leftunspoken's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- to see red First the poetic imaginary then the real. That's fair right? Read the last one if you'd rather. Or the next one. (Because it's going to be one of those days with several small entries. I can tell already. Like those days you can tell you're just going to keep dropping stuff or knocking things over.) T. was here last Thursday. He's got a new office further from mine now. He's not outdoor-voice distance anymore, so he spent the morning calling me on the phone and growling questions in my ear. I have the distinct impression that the questions were valid and the growl was heard only in translation, but any note in his voice is one of deep resonance, that sets me somewhere near vibrate. He called me to his office later. For nothing. To watch me. To collect me for salvation. Fine. Be my guest. I am what you want me to be, right love? Just for today and just because it pleases me to be that. (For now.) Here you are. Wanna see my garter belt? I wore it because you love them. Because it's the kind of complicated nonsense you would love. He was behind the desk looking surprised, despite the fact that he gave me the script. (Your eyes are so easy to read, love.) My upper back and head against the wall, left foot out, right leg out further, foot not touching the floor. It's a dancer pose - the one right before you kick and hold your leg up and simultaneously slide down the mirror. I slid the edge of my demure black business skirt up over my thighs to rest on my hips. Showing you my red lace garter belt and the baby pink panties already soaked almost through, because I'm always wet when I'm near you. He said "Come here." So I did. He slid his hands up my legs, onto my hips, pulled me against him, told me what a bad girl I was. Because, for whatever reason, that pleases him as well. He pulled my hair - because he knows I like that. Turned me around by my hair until my back was to him. I did the instinctual thing and bent over the desk, rocking slightly forward and back until he put his hands at the junction of my thighs and hips and pulled me backward against him. I wanted harder, but he let go. He always lets go. A few more wandering hands and ragged breaths and then we parted. We both had meetings to attend. Straigtening my skirt, tossing my hair, my high heels clicking sharply down the hall back to my office. I can never breathe when I think about him. But it's not just him. I think I've spent most of my life not breathing. 11:17 a.m. - November 15, 2004 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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