legs. Almost without noticing, I feel my body squatting down, spreading wide, giving full access to the water. At the same time, my body rises up onto my tiptoes, tensing my muscles that little bit more. My breathing starts coming out in gasps. Without a doubt, I know if I can find that one perfect spot I will come so hard that I can’t help but scream out in pleasure.

As my arousal grows, I can’t quite find the right place. My mind starts fuming. I bloody well never get the place to myself and I could really use the release. It would be so welcome, so sweet, but no my body just isn’t quite getting me there. I try different angles, different directions. My frustration escalates. ’Please, please,’ I plead with myself. I want to come. I want to come so hard that everything goes hazy. My legs start pumping as my hips start circling, trying to find that precise place that will obliterate my mind.

My body speeds up, the desperation growing. I want this, but I can’t get there. ’Oh please, dear Lord, let me come.’ I close my eyes and grind my teeth in exasperation. My mind refuses to accept failure. ‘No, no, no, no, no! I will get to come!‘ There‘s no missing the tone. This WILL happen. Still, with adjustments to angle, distance, body tension, I can’t find the right damn spot!

I lean my head against the shower wall while the warm water continues to bombard my clit. I try to breathe, I try to eat go of the frustration. I so seldom get the house to myself. I don’t want to waste the opportunity. That’s when I hear you. ‘Slut, what are you doing?’ I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding, but my hands don’t move. I continue to thrust at the water stream. I hear your laugh. It echoes in the bathroom. ‘What a dirty, little fucking whore. You just can’t get enough, can you? Some sluts would be happy with all you were given last night, but clearly not you. Such a hungry little cunt I own. Isn’t that right now?’ I just nod my head, still straining to fuck the water.

‘You want it don’t you? Getting all hot and bothered. Oooh! Look at that hip action. Surely you can do better than that, whore. Show me just how fast you can pump that cunt. Now that’s better. Squat some more for me. Lower. I said lower bitch!’ I squat down lower as a squeal comes from my mouth.

A diatribe leaves my lips. ‘Oh fuck! That’s it! That’s the spot. Oh holy hell. Fuck me! Fuck me! Come on you dirty whore. You fuck it and fuck it fast. You get that pussy going. Right there, right fucking there.’ The tension in my body tightens to the point that I can barely move. A scream bounces off the walls as a stream of come shoots out of my cunt and into the tub. I collapse against the wall and try to regain my breath. I mutter quietly, ‘So good. So fucking good. God I needed that.’

Slowly, my hand starts to pull the shower head away from my cunt, but before I realise, it pushes back in and my hips start grinding again. Oh hell! Usually just the once is ample and my clit becomes so sensitive I can’t do anything more. Even soaping down and rinsing can be difficult. Clearly, my body has a mind of its own. I try to breath as evenly as I can after tremor after tremor shoots through my whole body. With each small death, my control slips even further away. Every few minutes, I try to pull the shower head away, and still it keeps finding its way back. What the fuck is going on. I knew I was hungry, but it’s become ridiculous, but I just can’t stop.

A constant stream of swearing escapes my lips, ‘fuck, oh fuck, damn, no more, please, no more. I’m begging please.’ I don’t know which is in control, my body or my mind, but this is becoming one hell of a ride. Still, I grind the air and shoot the jet stream into my cunt, moaning as I come again and again. A sharp gasp rips from me. ’Right there, right fu….’ Before I can complete my thoughts, another gush leaves my cunt as I scream loud enough to break down the walls. My knees start to buckle. I grab my wrist with my other hand and pull the shower head away from me. I drop it onto the floor of the tub and try to regain some sort of coherent thought. It’s a long time coming. As I recover, I shampoo my hair and lather my body. I enjoy the feel of the rough grains inside the soap that just brings that little bit of pain to the surface. Man, I love the small pleasures in life.

Finally, I turn off the tap and hang onto the wall so that I can safely step out of the bath. My legs still feel a lot like jelly. As I glance over to the counter, I realise that I have been fucking myself for well over thirty minutes. I can still feel the constant thrum of orgasm transmitting through my body. I look down, and I am utterly stunned. My pussy lips are so swollen, they are sticking out of my mound. Oh good Lord, what have I done?’

I lower myself to the floor and immediately arrange myself into the position of obeisance. I go down on my hands and knees, then lower myself more so that my forearms rest on the floor. I lower my backside to rest on my heels. I close my eyes. I take a few deep breaths. I hear through the door, the lyrics of ’What Am I To You’. I push my mind to blankness, and think, what am I to you, Sir? I am yours to command, to order. I desperately hope that I’ve not stimulated myself so much that I will be useless for you to play with this evening. I wish fervently that I’ve not gone too far. I fear even touching myself this evening will be too much. What was I thinking? That’s easy. I wasn’t.

Again, I slow my mind. I blank it again. I’m here to wait. I’m here for you. I’m pleased to serve you. The next song filters into my ears. It’s Garth Brooks‘ The River’. Yes, it’s true. It’s been one heck of a journey. I smile to myself thinking back to all of the twists and turns our journey held. Who would have thought that we’d end up here?

