Metronome Walking

The man looked down from his corner office on the seventh third story. He scratched the back of his head and reached a finger inside the neck of his buttoned collar, loosening it slightly. Bracing his arm against the window he leaned in, letting the icy glass cool his forehead. A loud honk followed by a glint of white broke his concentration and he watched as a white, two-door Mercedes SLR zipped into the parking lot below. It whipped into a reserved parking space, cutting off a red Ford quad-cab truck forcing the driver to choose between a head-on collision or an abrupt stop. The Ford driver braked.

With the top down on the convertible SLR, the man had a clear view of the driver. She wore a crisp white shirt and gray pinstriped pencil skirt. Her blonde hair was pulled into a sleek bun at the nape of her neck. He watched as she flipped down the sun visor, opened the mirror and touched up her makeup. His eyebrows rose when she removed two bobby pins from her hair and shook it out so that it hung in long loose golden waves. She opened the door, swung her high-heeled feet out of the car, stood and adjusted her knee-length skirt into place before undoing the top two buttons of her blouse.

The man’s eyes narrowed as the woman approached the automatic glass doors of the building. Her walk slowly transformed from weary to seductive, hips swinging like a metronome. He didn’t know what the woman wanted, but she had armed herself with all the weapons at her disposal to get her way.

Jenna strolled into the glass-encased atrium and headed directly to the security desk, her smile growing larger with each swinging step, timing it so that her grin had reached maximum wattage just as she stopped before the middle-aged guard. Her cheeks felt like they would explode from the strain of the unaccustomed position.

“Hi!” She said brightly. “I have a meeting with Ted Barrow on the tenth floor. Do I just go up?”

The guard blinked, unaccustomed to having a tiny, shapely blonde with cleavage approach the desk. In facilities closely linked with the Department of Defense the city’s waste management department, nine out of ten people who passed through were male. And the few women he did see sure didn’t look like this one.

“Well, mam,” he said, “I have to call up and verify that he’s expecting you. Just a minute”

“Oh no! Please don’t do that,” she said, tucking her head and looking up at him through carefully darkened eyelashes.

He frowned, his thick fingers hesitating on the phone.

“You see, it’s a surprise. He doesn’t know I’m coming and if you ring up my entire plan, which I’ve been working on for days, will be completely ruined. Can’t you please just let me go up? He brought me here when we first started dating so I know exactly where to find his office.”

Jenna bit her bottom lip, opened her green eyes to their most innocent diameter and waited.

“You’re Mr. Barrow’s girlfriend?”

“Fiancé,” clarified Jenna, flashing a three-carat solitaire at him.

“I could get in a lot of trouble for this.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” said Jenna, bouncing just enough to jiggle her breasts and distract the guard from realizing he never actually agreed.

She headed for the metal detector. He followed meekly behind, barely glancing inside the small orange leather purse she handed him before she swished through the gray magnetic arch. She claimed her bag, blew him a kiss and pushed the silver button beside the elevator doors.

Once inside, she punched the button for the tenth floor, and then quickly buttoned her shirt back up and twisted her hair into a tight bun. The elevator stopped, the doors opened and she waited. When they closed again, she placed a calm finger on the circle reading twelve. Fifteen seconds later the elevator doors opened and she walked quickly around the corner and through a maze of slate gray cubicles, keeping her head slightly down to avoid eye contact with the dozens of drone-like workers who buzzed through the space.

“One, two, and there you are,” she whispered to herself before turning down the third corridor on the left side of the room.

She continued down the hall at an even pace reading the nameplates on the steel coated office doors she passed, her high heels silent on the industrial blue carpet. Upon reaching the door that read: Jim Cavanaugh, she knocked twice, giving it the friendly sound of one who expects entry, but is courteous enough to give warning.

“Yeah!” came the gruff answer.

Jenna reached in her purse and pulled out the small liquid-filled syringe missed by the dazed guard. She slipped it in the back of her skirt’s waistband before using her elbow to push down on the metal lever handle to open the door.

Back in the elevator she shook her hair back down and undid her blouse in case the guard she had charmed was still waiting to be relieved for lunch. Eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four. Jenna’s hopes of making it back to the lobby with out stopping were dashed.


Her head jerked up at the sound of the baritone voice. Green eyes met sky blue ones rimmed with thick black eyelashes. She held her breath unable to break eye contact as the elevator doors began to close with him still on the seventh third floor landing. With less than a foot to go, his arm shot between the doors opening them again. He stepped next to her, ending their eye’s connection. Her head barely reached the top of his shoulder.

