Gratitude:

The Professor left me about a month ago. I scared him away. So, I shredded all the panties I bought for our special nights, along with ticket stubs, napkin doodles and Honey Do list, with some bark from the shedding trees on the curb and I made the paper I’m writing this letter on. I never should’ve stopped being just the babies’ tutor and sitter. I liked The Professor, he’s a nice man, plus I simply adore his children, Betsy and Benjamin, and his dad’s drop top Catalina. We were so cute together, driving around with the top down.  Here I am seriously contemplating a $2000 dress that maybe has all of 2 yards of fabric and there are so many that are going without basic necessities. I feel wasteful at times. But then I find a bargain like the frame I got today for a dollar, and know that I’m making economically prudent choices. When I shop, I go to thrift and consignment stores. Take hand-me-downs in a heartbeat.  I cook more than I restaurant and I try to make whatever it is if I can. Ok – so maybe I’m not wasteful. At least I’m trying to do better.  This grocery trip I didn’t buy paper plates or plastic cups.  Just wash the shit you have, lazy bitch cool. I’m going on & on trying to convince myself I’m a decent person in part  because, yesterday: while on my way into the Mega Mart big box pimp of the century store, to take all the empty cans & bottles we gathered after the picnic, back for deposit, I met a young man sitting outside on a bench asking for change. When I rummaged through my pockets and the bottom of my purse, he raised his eyebrows and exclaimed, “Really?”   I laughed at his shock, telling him I must’ve been his first ‘Yes’, I was.  He was well mannered, well spoken & well groomed, clothes were clean – didn’t look like he was abusing anything.  I had to ask.  “What’s your issue? – What are you doing out here?” He said he usually lived on campus and was spending Christmas break in a by-the-week motel.  He hadn’t budgeted enough for food and was trying to make it through the week until school started again.  He looked so young.  You know I put the change back and found some paper.  It was the first time I’d thought about students that don’t have somewhere to go over break.   Jobs are a bitch when people with master’s degrees are making lattes.  There should be a place for the students to go.  A co-op of kids that rely on room and board and are ass out when school is not in session. As I walked away, I looked back, just to see if he was hustling me. I caught him checking out my ass.  Winked smiled, strolled back and gave him a kiss on the forehead in gratitude, for luck and to give him the chance to make me feel good about being me again. 

Writing you like this is pretty cool.  I feel closer to you. And that’s a good thing cuz I need something to make me feel better now and then. I reread old emails and poems. It helps to stop and remember.  Do you do that too?  

-“Now look at us! This is not how I envisioned our first romantic night. You over there, blindfolded, bent over head over the rail and bound to a wrought iron balcony, butt plugged, nipples clamped and weighted, a remote control vibrator in your panties. Me, over here, scotch, remote control and a buggy whip in hand, trying to decide whether or not to do this,” Flicking the buggy whip across Trulie’s behind. “The genuinely fun part is these headphones that connect to that thing in your drawers through an MP3 player or like right now, my phone, so you can’t hear a word I’m saying.” I shout, “And when I throw this switch!” Click the remote again and the vibrator in your panties begin pulsing to the bass notes in the music. Flick her ass again and shout, “Dance you sexy bitch! Dance!” You find a way to stand upright and wiggle in response to the music, even with your hands and thighs anchored to the balcony rails. I’m damned proud of you right now. Flicking at your ass a few more times, I get up, put the whip down, it just doesn’t feel intimate enough. Crossing the room, examining the welts and bruises on your butt and legs. I want you to know, “I really don’t like this shit. But you can’t hear me and besides that, you don’t care.”  Let’s see here, the big leather paddle, try it out, lay it on your hips and butt a few good times. “Nice response, interesting, but it doesn’t feel great, cat-o-nine tails. Reminds me of the pimps on Dexter, Tireman, Warren and the number streets when I was a kid. I like the way it makes you squirm but, Nope!” Now, the crop, it’s old, worn and dull, I bet you picked it out yourself, must be special. Wonder if it was ever used on a horse. Tap you high on your inner thigh. “Wow! That got you to pop to attention didn’t it? Perverted little freak.” You bend at the waist, head hanging over the balcony offering me all that ass. “Seems to work. So I will whip your ass with the crop. First, pop your legs, calves and heels with just the looped tab, until you start to pick up her feet and make those bells jingle. Now with the shaft, across that greedy rump and pretty round thighs. “You really love the crop, don’t you! Freaky Bitch! I’m tapping every inch of skin I can reach with you strapped down like a maiden head. When all I really want is to bury my face in your flesh and worship the taste of you, drown your body in kisses and affection, but I am not here for me and you can’t hear me anyway.” The crop whistles through the air and sizzles red on your skin. I’m swatting at your belly, shoulders, ankles, spanking tits and sloppy wet twat, that splashes and sprays with every tap. The night air filled with your moans and cries makes me want to run to your rescue, but I am the one heaping this pain on you. Grabbing your leash draping down your back, I snatch you upright. Other than the whimpers, moans and winces, you’ve been silent. 