I stand up and continue with my day.

Juliana hurried. What had been a beautiful summer day hiking the Appalachian Trail was quickly turning into a weather event. She had been completing portions of the trail as her schedule allowed, but lately her progress had been hit and miss. The approaching thunder had an ominous, low rumble that seemed to resonate within her. Her hike was about to be scrapped. Again.

Juliana finally located a trail shelter and quickly entered. A strong gust ripped the door from her grasp and flung it all the way open. She swore and pushed it shut behind her, relieved to have reached some semblance of safety from the coming storm.

“Looks like you made it just in time,” a deep male voice spoke.

Juliana turned around and squinted as her vision adjusted to the dim interior of the shelter. A man sat on the floor with his back propped against his pack. He was writing in a small leather journal. As she shrugged off her own pack, the stranger put his journal aside and rose to his feet. He approached her and offered an outstretched hand, “Arlo.” The timbre of his voice had the same effect on her as the approaching thunder: it somehow was felt more than heard.

She ignored that odd feeling and accepted his hand, “Juliana.”

Zings of electricity instantly flowed between them as they touched. It felt like a strong static shock, but instead of hurting, it felt… good? Juliana quickly pulled her hand away and stepped back.

“Whoa! That was weird, right?” She laughed nervously and rubbed one hand against the other.

Small branches were thrown onto the shelter's metal roof with a noisy clatter. Arlo glanced upward and shook his head, “Not weird at all. These conditions are ideal for energy exchange. Energy stored must be energy released at some point,” he looked at her and continued, “within the atmosphere and perhaps between humans, too...” he trailed off thoughtfully, slowly rubbing his hands together as well. Breaking eye contact, he ran a hand through his hair and gave a self-conscious laugh as he blushed.

He has great hair…I wish I could run my hands through it. Juliana mused.

It was now her turn to blush. The uncharacteristic, intrusive thought caught Juliana off guard.

Really? You've known him, what? A full two minutes? She admonished herself until she felt appropriately guilty.

“Juliana,” Arlo began to ask her something when another thought suddenly occurred to him, “your name…”

“Yeah, but no one calls me that. Everyone has always called me—”

“Jules,” Arlo interjected.

“Yeah! How- How did you know that it would be ‘Jules’ and not ‘Julie’?” She could not hide her surprise.

“Huh… I don't know. Just a guess. It really does suit you, though.” Arlo rubbed his chin with an amused and oddly pleased look on his face. Jules was confused by his reaction, but didn't ask.

Wanting to change the subject, yet hopeful to continue their conversation, Jules queried, “So… what do you do for a living?” She immediately cursed herself inwardly for going with such a generic question.

Arlo watched her kaleidoscope of facial expressions and laughed good-naturedly, “It's okay. I study atmospheric thermodynamics.”

“Okay. I can't even pretend I know what that is,” Jules laughed, “but can I guess what it has to do with?”

“Of course,” Arlo nodded, adjusting his glasses.

“Hmm… Meteorology? As in… weather prediction type stuff?” Jules playfully ventured.

“Not exactly. It's a branch of physics that studies the relationship between heat and energy— other things too, but I'm most fascinated in the transfer of energy that occurs in nature. So, today happens to be my favorite kind of day.” Almost on cue, thunder crackled and boomed, rattling the windows. Arlo grinned and continued, “You see, I track energy anomalies and there have been several strong, but sporadic readings in this area. I feel like I may have isolated a pattern, but it is too early to tell. I am here on vacation to hike, but also do research if the opportunity presents itself.”

They sat on the floor, facing one another. Arlo again leaned against his pack and Jules against hers. Despite their awkward start, they both now felt at ease. Without further prompting, Arlo began to explain thermodynamic theory to Jules. He was quite animated while describing his life's work.

Despite the fact Jules found Arlo to be highly intelligent and incredibly articulate, she understood very little of what he was telling her. However, what caught and held her attention was the manner in which Arlo spoke. Jules had never heard anything technical be expressed so eloquently and passionately. To her ear, his words sounded like scientific poetry— if such a thing existed. She felt like she could listen to him speak for hours.

She felt a hum growing between them as he spoke. It felt like a warm magnet, sensuously fluctuating and pulling at her center. Pulling her toward him in a most intimate manner.

Am I losing my mind, or is he feeling this too?

It was at this point that Jules became mesmerized by Arlo’s mouth. She became entranced by the way his lips moved; she couldn't help but stare. She eventually felt strangely jealous of each spoken word, each uttered syllable— if only she could be caressed by his tongue and lips like that…

Vivid images of his handsome face buried in her lap while both her hands grasped his hair came to her mind like a lightning strike. She blushed and looked away, but the image remained.

Okay, this is crazy. Stop, you perv.

But Jules did not stop. This time she welcomed the intrusive thoughts and embraced the resultant heat that flooded her body. Her mouth watered, her heart raced, and her breath rate increased. Her nipples hardened and eventually, the throbbing slickness between her thighs became impossible to ignore. She adjusted how she was sitting, but the unavoidable rubbing only made the ache worse.

