wrytoast

It's 4 pm and I am restless, watching the clock for 6 pm. Date night tonight. I find JavaScript uncompelling, the code I am debugging meaningless. Surely refreshing my email again will give me no new information. I do not know how I survived the 83 minute hour between 3 and 4 pm and now time is at a crawl.

Often by this time in the afternoon I have heard from him. I know, roughly, what time we are to meet and what his schedule is. But I'm waiting for my instructions for the evening.

They don't always come. I never know what to expect when they do. Sometimes we are meeting someplace I don't expect, sometimes he asks me to pick up something for dinner on the way. But what I am waiting for, hoping for, are the ones that tell me how he'd like me to prepare myself for the evening. Something small? Something symbolic? Or perhaps a whole complicated fetish get-up. Finally the new mail icon flashes in the corner of my screen. A short one, I can tell. Before you leave work, take off your bra and put it in your outside coat pocket. This is an easy one. I don't have to go home to change or get to his house and follow a scavenger trail of further instructions.

At 5:45 exactly, I turn off my computer, pack my bag, and head for the ladies room. By 5:52 pm, I'm in my car, turning on my lights in the late fall evening. Time starts to move forward, finally, again.

***
I have my keys when I get to the porch but he is already opening the door. The first kiss hello, rushed and heated, ends with me pushed against the door and his hands finding their way to my pockets. He takes my bra out, puts it visibly on a hook by the door. I blush. My coat is open, and his hands reach in, unbutton a couple of buttons on my shirt. A pinch, another pinch, I breathe hard with surprise, and my first thought is I should have expected it. A clothespin on each nipple. Time stands still again, as I stop racing to anticipate the evening and fall, completely, into the moment.

On the first page of the ornate black and white comic, the lush landscape of the garden twines and snares. It's all a puzzle for the mind, what is going on here. On the second page, removing the concubine's veil exposes her. Suddenly there is the intimacy of revealing hidden things; emotion enters with the telling of story. Barely to the third page of the elaborate comic, I am stopped by a drawing of the concubine kneeling with a cock deep in her mouth.

The cock doesn't look real. Belatedly,I realize that the stylized form may be representing a dildo instead. The expression on the concubine's face, part struggle, part desire, looks terribly real. Now the comic brings up heat as well as curiosity, the body appreciates as well as the aesthetic senses.

I write from my memory of the afternoon. I haven't picked Spider Garden back up since I came home with the borrowed copy. Those first few pages I read with the intimacy of another pair of eyes following my eyes, hearing my breath change, watching my reactions. How will it be different to read on alone? Waking from sleep, resisting the possibility of reading through the night, I imagine saving the next chapter for another afternoon together.

And writing this entry, a continuation of that strange self-revelation. Finally I can sleep again.

"Put your skirt back on," Martin said. Julie looked at him with
disbelief, then down at the harness padlocked at each hip and the
vibrator nestled between her labia, held in place by the harness.
"It won't show under the skirt. Reservations in 20 minutes."
"You're kidding, right? I can't go to dinner like that."
"Sure you can." He grinned. "I'll have the remote in my pocket."
"In the restaurant?" Julie looked appalled.
"Between soup and pasta. Or maybe not until before dessert."
"That's like that stupid scene out of that stupid movie. That would be
totally embarrassing."
"She was faking. You wouldn't be."
Julie bit her lip. "That wouldn't make it better."
"Oh, for me it would. Or you could come really quietly. Only I'd know."
"That's crazy! Besides, I couldn't come in public. I just can't do that."
Martin grinned. "I'm just as happy to watch you struggling not to come."
He smoothed the long skirt over Julie's ass. "But let's go. We should be
on our way."

***
Permission given to post to the SIFSF archives.

I don't think this qualifies to be a SISFF submission. Chalk it up to lack of imagination.

She: I've got my writing group tomorrow night, and fortunately I have lots of things
to work on. I want to write something for vinnie_tesla's porn festival.

He: You'll pick me up after that?

She: Sure. I'll even let you proofread. After all, I might make a grammatical
error.

He: I'll have to ... proofread ... several times. Just in case.

She: Because you know what happens to girls with bad grammar.

He (with satisfaction): They get spanked.

She: Mmmm. Ain't it the truth!

She leans over to kiss him, and rather than feeling lips pushing back against
lips, her forward momentum rolls over him, pinning him against the arm of the
couch. She feels his shoulder relax under her hand, as though a long held
breath had been released. His eyes close, and his hips start to rock; she
straddles him.

Now she is the one holding her breath. Skin everywhere feels tingly as though
too long in the sun, knees, palms, the small of her back. When he reaches up
to put a hand on her breast, she catches his wrist, tucks it firmly behind
his back. He smiles. Oh yes, this will be fine, warm and all hers. She leans
forward, and starts to unbutton his shirt. "Mine," she whispers to him.

Earlier we were talking about ways in which verbal cues could be used in play, and that started me thinking about a couple of things.

1. The obvious one -- Top prevents sub from speaking at all in the scene. Either by direction or enforced, say, with a gag. Instructing the sub not to talk leads to disciplining the disobedient sub, either by surprise or by specifically spelling out what the punishment might be.

Alright, I'm getting interrupted constantly here. Maybe I'll get to the more interesting part of this later.

On days like Saturday, I notice women all around me. I cannot walk through the room without being intensely aware of their voices, their bodies. In my imagination, I slide my hand across a curving hip or a soft breast and see desire mirrored back at me.

A lovely garden party, but the men fade back into the patio chairs and all the women stand out in memory outlined in brightness. They are all beautiful, long black hair or wisps of crew-cut blonde, curvy hips or willowy board-straightness. Though I linger most looking at the ones you might describe as "ample". The wide pillow of hips that looks like where I want to rest my head, breasts in which I could lose my face, my breath, my very way.

It's hot and shorts ride up and show the crease at the top of the thigh, dampness gleams down the v of the spine, a coy tuft of hair shows itself under a cap sleeve. I want to touch them all, kiss them. Be touched.

It is no wonder that later, much later when they have all gone home, it feels so right, so deserved, to be bound and blindfolded, my hands tight behind my back, the only light that from my memory.