“You almost caused two wrecks in the parking lot.”

Jenna kept her head down, not daring to meet his eyes again, and positioned her face into the cold mask to which it was accustomed. Five, four, Three, two, one. It was almost over.

“I like to drive fast,” she said in a low monotone.

“Well be careful,” the man admonished, “Someone could have been killed.”

“Not in the parking lot,” Jenna muttered as she stepped off of the elevator and made a bee-line for the glass sliding doors.

You Like me? You Really Like Me?

Thank you! Thank you! I’d like to dedicate this award to the alcohol that oft influences my decisions that lead to post inspiration, my grandmother’s genes for bestowing upon me both her hourglass figure and slightly adventurous ways, you precious people who read, like and comment on my outpourings and most importantly the dear gentleman at Unrequited Love Just Sucks for nominating me for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award.

The rules of accepting as far as I can gather include: adding the above image to your post, sharing seven things about yourself and bestowing the award upon seven other bloggers. Let the bloggers you awarded know you awarded them. So yes… it’s a bit like a chain letter and funny email forward combined, but I’m playing. So there.

Seven things about me:

1. I’m Southern to the core, blonde and as you may have gathered from the paragraph above more of a Joan Halloway than a Betty Draper.  (That was three in one, but I’m feeling generous tonight)

2. I believe ladies and nymphy sex kittens aren’t mutually exclusive.

3. I’m a sucker for alliteration. Devastatingly so. Always. All the time.

4. I read the end of books when I’m not familiar with the author prior to committing to the entire thing.

5. I’ve been riding horses since I was five—English, not western. Hunter/jumper, not dressage—and find the smell of clean equine intoxicating.

6. I drink white wine more than red—not because I like it better, but because it doesn’t stain my teeth.

7. I was more honored by Unrequited’s comment that my “humorous stories and eyebrow-raising posts have done alot to keep [him] in good spirits in recent weeks.” than by the actual award.

Now for my fellow award recipients.

1. Boomie Bol because she’s just so darn genuine.

2. Anne Schilde because her ghosts have really great stories. (And I don’t expect her to play along, because I’d rather her spend those precious minutes cranking out more about Kate.)

3. Dean J. Baker because not only does he spread the “like” love on my posts, but I swear has already “liked” 98% of the post I like. I also suspect him of using his prose to get into girls’ (yes plural) pants (prose… pants… see the alliteration?) and frankly that amuses me. He’s another I don’t expect to play along… but maybe he’ll comment.

4. Dear, sweet Gillian at Back Door Press because, well. She’s Gillian. And that must be synonymous with sexy, welcoming, funny… I could go on. Just pop by and see for yourself.

5. Hopeless Romantic because he’s a true darling with a beautiful soul.

6. Hyacinth at A Dissolute Life Means because this girl thinks hot, writes hot, is hot. And has a puppy. And a neighbor I want her to share.

7. The Blissful Adventurer because he’s hot, drinks/knows good wine, writes like a bat outta hell about travel, food and more, is from Texas, makes me laugh and if I know good writing (and I do) will be published eventually. Did I mention he’s hot? Another one who I’d rather use his writing time for his normal posts rather than playing along. But perhaps he’ll comment.

8. Everyone who’s ever liked, commented or followed my blog. You are my new addiction.

Cleansing Time

Jenna stepped into the steaming space, silently. The spray of water hit her tired body with warmth and force, jetting down her spine and between her breasts in trickling rivulets before entering the drain at her feet. She stood still, eyes closed, arms at her sides, taking the beating of the water.

Soap in hand, she bent and, starting with her feet, worked her way up. Calves, knees, thighs, hips, waist, chest, back, shoulders, neck, arms, hands—not an inch left untouched by the cleansing. She worked the shampoo into her hair massaging her scalp with small, fragile-looking, but surprisingly strong fingers, thinking of the last pair of hands that had wound themselves in her long blonde tendrils.

As she rinsed, she watched the sudsy water flow off her body and imagined the day’s regrets sliding off and away from her. But her thoughts kept them close, like barnacles attaching to brain. Her tactical mind reviewed each step, each decision. There were no flaws, no holes in her execution.