The last few synapses in her brain that were not lust-infused attempted to reason with her:

Perhaps there is a scientific explanation. Is it somehow related to this storm? Would Arlo know? I mean, he is a scientist after all. But… what if this can't be explained?

And then suddenly, Jules didn't care anymore what the reason might be. She leaned toward him, the pull now too strong to resist. Outside, the storm intensified. Its insistence to be known was now in tandem with her need.

Arlo had stopped talking and looked deeply into her eyes. What she saw mirrored her own desire and fascination. It was obvious to Jules that he was indeed feeling the powerful attraction, too. He was as smitten as she and his arousal was as achingly present as hers. He could not hide it if he tried and he had no intention of doing such a thing. Heavy sheets of rain lashed at the window as they slowly leaned toward each other.

As lips parted and tongues met, the most spectacular sensation surged through them both. It was stronger and much more sensual than the zing from their earlier handshake. Whatever few reservations they were still holding to were now completely abandoned. They impatiently fumbled with and tore at one another's clothes with desperate hunger. They broke from kissing only when absolutely required.

Everywhere their bare skin touched, erotic electricity snapped and sizzled. Tendrils of supernatural longing raced and spiraled between and within them like currents. Their senses moved together as if they were celestial dance partners following ancient choreography only the two of them were ever destined to know.

Arlo's eager hands cradled Jules' bare cheeks and lifted her onto the countertop in one fluid movement. Her arms and legs reached to greedily encircle him as he moved toward her with animal intensity. The storm that ensued between the two rivaled the raw beauty of the summer storm raging around them.

The power that had been unleashed that day changed the landscape of all they thought they knew. As they continued to explore the principles of thermodynamics together, Arlo was confident he had at last located the source of the anomaly.

They learned everything that energy release between two humans was meant to be.

In theory, and in practice.

Clarence scoped the Ohio landscape. The sun was rich and luxurious over his chest as he tossed his blue broadcloth button down over an outcrop of rock.

Cluster, like any town, for miles, was as flat as an empty palm. It had vestiges amid those fruited plains where trees perched instead of corn, and deer could hide. Half a dozen acre parcels in these parts that were an oasis for wild life, even the human kind. Day or night.

When they'd been teenagers, he'd been one to sneak over, evenings, with a girl like Rhonda or Jacqueline. He slid his hands in reverse into his back jeans patch pockets and arched into the sunset.

Good times.

Ssnapk!

His carnal remembrances of chortling brunettes shut by the crack of a stiff twig. Clarence twisted his head sharply to the left. He was a free man now, but guilty conscience still had him on the run. Unsettled business.

It was a woman. Young.

She was three yards off and hadn't seen him. He smiled at her lack of caution. No natural instinct. Funny he hadn't heard her approaching sooner. He furrowed his smooth tanned brow. She'd been crying. Blonde, petite, and a stormy kind of carriage.

His kind of weather.

He liked them kind of bovine. Passionate and dumb. She stumbled forward, eyes downcast, heading towards the edge where he now reclined, back against a slim sweet gum. The heel of his right boot digging into the delicate trunk.

"Well, hullo there."

She started a bit. Eyes forest green. She did the involuntary lip lick, taking him in and he stifled a smirk, making a show of glancing at his wristwatch. He could have her panties off in three moves, he thought to himself, with the right words. Could make a sport of it. See how long it would take.

He could hear her breathing in the unnatural silence cutting through the woods.

Suddenly, he recognized her. The colored feature section, the business column, community service, portrait shot; the Cell Tower mogul with his arm charmingly around the shoulders of his daughter.

Play his cards right, with reserve, and she could be useful for several fronts. A ticket back into civilization, as it were.

The wind changed direction. Clouds rolling in offering reprieve.

He ran his tongue through his cheek, trying to cover his delight.

"You from round here?"

Adrienne stepped out and onto the veranda. It was an unusually warm evening, indicative of an early southern spring, and she hoped to catch a breeze from the river that ran alongside the mansion. Even though Adrienne had not yet danced, her face behind the mask was misted with perspiration, and she could feel beads of the same running between her breasts beneath the eighteenth-century costume.

Always looking for a reason to throw a party, her eccentric but dear friend, Angelique, was hosting tonight’s masquerade ball. As a result, Adrienne knew the celebration would continue well into the wee hours of the morning, leaving many a drunken and weary individual in its wake. At the moment, she was content to escape both the heat and the drunken revelry inside by seeking seclusion on the veranda. It was serenely quiet and the slightest coolness of a breeze drifted in to float lazily across its length.

Angelique had insisted on arranging a date for Adrienne although it was with someone whom she had not met whose name was Jean-Luc. In her own playful way, and since everyone would be wearing a mask, Angelique had insisted Jean-Luc must seek Adrienne out amidst the other guests. Vases of vibrant, gold marigolds filled the large mansion and tables in each room were laden with the same. Thus, once Jean-Luc thought he had found Angelique, he would need to pluck one and offer her a single, golden marigold as a way to both reveal himself and to validate her identity. It was a fun ploy and also offered Adrienne a choice in the matter since she need not reveal herself if she were not so inclined. She sighed. Chances were slim, anyway, that Jean-Luc would find her. Her chances at love had been dismal of late, so one more failed attempt would make little difference, she mused.

