amusing that she tried to play the dom, but found it impossible to keep herself from laughing too much to fulfill the role properly. it was entirely and intentionally my fault.

at this point, when dealing with ordinary people -- or those who would find me to be unusual, including this recovering "good girl" -- my frame is one of understanding their motives without their comprehending where mine even begin.

"Please help me, Ms. A. I need you right now..."

Upon hearing the plea of her consort, Lady L., the severe expression of Ms. A betrays none of her true intentions. Her long eyelashes and expressive eyes the hue of brilliant coral blue are muted by the presence of expertly crafted eyeglasses. The vermillion tones of her hair pulled back into a strict ponytail only adds to her appearance of unimpeachable authority.

Ms. A savors the delicious tension in her pupil's voice. As she has been instructed to do, Lady L's fingers continue their exploration;

having been on the outside looking in for so long, it has become natural to reveal only the barest glimpses of this inner world. more often than not, this world is simply not accessible to anyone who does not live inside this skin. or at most, accessible only to a few others.

her body responds by allowing for deeper penetration. She settles into the pillows and the softness of the bed that cradles and gently supports her shoulders, back and hips... the lesson in masturbation has begun.

From her vantage at Lady L's knee, Ms. A observes the telltale signs of arousal beginning to have their mesmerizing effect on the face of her counterpart: eyes narrowed and dark, lips a deepening rouge, skin slightly flushed. She reaches for Lady L's right breast, enclosing the pink areola between thumb and forefinger, increasing the pressure as her fingers move to encircle the reddening nipple. As her fingers reach the firm yet supple tip,

naturally, control over social situations, both personal and professional, begins to shift... everything is changing now, more tangibly than ever before.

Lady L begins to increase the pace of her own fingers between her thighs.

A sigh escapes her lips. She nestles herself more deeply into the softness of the pillows, enjoying the connection between the two points of stimulation. A moment later her eyes open, shining and intense in the semidarkness of the room; her fingers are soon replaced by Ms. A's slender middle and ring fingers. Ms. A begins with methodical precision,

checking email. has she written back? not yet.
probably with "the boyfriend" today.

lightly at first, caressing her outer labia briefly, then the inner labia, then deeper inside. Lady L closes her eyes again, her mind entirely consumed by the delightful anticipation of what is most certainly to come.

Moment after moment, she becomes more absorbed by the smooth progression of Ms. A's fingers sliding easily along her innermost regions. She begins to feel a heat spreading throughout her body

and he knows. the odd part about it is that her frame is stronger than his -- she tells him that there is another, and he begrudgingly accepts it as fact, rather than simply deleting her from his address book and finding someone new.

as the rhythm gradually increases in a synchrony of rotation between Ms. A's wrist and her moist inner walls. Her breathing becomes shorter, faster, she is no longer pacing herself... giving herself over to the inevitable release that looms so near.

Ms. A's fingertips search knowingly for their destination, their speed accompanied by a steady circular pressure. Lady L cries out and begins to feel herself losing control,

his weakness stems from his inability to walk away. she simply wants to play, whereas he introduces his own, and most mens', insecurities into the relationship by not properly defining his boundaries from the outset. and of course, knowing how to deal with her tests when they inevitably arise.

her entire body consumed by the radiating sensations that seem to transcend pleasure and become a pure agonizing ecstasy. Ms. A leans over her, studying the passionate abandon and focused concentration that has given Lady L's face an expression of rapturous vexation. Ms. A begins to feel a tingling warmth of her own as her full breasts begin to swell and her nipples become taut. She softly bites her lower lip in an attempt to properly maintain her composure. Her body betrays her, however, heart beating more rapidly as her excitement builds... she quickly touches herself and inhales sharply, suppressing her own sounds of lust while expertly turning her attention back to her pupil.

Sensing that the time has come, Ms. A moves closer to support Lady L's hips with her knees and begins to rock her fingers higher inside.

fear of being alone, of psychic death, may be the single most important obstacle to overcome. it is difficult to realize, however, that social disconnection is not death. all relationships are transitory and must be continually renewed in order to survive. the beauty of this realization is that human interactions are characterized by a certain plasticity, a changeability by which one can manifest seemingly contradictory character traits without loss of overall consistency.

Lady L's voice becomes louder, her cries more frequent and urgent as the rhythm becomes faster, fingers plunging ever deeper. Ms. A can feel that Lady L is at the moment of no return, and strongly commands her to bring the sensation to complete fruition as her inner muscles begin to contract harder and harder. Mentally, Ms. A counts from ten to one, having calculated the exact moment at which Lady L will lose the ability to contain herself. At last, Lady L is no longer able to form words, writhing and trembling, her breathing ragged and wracked by the most beautifully unpredictable moans.