She scrubbed her nails vigorously, triple-checking for the tale-tale red clay. Jenna hadn’t meant to get her hands dirty. But the hole had to be dug deeper than she expected. He was bigger than she remembered. She shut the water off with a decisive twist of the handle and reached for the white, oversized towel.

Wrapping it around her small frame twice, she caught her green eyes in the mirror and smiled.  People always underestimated the tiny ones—especially big bullies of men. The towel dropped to her feet and she stood in the light of the early morning dawn, clean.

The Shell Around the Soul

It feels, it hurts, it moves, it grows… This shell around the soul. It gives us shape, a presence, a face… This shell around the soul. It touches, it feels, it bleeds… This shell around the soul.

But then it betrays us… This shell around the soul. It gets stiff and tired and old. It feels the changes in the weather, the years as they roll… This drooping shell around the soul. It lies about our age. It keeps us in our seat when we ache to dance. It hides the beauty and youth within… This shell around the soul.

And then after decades of faithful service it dies. This shell around the soul. It dies and leaves other souls weeping. Weeping and aching for the shell around the soul.

The Past Making the Future

This is my horoscope for tomorrow… I like the idea of strength coming from hurt.
Thu, 29 March 2012
There is an old saying: once bitten, twice shy. People who know how painful an experience can be are always reluctant to go through it again. People who have no such first-hand knowledge, can allow themselves to be more cavalier. Or that’s the theory. If you have been bitten and you have recovered from the bite, you may be less intimidated than someone who can only imagine what the whole thing feels like and who, naturally enough, imagines the worst. Your past may yet be the reason why your future is so fruitful.

On Saturday Mornings I Touch Myself

I stirred around 8:30 this morning as the sunlight peered through a slit in the drapes, flooding the previously dark room with a golden glow. The long work week had caught up with me and I was exhausted. As I stretched, I made a decision. I would not get up. I would stay in bed as long as I pleased and not feel guilty about it. As I dosed, enjoying the dim quiet, I realized I’d be much more relaxed if I took a few minutes to, umm, take care of things. So I did. And promptly fell back asleep.

When I woke back up an hour or so later, I still wasn’t ready to crawl out of bed. So I took care of things again. And fell right back asleep. The next time I started to wake, my hand immediately went below, and coaxed a third, back arching, toe curling, silent scream of an orgasm. And I passed out. Again.

When I did finally leave my 1000 thread count haven—at 11:15!—I was more relaxed and rested than I have been in ages. I just might have to make Saturday mornings all about “me time” more often!

And even with all that, I managed to build and stain an Adirondack chair for my garden. Hooray for Saturdays!

Releaser Needed

Right now. This very minute. I’m at work. I have long list of things that MUST be done today, and all I can think about is getting off. And I don’t mean at 5. It’s like the more stress I have the more I need the release. You could judge the deadline pressure by the wetness of my panties. And for some stupid reason I’m using three minutes to type this rather than reach up my skirt and fix things.

What I need is someone under my desk, taking care of things for me… because I really need both hands to get my work done.

Can you see that job posting? Wanted: Man with good hands and mouth. Must be able to fit in cramped spaces, work odd hours and be available at a moments notice. Should be able to spend an excessive amount of time on his knees.

What other abilities could we add to this “job description”?

Fly to Me

Come to me across this vast expanse that separates us. Make time stop and extend each moment. Surround me with your love, body, being. Kiss me. Feel our souls leap with pleasure at being near. Wonder how many times they’ve met in the past… how many centuries they waited to meet again. Don’t dwell on the fact that we’ve ripped them apart. Is this how it was last time? What kept us apart then? Why must it be like this? Over and over again.

Enter me. Make me forget the pain of loving you. Invade me, slowly, thoroughly, with every ounce of you. Over and over again.

Marvel with me at our chance meeting. Astound me with your passion, your intensity. Imagine never knowing love like this and realize that the knowing is worth the anguish of separation. Over and over again.

Signs You Might Be a Nymph

Webster defines “Nymph” as: any of the minor divinities of nature in classical mythology represented as beautiful maidens dwelling in the mountains, forests, trees, and waters. But I wish to explore the more deviant variety. Some people might add an “o” to the end of nymph, but I find that crude. So I drop the “o”. Nymph without the “o” just sounds so much nicer. In keeping with Webster, the nymph will be female and because I am, heterosexual. On to the signs:

1. Men are drawn to you without exactly knowing why.

2. You keep a box of tissues next to your desk. And they aren’t for your nose.

3. You notice when a man notices you. And you like it.

4. When talking about sex with your girlfriends, you don’t mention how often you like it, because they look at you with raised eyebrows.