Suddenly, a brilliant flash of lightning lit the sky. Despite the warmth of the evening, Adrienne shivered. Hairs on the nape of her neck rose and she realized she was not alone. Turning abruptly to search for who might be there, she glanced about the darkened veranda until she stifled a gasp. A tall, lone figure slowly emerged from the shadows.

“Excuse me. Did I frighten you?” a deep voice drifted across veranda, oddly reminiscent of a cold winter’s air. Adrienne shivered unexpectedly. She saw the stranger wore a mask, but the semblance of a smile was still visible beneath it. She wondered if it was a smile of irony opposed to sincerity. How strange. What could this man, a complete stranger, possibly find ironic in about her?

“No, it's fine....I'm fine,” she stammered, a bit nervous despite the irritation she felt. “You just caught me off guard. I thought I was alone – just looking for a bit of cool air.” And with a strong desire to also avoid all those drunks inside, she mentally added.

The stranger drew nearer, choosing to stand only a few steps away from Adrienne on the veranda alongside the wrought iron fence that ran its length. “Me as well,” he nodded. “The air is much cooler here, is it not?” he asked, sensing her irritation. Amused, he smiled and turned to gesture toward the ballroom before he added, “But alas, I must confess. I, too, desired to escape the drunken souls inside.”

Adrienne absentmindedly nodded, aware that this man’s presence seemed to permeate the entire length of the veranda even though he was not unusually large individual. Moreover, and more importantly, had the man just read her mind? It would be impossible for him to do that, would it not? A room of drunken souls, after all, was an easy observation during a night of partying, especially in New Orleans.

Taking a large sip from her glass of wine, Angelique took note of the fact the stranger had also chosen to wear the requested eighteenth-century costume attire, but his had surely cost a small fortune it was so splendid and believable. Nervously, she smoothed the skirt of her own costume, very self-conscious that what she wore was not nearly as authentic.

“You look quite lovely,” the stranger said. “It's as though you've stepped from the pages of a classic French novel.” His voice was melodic, lyrical, nearly hypnotic.

Adrienne glanced up at him, surprise etched across her face. He must be joking. Interestingly enough, that was twice now he had commented on that about which she had been thinking. Was this man real or was the wine wreaking havoc with her thought processes?

“You can’t be serious,” she said emphatically. “At least, not while you look as though you’ve just stepped from the pages of an Anne Rice novel. Monsieur Lestat, I presume?”

She laughed lightly. “That’s quite a handsome costume you wear. You are the epitome of a French nobleman.”

Somewhat surprised, the stranger lifted a brow, but the semblance of another ironic smile tugged at his lips. “I assure you I do not jest, chère - you look divinely French,” he said. “As for me, I am only wearing a piece of dusty fabric I pulled from an old box in my attic.”

Adrienne eyed him with obvious distrust and a bit of curiosity before being distracted by a rowdy group of people crossing the street. When she returned her gaze to the man, she found, though only minimal, he had drawn nearer. She could now see crystal blue eyes behind the mask and strands of thick, dark hair tied in a neat queue at his nape. Yes, he was every inch the French nobleman as he held a glass of what looked to be Merlot. The drink momentarily stained his lips whenever he drank of it. He stood so close it was easy to see he was quite handsome, and she could not help but wonder what he would look like unmasked. Thus far, he had been too mysterious, but the intrigue persisted and she would very much like to see his face.

“Are you from New Orleans?” he asked while taking another sip of the rich, red wine. His blue eyes were penetrating, observant of every detail. They made her nervous.

“Yes, I’ve always lived here. What about you?”

“I was born in Paris and lived there for many years,” he answered.

“Paris? Really? You have no accent,” Adrienne observed.

“I’ve lived in the States for a long time,” he responded and took another sip of his drink. “As a result, I fear I’ve lost what accent I had.”

Adrienne eyed him skeptically. The man could be no more than thirty-five or so, but she decided he very much posed as a French nobleman despite the lack of accent. In this matter, she would give him the benefit of the doubt.

“How long have you lived in New Orleans then?”

“Long enough to lose my accent, chère” he quickly replied, smiling and giving her a wink. “And what do you do, ma petite, when you’re not looking as though you leapt from the pages of a French novel?” he teased. “As for me, I deal in antiquities.”

Adrienne hesitated before answering his last question. Was this man evading her questions with more questions posed for her? He was proving to be very mysterious despite the intrigue.

“I’m a writer – or rather, I should say I’m attempting to be a writer, but still to no avail,” Adrienne said with a laugh.

“Oh, but I am sure that what you’d write would be well worth reading,” the stranger replied.