At the height of the moment, there is a pause as Lady L arches her back and all of her muscles become tense; Ms. A's fingers too, pause and allow her to ride out the unbearable perfection of its apex. Lady L is absolutely lost now, lost

to a varying extent, human nature is unpredictable. often our true motives are hidden even to ourselves. the real question is whether or not we allow ourselves to express these elements, and learn to do so skillfully.

can i surprise myself every day? can i use those moments to fuel my ability to create and more essentially, to be creative in a meaningful way?

in the incandescent undulations that seem to continue and continue without end, reverberating through every cell of her body and overwhelming all attempts at regaining control.

Only after a few minutes have the previously unimagined sensations begun to subside, as Lady L's breathing returns to a level that allows her to speak again. She finds Ms. A lying to her left, eyeglasses perched primly on the delicate arch of her nose. Ms. A's glasses are nonetheless unable to hide the rosy glow of her cheeks as she combs her fingers through Lady L's tousled and unruly hair. And when she is ready, Ms. A whispers into her ear, almost inaudibly, "that felt good didn't it... perhaps too good. I have decided, then, that our next lesson will be on the topic of spanking..."

"Alright. This seems to be the appropriate time." A light sonorous chime is heard lilting its way across the room, accompanied by the rustling sound of clothing and hushed voices.

Quickly gathering round, eager faces turn upward toward the deeply lined countenance of their clever old teacher and mentor.

Sitting in a slightly elevated position, legs folded comfortably in seiza on a soft yet firm pillow... it is a thick, supportive cushion the warm color of saffron, matching a flowing, well worn and simple robe that drapes an aged frame whose posture is relaxed, yet alert.

"As with all of my stories, this one concerns itself with questions of love and change, sometimes suffering, but more often", eyes twinkling in a bemused, enchanting way, "the everyday world in which each of us -- you, and even you" -- pointing a gnarled old finger straight forward toward the listener's nose -- "can perceive things in different ways." The wrinkled, expressive features soften, belying their true age as time itself begins to smoothly slide forward, becoming malleable and indistinct, one moment rolling seamlessly into another. Each listener begins to focus on their own sensations of ordinary sitting and listening, allowing themselves to find a unique place in between the words of their teacher's calm, even tone of voice. With each breath rising deeply and falling into a continuous wave of sound, the words seem to arise of their own spontaneous volition:

"Today's story is a bit different from the others. You may have the impression that it is the tale of a young man and woman, but try to look beyond it."

. . .

A voice reminiscient of wind through autumn leaves begins to unfold the teaching tale for the day.

  Overcast, quiet. Faintly in the background, the early evening tides can be heard in their familiar ebb and flow. In toward the shore; pause; then washing sand, shells and even small fish out to the sea. Every so often, gulls flying overheard train their keen eyes on the curling, lapping motion of the waves in search of a fresh evening meal.

  Caught in a small alcove at the corner of a rock outcropping, a wave ripples and swirls, becoming an eddy that pulls surrounding water into its darkened center. The deep, seemingly impenetrable blue of the sea, speckled with the foam crests of upstart wave formations, forms an endless body that stretches to the horizon and beyond.

  Bare footprints in the sand trace a path along the water's edge, sometimes weaving farther, sometimes closer to the point at which the sandy shore disappears into its liquid counterpart. Following along the path, the footprints begin to move farther away from the water, soon to be joined by another set of prints. This set is somewhat smaller, with a slimmer line connecting the impression of the pad with that of the heel, implying a higher and more delicate arch of the foot. Moreover, the smaller footprints periodically leave their linear trajectory along the waterline to inscribe twirling pirouhettes, tiptoe sprints and even the balletic grace of en pointe maneuvers. Following the course of the two intertwining sets of footprints stimulates within the viewer an idyllic imaginary scene, a sunset perhaps, alight with the playful laughter of those who delight in the companionship of one another amidst the radiant warmth of the dying afternoon sun.

  Overcast. Silent. Nearly enveloped in darkness. The footprints have become blurred, distorted, in the process of washing away entirely and returning to the smooth, virginal sand of the inevitable morning's tide. Heaving upward from the farthest reaches of the distant horizon, tidal waves begin to rise, gaining strength and speed, eventually crashing heavily against the beach. Wave after wave relentlessly pummels the finely grained sand, mixing it into a thick compound of watery cement; it has become clay to be molded and recast as the sea sees fit.

  The footprints are gone, never to be seen again.
  Where are their erstwhile occupants?

engorged blushing peach
enveloped in sweet fragrance

pendulous arc through crisp evening air
just above nose, tongue
teeth

do not inhale, do not exhale
do not lick, do not bite

run, escape
the terrible initiation of spring.