Saturday, November 21, 2009

Loss & Gain

There's just been too much of it lately. Favorite employee of all time goes home. Other employee goes home with husband. Accepted offer means selling my home. Too much loss.

But with it comes possibility. Closing and opening doors. New employees to hire, new neighborhood to learn about. The Miami adventure becomes more real. A separate but new relationship with my wife. Waves of sadness give way to excitement about a new future. Gains inside of loss. Life goes on.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Can't You Hear The Thunder?

Kibbles & Bits

“Thoughtless sprinkles! Yum. That’s it, shake them all over.”

She was really getting completely into this torture. I lay on the floor, on my increasingly troublesome stomach which was making some extremely disturbing noises. Right in front of my face, where She had just set them out, sat a bowl full of, you guessed it – prunes. I was adding the zest of the little white email orbs I had torn, rolled and offered as a vain penance. I had done so many of them that my left thumb had seized up on me.

“Now clean your plate for me and don’t forget to mix in your brainless little email balls.”

She was wearing one of her tight little bath wrap dresses. The ones that ride up her strong swimmer’s thighs. The ones that every now and then just completely malfunction and expose some delicious body part or another. I was gazing at her armpit in olfactory lust.

“What are you looking at?” She mocked. “My armpit? Are you thinking you’d like to lick?” she teased. “Here, wash the lovely little garnish down with some nice, tasty juice.”

She had explained that not long ago she had eaten a few too many prunes herself. She’d been spearing them with a toothpick and they tasted so good she lost count. All of sudden she had grabbed her stomach and made a mad dash for the toilet. There she’d spent the rest of the night sweating, groaning and expelling. She said when she read my email it made her feel the same way.

“Can you feel it yet?” she gleefully grilled.

“Yesssss!” I moaned, as a completely involuntary groan left my throat.

“Good. I want you to feel what I felt,” She explained rationally.

There was nothing rational about how I felt. My insides were spinning and reeling like a Coney Island Tilt-A-Whirl. My brain was a broken circuit. But my dick? My dick was hard as a rock, baby. She made me eat all the prunes and email sprinkles in the bowl. Then she poured prune juice into the wine glass, soaking my little shriveled white balls throughly.

"Drink it up like good little plaything," she directed encouragingly.

I drank and ate until it was all gone.

"Come sit by the end of the bed and rub my footsies. Didn't you buy me some special heel cream?" She cooed seductively.

I stroked and caressed the tanned and gorgeous feet I so love but had no grunt and groan control. My moan was my massage. The vicious knots in my stomach flowed up through my core and out into the air in a desperate whimpering whine for relief.

I know She let me go. She allowed nature to take it's course. But it all became a haze. She sat in her bath and laughed at me. At one point she made me close the bathroom door and she slid another two emails under it on the floor.

"Use these. At least they're good for something", she commanded. As I rubbed the letter sized xerox paper together to soften it, I had an intense flashback to my mother. She grew up very poor and when she was a kid her family could not afford soft toilet paper. Even as an adult she would rub her Charmin to ease non-existant chafe. I called out to She that I was having a flashback.

"About your mother?" she uncannily crystal balled. "You know how inappropriate it is that you know she used to do that, don't you? You know what a wonderful, cute, little pervert you are, don't you?"

I loved She's punishment. I didn't do anything wrong by asking her to come visit. But She wanted me to suffer because she wanted me to feel what she felt. I'm sorry I made her stomach heart. But I'm not sorry I needed her. And I loved that She loves me enough to punish me.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009


It was Your idea. Has anyone been so dedicated and in love with You that they went 62 days ...? You started this. It's a beautiful thing. Come to Miami to celebrate us! You know You want to! Just say yes! You and the husband have plenty of holiday bonding time coming up. But this 62 days is special. We should be together for it!

Instead of continuing the high and selfless road to approval, in a moment of need I broke down and wrote these words to She. As she struggled and wrestled to work out whether to stay home with her husband for his unexpected long weekend as he'd requested or visit me in Miami She read these words. I knew I was in trouble when she informed me by email she was disappointed. She knows I long to please her. It hurts me like nothing else to disappoint.

She made me suffer for a day before she told me she'd decided to split the weekend and come to Miami for the first part and spend the second part at home. But ominously she delivered instructions.

"You are to bring five copies of the email you sent me and present them to me in the room when you see me."

Her arrival in Miami was Day 66 on the money. The airport has become an old friend. I know where to park, where to wait, what stores there are and where to buy a Starbucks. Her plane arrived on time.

We hugged then she handed over her luggage. I zipped her back downtown in the same little Audi TT I'd rented in October to our room where I had gotten all her special requests. I know she likes extra pillows, an extra blanket, a fan and wine glasses. At her request, in the midst of a crazy busy day, I had even booked her a massage in the room. Such a good little subbie I am.

But after we returned from the local wine shop with her choice for the evening she asked for the emails. She ordered me to strip naked and kneel in front of her.

"Do you know what kind of emotional turmoil your stupid email caused me?", she asked sweetly, obviously enjoying my discomfort.

"I'm sorry, I'm so, so, sorry", I pathetically blurted.

"My guts were wrenched out. Do I spend the weekend with my husband who I love and who tells me we need to connect? Or do I fly to Miami to be with my lackey who I adore?"

As she mused she reached for a large tupperware container.

"Do you like prunes?" she almost giggled.

"Actually, I really like them."

"Well, you are in luck then", she chuckled, "Because that's your dinner. I'm having lamb and risotto. You are having prunes ... lots of prunes. In fact, how about an amuse bouche?"

She fed me prune after prune. When we got to twenty, room service arrived and she began to eat her delectible meal. Every now and again she'd point to the tupperware container and urge me to have another.

Then she poured me a big glass of prune juice. I drank. And another. I knocked it back with florish. She had finished her succulent dinner and I ate twelve more prunes.

The door bell rang. She told me to get into a robe and answer it. When I swung the door open it revealed her amazingly hot masseuse, dressed in tight jeans, a tank top, and six inch heels. The woman toted the table that She would lie on naked to get oiled up and rubbed. Ms. Hot Hands was early. I asked the gorgeous woman to wait a moment and went back to She.

"Okay", she declared, "I'm going to take a quick shower. Let her set up in the bedroom and tell her I'll be right there. Excuse yourself and tell her you're going out and will be back. Close the door. But I want you in the wardrobe, right here. She opened the door and quickly had me try it. I fit.

"While you are in there you are to rip your five emails into bite sized little balls and put them in this wine glass."

She set them on the floor of the wardrobe and put her hands on her hips.

"You'd better finish each and every one of those wretched things."

"Yes Ma'am." I stammered. The thought of being right next door to these two hot women all lotioned and potioned up was too much to bear.

"And if you have to use the bathroom, you have to come past us."

So for the next hour and half I was holed up on the floor of our room's large wardrobe, ripping my emails into little spitball sized offerings while Ms. Hot Hands was kneading She flesh. Eventually, the masseuse left.

Finally, after completely ignoring me for a time, the door opened. I had transformed five pages into little nuggets which filled a large wine glass.

"Good boy!", she exclaimed, "You must be parched poor thing. Here, have a nice tall glass of prune juice."

I gulped it down. I felt my stomach gurgle ...

To be continued ...