Adrienne laughed again, scoffing at his words. She was about to respond with something completely flippant, but the look in his gaze gave her pause. He was dead serious. The intensity of his gaze gave her pause, leaving little doubt as to his belief what he'd said was factual. Embarrassed, she stared at her feet in an attempt to gather her thoughts. This man was making her more self-consciously aware than any other had in a long while. Despite the heat of the night and for reasons unbeknown, chills covered her body.

Beneath the mask, Jean-Luc watched the stain of a blush creep as it crept across her cheeks. He felt the shiver that ran through her as though it ran through him. She was lovely, quite enchanting. Angelique could have paired him with any of her silly, vapid female acquaintance, but she had known this one was special. He was anxious to learn more about this woman before him. It had yet to be revealed whether she would be someone with whom he could share his darkest secrets – the secrets derived from living many centuries as a vampire who was created in the dark streets of eighteenth-century Paris. He was for a new beginning. This one was no mindless female, but an astute, intelligent, and attractive one beyond even her own awareness. She very well might be the new beginning he sought.

Despite the shiver, Adrienne nervously fanned herself with the dainty fan adorned with hand-painted violets that was part of her costume. She lifted the wine glass and eagerly drained it of its content while the man who had emerged from the shadows stood by her, watching every move she made. She felt the warmth of the wine sensuously move through her, easing a bit of the nervousness she felt even though he continued to peruse her like a book. She knew alarms should be sounding, but strangely enough, she was no longer afraid. Instead, a cool calmness filled her. She was thoroughly and undeniably intrigued. Perhaps the wine added to the allure, but still, she was drawn to him much like a moth to the flame. She wanted to know his secrets, his desires, and his ways, and she knew he had stories that would keep her interested for years.

“Is something wrong? May I get you another glass of wine?” he asked, smiling seductively. She instinctively knew he was aware of why she shivered so.

“No, I’m good, I promise. Thank you though,” she lied. Was it her imagination or had he drawn even closer than only moments ago? His nearness was much like a beacon of light beckoning her to the unknown.

“I want to be sure you’re fine,” he said and placed a hand lightly on her forearm. His touch was eerily cool even in the warmth of night. Instantly, at his touch her response was visceral, moving through her like electricity. Without a doubt, she knew he felt it, too.

Of a sudden, she realized he had happened again. This was three times now he had seemed to read her thoughts. How strange! She drew back and studied him, clearly confused by the moment. “Am I so easy to read?” she asked in a low voice laced with disbelief as she gave him the faintest trace of a smile.

He cocked a brow. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said, feigning ignorance.

She reached up to touch his left temple, feeling the thickness of hair beneath her slender fingers. His skin, like his touch, was decidedly cool despite the warm night and the heavy costume. How the bloody hell did he manage to stay cool, calm, and collected despite those things? Indeed, how did he manage to exude such confidence and also read her thoughts? Who the devil was this man?

Jean-Luc watched her, his eyes becoming such a deep blue they were nearly pools of black ink. There was no denying the voracity created by her mere touch. Moreover, did she not know how undeniably easy to read she was. There was no need of his ability to ascertain thoughts, no need to compel her with his will. It was as though he had known this woman all the years he had walked the earth.

“You seem able to pull my thoughts into that handsome head of yours and make me aware of your game. How is such a thing possible? Are you some creature from the depths of my imagination?” Adrienne asked, her voice a scarce whisper in the darkness.

He was keenly aware of her words and her nearness. The temptation was mounting. He was sorely inclined to make known to her precisely what kind of creature he was, thereby tossing caution to the wind to taste of her sweet nectar. And oh, but he already knew from her prevailing aroma that her blood would taste utterly divine.

Of a sudden, a voice drifted across the veranda, interrupting them in the midst of their conversation.

“Oh, Adrienne, dear, I’ve found you at last. I’ve been looking for you,” Angelique’s voice rippled from the doorway. “Oh, how splendid! I see you've met Jean-Luc. Well done my friends – you look as lovely together as I knew you would!” And with a look of smug satisfaction, Angelique turned, disappearing into the crowded room.

Amazed by her friend's revealing words, Adrienne turned to face Jean-Luc. He stared back with, if possible, an even more confident look of sardonic amusement.

“Jean-Luc?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer. Could the world suddenly have aligned to bring this man her way? She was afraid to think on the matter too much for fear it would not be so.

Jean-Luc watched her with renewed interest. Leaning forward, the coolness of his body brushed against her as he reached to pluck a golden marigold from the table behind her. He found it brightly tinged with a deep, crimson red and wondered at the premonition. It was an oxymoron, a foreboding, and an omen.

Adrienne leaned against him. All rational thought evaded at his nearness. She wanted more, so much more. All warmth left her body as she seemed to draw from the coolness running through his body. She was filled with a dawning awareness. It was coldly splendid in its welcoming embrace, and she sighed, rejoicing at the prospects found in the darkness and moonlight.

Jean-Luc sensed Adrienne's attraction, felt the heat of initial fear leave her body to be replaced with a cool, liquid sensation of desire. Unable to stop himself, his gaze dropped to her neck and the pulse within that beat so strongly. He released the coolness of his breath against her ear, felt her shiver anew with desires she did not realize resided within. Reluctantly, he drew backwards, his gaze dropping to the marigold he held. He slowly extended lifted it between them, aware that the blood colored crimson color seemed to seep from the flower's core, predominantly covering its once yellow petals.