5. Putting an entire slice of a sushi roll in your mouth is never a problem. You’ve had practice swallowing much larger “bites”.

6. When you’re intimate with someone for the first time (and second and third, etc.), he is surprised at your appetite for sex.

7. If it’s been too long since you last orgasmed you can’t concentrate and often have to remedy this problem yourself to stay productive.

8. You’re relieved when you discover others similar to you, both on- and off-line. You feel less like you could be part of carnival attraction.

9. You can be ready for sex anytime, anywhere at a moments notice 98 percent of the time.

10. You orgasm easily. And in multiple ways.

11. You talk dirty with your eyes.

12. You adore sex and everything about it. Its sounds, its smells, its taste, its rhythm, its feeling, its mess.

13. Sometimes, especially after a drink, your tongue curls in your mouth wanting cock.

14. You probably have a string of men willing to pleasure you at the drop of a text or email. This is your security blanket.

15. You like—no ache—to be touched everywhere.

16. You rarely feel understood. And on the very rare occasion it happens you gift the understander with pleasure beyond his wildest dreams.

What did I miss? You tell me…

29 Sexy Questions

A cool writer I’ve just found (Back Door Press) stole this from LoveSexAndMarriage and I found it fun, so thought I’d steal it too. Enjoy!

1. Is there anyone of your friends that you would ever consider having sex with?

Absolutely. And I have. Twice. Just guy friends though.

2. Sex in the morning, afternoon or night?

Yes, yes and yes. But I find 2:30 to 4:30 in the afternoon to be when I’m most ready for it. That also tends to be the time it’s the least available.

3. What side of the bed do you sleep on?

Depends on whether or not someone else is sharing the bed. When alone, I tend to sleep diagonally, taking up as much space as possible. When sharing, I tend not to sleep much. ;)

4. Have you ever taken your clothes off for money?


5. Have you ever had sex in the shower or the bath?

Yes to both. I’ve never had mediocre sex in the shower or tub. I’ve found that it’s either really, really good or really, really bad.

6. Do you watch/read pornography?

Yes to both, but infrequently. I watch if I need to get off in a hurry… two minutes and I’m good. Well written porn/erotica/steamy poetry works me up like good foreplay.

7. Do you want someone aggressive or passive in bed?

Always aggressive. Nothing is nicer than being handled by someone who knows how. But go easy on the hair. I’m tender-headed.

8. Do you love someone on your blogroll?

Love? Not yet. But I find several fascinating and a get a thrill when my favorites—those whose writing moves me, those who I feel like I “get” because of our similarities—like or comment on my posts.

9. Would you choose love or money?

Love. And pursuit of money can kill it quickly. I know.

10. Your top three favorite kinks in bed?

I don’t think I’m particularly kinky actually. Sensual? Yes. A giver? Yes. Flexible? Yes. No gag reflex? Yes. But you better stay away from my back door. That’s sooo not happening. Thank you porn industry for putting that on every guy’s to-do list.

11. Has anyone ever gone beyond your personal line of respect sexually?

No. Does that mean I don’t have a good line or that I’m good at keeping people on the correct side of it?

12. Where is the most romantic place you have had sex?

On top of a picnic table. Actually I was sitting on the picnic table and he was standing… getting his shins hit by the bench seat. So maybe not that one. Hummm… the dock was nice. So was the kitchen, but neither really qualify as romantic. Hot? Oh yeah. I’d have to say the most romantic place was in a Charleston hotel. Not because of the hotel, even though it was lovely, but because of who I was with. Sigh.

13. Where is the weirdest place you have had sex?

The Gulf of Mexico.

14. Have you ever been caught having sex?


15. Ever been to a bar just to get sex?

Not intentionally. I’ve been to a bar just to get attention and it turned into that.

16. Ever been picked up in a bar?

Yes. Thanks to what I’ve been told are my “come-fuck-me eyes.”

17. Have you ever kissed or had sex with someone of the same sex?

No. And I don’t see it happening. I’m just too into guys.

18. Had sex in a movie theater?


20. Had sex in a bathroom?

Yes, but not a public one.

21. Have you ever had sex at work?

Yes. I need to write about that one!

22. Bought something from an adult store?

I’ve actually never been in one.