I kiss your temple. “That’s a good kitten”. Tugging at your leash, I release the ropes binding your legs and hands to the balcony, turn you about and spank your breasts, belly and front of your legs, guiding you to the edge of the bed. I’m standing at your side, I don’t want to see your face, not like this. I fill a glass with water, hug you gently and pour a few drops on your lips. When you respond, licking your lips and holding your mouth open, I feed you the full glass, then push you onto a mountain of pillows, tie your ankles down, climb over you, crotch in your face and tie your wrists to ropes on the posts. I’ve already gone through the effort of rearranging the room to suit my needs. I’ve taken everything off the mirrored trays the caterers left for us, covered with chocolate, fruit, cheese, cakes and breads, oils and candles, small sex toys and torture devices, drinks and weed. This should be Heaven, but I know it’s only a toll booth between Detroit and purgatory. I’ve laid these mirrors and candles on the floor around the head of the bed. So that when you come you’ll see your own face. I click the remote to vibrate a slow quiet purr and listen to you squirm. Just as your arched body tenses I pour hot oil from a massage candle on your neck and shoulders, up and down your arms, crawling down your body. Mind you I’m still fully dressed, dripping candle wax on every spot of skin I expose until I’m standing at your feet. I find the ice bucket and sprinkle cold water over you, then reverse the process, ice water, candle wax, ice water, and candle wax until I reach your breasts. I rub your clamped nipples with ice, then release them, when the blood returns and they start to swell I pour the candle wax cum massage oil over them. Slowly gently I rub your body down, careful to touch every welt and stinging red line on your form. I grab your crotch, pressing hard on your mound of Venus, fingers teasing your soft wet insides, caressing your asshole, kissing at the tip of my finger. I bite down hard on your right nipple. It’s been hours of me taking you from the threshold of consciousness to the threshold of orgasm. The songs of the crickets and birds outside has changed and you have not said ‘Enough’ yet, I wonder if there is such a thing. I’m exhausted, no longer excited or afraid, just a tired, frozen machine. Now with more efficiency, I release your bounds, turn you over, and strip out of these oily, sweaty clothes. I begin to rub and tap your body with cubes of ice, where it melts into puddles I drip hot wax, until you are soaked shining and squirming for release. You feel my erection against your slippery skin and move your ass towards it, until the ropes stop your progress. I sit up grab the crop and spank the arches of your feet. When you jump forward, your ass is raised high over the bed and your head is over the edge, inside the circle of mirrors. I click the remote again so that now the vibrations are generated by the sounds in the room through the microphone in the remote, which is now laying on the mirrored tray on the floor beneath your face. I sit in the chair at the foot of the bed spanking your calves and feet with the tab of the crop. I notice you quietly chuckle at the realization that the vibrations are coming from your own voice. Pop! The back of a knee. Pop! An ass cheek. Pop! Pop! Pop! The small of your back, under your arm, the back of your hand. “Oh Gawd! I want to come. Please fuck me when I come, make me cum, let me cum, I want to feel you inside me when I cum.” The vibrations from your own voice almost bring you to climax, but a series of sharp cracks from the crop on your skin halts that. I lean over you and grab the bong I planted there while I was contemplating this scene. Light it up and inhale a huge bowl of inner cooled compressed smoke, then I place it at your lips, when you stop coughing, I remove the bong down, pick up the remote, your blindfold, crawl down your body and back into my chair. “Welcome back,” watching the vibrations course through your frame, “if you recognize my voice, say my name.” You freeze and then begin to shudder violently, I lash out with the crop and spank your inner thighs, ass and small of your back. “If you recognize my voice, say my name!” “P-p-pa-pa Periwinkle.” I know that you’ve opened your eyes and see your reflection. I whisper into the remotes microphone, “Come Bitch!” and click it so that it vibrates so fast it almost squeals. I watch your body tense against the ropes, the bells on your ankle tinkle like a tiny tambourine and cascades of perfumed fluid flow from your panties. I click the remote one last time to off, light a cigarette, pick up my drink, kiss your crown, tap, caress, then kiss your ass and walk down the stairs, out into the early morning darkness, sit in the cool grass and sob.