“Might I offer you a marigold, sweet Adrienne? Come, mon amour, 'tis a key masked as a flower on this night of masquerade. You will find it opens dreams to a long awaited eternity.”

‘I just think you should have my cock inside of you at all times. In fact, I think you should take my cock into your mouth and when I come, you should rub my come all over your face.’

It was said so simply, but those words sent a shiver through me. I close my eyes and imagine. To feel so totally filled, and to have his mark of ownership drying on my skin. I can feel my arousal rising.

‘Edge!’ You command me. Instantly, I can feel something clench low and inside of me. My breathing speeds up, my mouth goes dry. I can feel myself just on the verge of my orgasm.

‘Ooooh, yes, Sir, that feels so good. Right there.’ I am just about there, but not quite. My whole body primed for release. I hover there, right on the brink.

’Feel the clothespegs on your nipples?’ Do I ever! That pinching, the gentle pull on my nipple each time I move, each time my body shifts. But I know, this, this is nothing compared to the pain and pure pleasure that will coarse through my body when those clothespegs are released. I respond with a gentle mmmhhhhmm of my own. I can see his smile.

‘And the ginger, slut? The ginger in your ass. Can you feel that?’ Are you fricking kidding me! The thought buzzes through my brain but I thankfully manage not to let those words come spewing out of my mouth. The consequences could be dire.

‘Yes, yes Sir. I can feel it. It fills up my ass and the burning, Sir. How it burns!’ Each minute, the heat level rises and each time it rises, my arousal escalates with it.

One word. That’s all he says. ‘Beg.’ With that one word, my brain scrambles, it tries to grab on to words but they seem to be flying out of my brain too quickly for me to take hold. I close my eyes and try to focus. To just try to say anything as my need shoots ever upward.

‘Oh good Lord, Sir. Please! Please! Oooh it’s so good. So good, Sir. Please. May I? I want. I want. I need. Please, Sir.’ My words tumble from my mouth. Barely making sense. I know I need to hold off until he says. I try so hard, but I can feel that pressure mounting, as I start to lose control of my body as it becomes of thing of sensation and pleasure.

‘It’s good to want, you greedy little whore.’

“Yes, yes, Sir! I know it is! I know! It’s good to want, Sir, but please, please, I’m so close. So very close. Please!’ I beg with all of my heart. This waiting, just there, on the edge is making my brain go into meltdown.

’5. 4.‘ He starts counting down. I know it‘s not long now. My body is primed, ready to explode as soon as I hear the word. I can hear the whimpering coming out of my mouth. Where’s the three? Where’s the bleedin’ three? Time seems to stretch on. I can hear myself screaming inside of my head. Say it! Say it you bastard. Three! Fucking three!

’3. Can you still feel that ginger in your asshole? Is it still burning? Or have you forgotten all about it?’ I scream in frustration as my fist slams down. Abruptly, I am reminded of the clothespegs on my nipples. Oh the pain! The sweet, sweet pain.The burning is driving me crazy as it permeates my entire body. Any lame attempt at coherency is gone. Utterly and completely. ‘Best put something in your mouth before you scream.’ I grab the nearest thing to hand and shove it into my mouth. ‘2. 1. Come for me, cunt!’ As his words reach me, I let loose the tight hold I had on my body as all of that pent up arousal ripped through my body.

A muffled scream emits from my mouth as wave after wave of orgasm washed over me. My back arches and my whole body pushes against the air as if possessed. ‘Aaaahh! Oh fuck! Yea! Yes! Oh hell yes! It still burns, Sir. It still burns! Again please, Sir, again.’

’What a greedy bitch you are.’ I can hear the chuckle in his voice. ‘Take my cum! Take it on your face. Does it burn your eyes? Burning eyes. Burning cunt, burning ass. Come for me you insatiable slut.’ My whole body releases. I thrash and feel my head rocking back and forth, my whole body straining as if it’s being held back by something but it’s just one small death after another. Every inch of me thrumming. I can feel the blood being pumped around my body. I feel as if I can feel everything in the room as it takes up space around me. I swear I can feel every molecule brushing against my skin, gentle as a whisper.

‘Please, please, Sir, may I rub your cum all over my face and breasts, Sir?’ I pant as I try to catch my breath.

‘Absolutely, and if it accidentally makes you cum, you can't help it because you’re a filthy animal, meant for fucking, and you can't stop cumming while you're being hurt and degraded.’

‘Yes! Yes! Yes I am! I love the pain. I am a greedy whore and slut. I want it all. I do. I want to feel every orifice filled. To have you spread all over my body, Sir.’

‘You are. You're not really yourself unless you've got cocks in you. I think you need some cunt in your mouth as well, don’t you? And are you wet my little slut?’