23. Do you own any sex toys?

I have a back massager that I don’t use on my back. Wink. Wink.

24. Does anyone have naughty pics of you or are you on film?

Unless they’ve been deleted, there’s a couple of boob shots floating around.

26. Do you think oral sex constitutes as a form of intercourse?

I tend to lean toward the Baptist definition that sex is anything that can get you knocked up. So no. Which is good… because I really like giving blow jobs and that keeps my partner number way down. And I’ve been told that I can suck a golf ball through a garden hose, so I don’t think the “non-intercourse” partners are complaining.

27. What’s your favorite sexual position?

This is hard, because I like so many. If he’s a good size and can last, from behind is awesome. But I also like my ankles resting on a pair of nice shoulders. And on top so I can touch myself easily is damn good too. Don’t make me decide… please… : )

28. What’s your favorite sex act?

Sex. As in intercourse. In my vagina.

29. Have you ever had sex with more than one person at a time?


Sex on a Wooden Dock

Yes. I meant dock, not cock.

A few nights ago Lover was out of town, Soulmate was (and still is) on the other side of the planet and I had curled up with a glass (ok, half a bottle) of wine and the Travel Channel when my phone vibrated.

Hadn’t seen you in a while… Want to grab a beer?

Now, the last time I saw this man I was very drunk, but not too drunk to forgot that he had strong, massage-capable hands and a particularly talented mouth. I was also not drunk enough to forget that I wasn’t particularly attracted to him.

No. I don’t feel like smelling like a bar.

The phone rang. Ok… I’ll give you points for calling after I’ve just texted you no. I answered. He asked what I was doing. I told him. He said he’d like to see me. I said uh-huh. He said we didn’t have to go a bar, but could meet at his hay barn and sit on the tailgate of his truck. I paused. It was a nice evening. The sun would set in about twenty minutes.

“Where’s this barn?” I asked.

I drove with the windows down, drinking in the twilight air, which hung thick with cool humidity and the fragrance of wild jasmine and honeysuckle. I pulled in beside his truck and climbed out of my car. We did the awkward side-hug greeting before he grabbed a six-pack out of the cab and said, “Let’s take a walk.”

Intrigued, I followed him through a swinging gate and into a pasture. There was still enough light to see, but dusk was fast approaching. Cows watched us with little interest and did little more than flick their tails as we passed. We walked up a short rise, went around a large live oak and started downhill. Even in the fading light, the pasture glowed with the iridescent green of new spring grass. At the base of the hill was a large, irregular shaped pond with a wooden dock. Its still waters reflected every cloud and color of the twilight sky. I stopped, inhaling quickly at the beauty.

When we got down the hill to the dock, I slipped off my sandals and sat on the edge, letting my feet dangle above the water. He sat down beside me and opened us both a beer. I sipped, silently. The evening was too beautiful to pollute with unfeeling, meaningless words. And because I did not care about the man who had shown me this pastoral paradise, that’s exactly what they would have been. Unfeeling. Meaningless.

“Thank you,” I finally said, the beer almost gone. “Thank you for not making me talk.”

“No problem,” he said before sliding a hand up my back and gently working loose the tension in my shoulders.

I leaned into his hands, letting him take his time, letting him loosen me up, knowing I was using him. His fingers crept up my neck and into my hair, sending bright tingles of awakening down my body. Slowly he worked, massaging my scalp in deliberate circles until my head tilted back, leaving my neck exposed for a kiss. He started just below my earlobe and moved slowly down my neck to the top of my breast, leaving a delicate trail of desire with his kisses. I didn’t kiss back. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t even look at him.

Well, I thought, if he was that open to being used, I might as well use him thoroughly. So I lay back on the wooden dock and let him slide his hands down my v-neck tee shirt and into my bra. I let his strong fingers tease up my nipples into sharp points before his mouth moved in to take their leave of them. I let him unfasten my jeans and ease them off before he knelt between my legs and did wonderful things to me with his mouth and hands. I let him make me come over and over again, drenching the wooden dock. I let him look at me in wonder, amazed that I could come so easily. I let him unzip his fly, pull out his cock and touch it to my clit, rubbing back and forth against my wetness. I let him do all that before I spoke.

“You can’t put it in me,” I said. I didn’t apologize. He didn’t complain.

“No problem,” he said before leaning back on his heels, taking himself in hand and quickly finishing while staring at me lying open and content on the dock.