I plead him, ‘yes! Yes, I do! It’s been so long! I am dripping wet, Sir. It’s how you like me. It’s how I like me. I could do with a mouthful. Male, female whichever. Let me show you the skills I have that will make you proud to own me.’

’I'll stop calling you a fucking semihuman slut whose brain is in her cunt and empty mouth if it doesn't turn you on, but it does turn you on doesn’t it?

‘Yes, yes sir it does.’

‘Come for me slut!’ As if flipping a switch, my whole body tenses and I scream as yet another climax slams my brain to the side and I throw my knees out open wide and push my soaking wet cunt into the air as my cum comes spurting out of me. I can’t hold a thought. I can’t make a word. I just scream in pure ecstasy. ‘You know, I’d let my other slave lick you, but I don't want the poor girl to drown in that flash flood you have down there. You utterly filthy fuckpick.’

I swallow hard, trying to get some moisture in my mouth so I might have a chance at speaking. ‘It’s one of the things you value about me, Sir.’ I hear him laugh. ‘So very true. I adore and cherish you. How are you feeling my property?’

’Content, Sir, very content.’

Do you remember that one hot summer?

...We'd felt a strange pull towards church.

We took a walk in the afternoon with that one sole intent:

To try each church door we passed...  See if we could get in.

We kissed several locks, as the expression goes...

and wondered about the openness of the House of God. 

Then we turned the knob to the Lutheran cathedral, without expectation, and it gave way, and groaned... 

We stepped in.

Between the cool dark hewn boulder walls, we were not sure where we'd landed.

When our sights adjusted, we were in the side chapel... not the church proper.

There was a baptismal font, simple and central.

We eyed its beauty. We couldn't help ourselves and fingered the white marble with silver veins, in the dim light. The sparkling gold fixtures, and plumbing, and the adjacent small service alter led our eyes across the room, further into the dark.

Yes, there was an organ. Along the far wall, its pipes extending overhead. Stunning.

For so small a space, Extravagant; but true. And we didn't dare reach across, to play, lest the noise alert anyone. 

We were conscious of trespassing.

I stood rooted to my spot, lifting only my lids to take in the magnificence of the place. Looking up, the ceiling was celestial, vaulted, as in the undercurve of a dome.

A cool breeze was whipping the painted cirrus clouds over pristine cobalt. 

There were no putti, only us... floating on clouds, ephemeral.

Rose of Sharon anointment in the air... I determined to make that scent mine. 

Ours.

Maybe we felt like making love. 

You drew away from us with respect for me and propriety, letting go of my hand...

and I gave you space as you leaned into a pew. Praying for our future no doubt. I watched your profile, silhouetted from the light filtering behind, falling warm... in reds, yellows and blues... down from the high stained-glass windows. 

If you didn't have so much esteem for me, you would have laid me down nude across that marble alter and we would have been sanctified, skin of our skins pressing deep, orificed... mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth. 

I didn't pray. It has something to do with my father's death, and you said, once outside, in the sunlight, that you understood though you wished it were otherwise, almost. 

Almost, because that would rewrite our script, wouldn't it...

 ...and would we have it any other way?

I went back to that church. On my own.

I knelt in the place as I remembered it. My profile aligned with the outline left in memory, fitted as we are, now.

I took note of the stations of the cross. Heavy and notched. I hadn't noticed them then. I made the customary blessing: in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

Time passing, as it does.

Bowing my head... I am grateful you are doing as well as you are in your job, and for all your successes. It's why you are not with me for the moment. 

The place doesn't have the coolness it did.

It has heat, this time. 

I don't talk to God. We have moved passed that in personal relationship.

We sit, in each other's presence. Silent.

Me in him. Him in me.

I ask for nothing.

My notion of sin has changed accordingly. 

The very concept is the Sin itself, and all It touches, consequentially tinged. 

It was my high school creative writing teacher Ms. Specter who once told us a pathos ladened drama of her maiden trip to Greece, in which a Greek romantic had climbed up the trellis to her balcony and stood naked before her in his torched desire— horrified when she turned on the light!-— having entered through the wrong window. And she said with lascivious grin, if you don't know what it means to "smell a man, then sorry!" ...giggling, Victorianly. 

I recall this because, suddenly I smell Man, made flesh. The scent of arousal so strong, I sense it through clothing and across distance. My eyes closed.

I lift my countenance, still kneeling. Your tallness means that I am face-to-face with your pressing invitation. Wordlessly, your eyes say a man should steal away from daily obligations once and again to meet his mate, half-way.

I unclasp my hands and unbuckle and unbutton you. The zipper descends partly by some invisible encouragement... as with the Will of nature. 

Have we had this fantasy before?

I know you like to watch me... work you over.

Hand to mouth.

It's not a hunger. It's indulgence, like ice cream. I linger on your hardness as the treat that it is, and not some vegetable side dish, pushed around at a tiresome formal dinner party, on the tick of company dime. 

You don't dare touch me. It's not part of your paradigm, yet, in this sacred setting.

I touch myself for you. Skirting like seashell, parting at the rim, ruffled. It's pink and green with cream. You picked the dress yourself and pause to admire its full effect...

And the glowing ecstasy in my face.

I guide your idle arm toward my body, and you begin to explore it like a parched man upon a deserted isle, lapping supple hills up to the laced thongs. You know all at once what it means when a woman fills the cup of your hands, with abundance, in a movement overflowing like a sonata.

It's a boundary in this sanctuary that you thought we would not cross, but you've accepted that a different kind of holiness is possible, in the eyes of God.

Or maybe it's because we are already consummated.

I don't disconnect. The pulse of pleasure is too strong. You run your lips in waves along my slender right arm and reach for the center of my body, moist and hallowed. You ease a strong thumb to clit and press forefinger across the petals of the slit, soft and melted, slipping in gently to check my pulse as it quickens to your tender manly touch.

I can hear you call for me, soundlessly, in this holy space:

Come for me, baby...

...and it's instantaneous, my release prompting yours, and I draw your essence down my throat taking in every last drop, as pure white chocolate syrup, till you are emptied.

I finish. And cross myself in your spirit.

I am alone, and the chill of the place is as it was... that one hot summer.

I gather my purse and fix my dress.

I'm glad we came, even if, only by myself... this time.

The rain started coming down in sheets. I'm worried when you read that, you'll think: "Oh, it started raining." No. One second it was dry and overcast, and the next second my dress was drenched.

I was listening to music on my iPod, and then suddenly I was running.

What is music, if not something we run with - towards something, away from something?

2014 tasted a lot like steam, the kind that rises from the ground, in the second before it all comes crashing down.

Someone once said you go broke suddenly, and then all at once. Or maybe that's when you're drunk. It's simple: the way the heat changes ever so slightly; lift a finger, and you can taste the rain coming.

You can literally taste the weather changing, and later in California, I learned that the sun can burn you to a crisp, but nothing like New England thunderstorms exist.

I didn't have an umbrella. I was about ten blocks from my house. I dodged under trees, under bushes. To no avail. It was like God himself was suddenly as self-aware as I was.

My friend has a tattoo that says, "This is your life and it's ending one minute at a time." That's from Fight Club. Lift a finger and you can taste the truth of it.

I wanted more. I wanted California, I wanted a new life. But in memories like this thunderstorm, I miss the randomness of New England. How the whole world, and your place in it, could literally change in a single second.

How my old life was literally ending in single seconds.

But was I ready for change? Or just a new dress, a dry place to hang my turbulent past?

I moved to California and now my memories of New England, in a single second, can suddenly illuminate, like when you see the strike of lightning and wait the many seconds to hear the clap of thunder coming.

My phone starts to vibrate. I pick it up and look at the message that has just arrived. ‘Do you think I could make your life very interesting with just two words? The first word is, edge.’ My breathing becomes faster, my muscles start clenching, images flash through my mind as I feel my body ramp up from day to day monotonous task, to be right on the verge of coming. Just like that, one word, and my body is off and going. I don’t have to touch myself. It all settles in my brain and it sets my body in motion for the command it’s been trained to obey. Wait. That’s one word. What’s the other? Just as the thought flashes in my mind, another message arrives. ‘Well, the second word might be stop. Or maybe it’s something more like come, but probably not.’ I can feel my desire growing by the second. ‘Edge’

I grit my teeth and ping back, ‘I’m already edging you sadistic bastard.’ Oh hell, was I really stupid enough to send that message? I quickly type out another. ‘By which I mean, yes, Sir.’

Bing. I look at my screen. ‘Sto…. Sto…Edge bitch!’ Oh Christ. I can feel the wetness running down my cunt and coating down into my ass.

‘How wet do you want me, because I’m in overdrive here, Sir?’

‘Edge. NOW COME TO DEATH YOU FUCKING SEX ADDICTED SLAG!’

’Ah yes! Bloody fucking hell yes! The climax bursts from me as my body goes into autopilot. ’Oh Sir, that is so damn good, so damn fucking good.’ I know I’m ranting, but I can’t stop myself.

’Come on my cock! Climb on top and show me those runner‘s thighs in action.’ I drive you deep inside my cunt. I ride you, sliding up and down. Milking your cock as I go. I‘d normally start out slow, but tonight, you’ve got me so fucking wet it wouldn’t last for long before I’m just slamming down hard onto your cock. I feel like I should make it last, but damn I love the feel of your cock inside of me. I clench my cunt muscles on your cock each time I pull up. ‘You’re going to start to come. You have three breaths left. The third time you breathe out, it’s going to start you coming.’

‘Oh! It’s so hard and wet and warm. I love your cock. I love fucking your cock. Oh yes, yes, yes, Sir.’

’COME!’ I close my legs tightly together. I feel the orgasm inside of me. I close my eyes. It feels so damn good. ’I did say two words.’ I can hear his laugh and see his playful smirk.

‘Yes sir, you did. You surely did and boy am I grateful, Sir.’

‘You’re a good girl.’

‘I do what I can but I’m going to need to go get a towel to sit on if we keep this up, Sir.’

’Just remember, two words.’ With that, my phone goes silent for the rest of the night.