How much do you really love me?

Thursday, July 12, 2012

I've missed you...

It's been a while.

I haven't been entirely idle; now you can find me here and take me with you everywhere. If you're an Amazon Prime member, you can get your hands on me for free.

Yes, that is me on the cover.

Thank you.

I hope you enjoy my efforts given a little more polish and organisation; there will be more bundles of kindling along shortly. (I'm tipping you should be on the lookout for What Ellie Did Next.)

In the meantime, I've left some of my favourite excerpts here for you to enjoy. If you choose to read further, don't say I lead you astray.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Dominatrix in training.

"Guess what! I bought a helmet." I pause a second and consider. "Now I can fall off my bike!"

Among my friends and family my clumsiness is legendary; I can walk into innocuous objects that have occupied the same place for years, fall over my own ballet-flat-shod feet. Only when glamazoning do I suddenly become all poise and swaybacked grace.

On the other end of the phone I can hear him dimple and roll his eyes. "Ride it, you mean." A text message codas our conversation and makes me smile: Ride it hard.

I'd like to be the kind of woman who can dress up in thigh-high fetish boots and stride about the house cracking a whip, all "Lick my boots!" and grinding long spiky nails into tender parts of flesh. Ot wear chaps with authority and smirk every time the cowboy boots made a public appearance. I just don't have it in me.

I'm more of a bat-my-eyelashes and won't you make me another cup of tea, the kind to crack up over the inherent silliness of Asian-made vibrators and men in supermarkets nervously eyeing zucchinis as though they might replace the male half of the human race.

Verbiage may be my biggest turnon; sparring, wordplay, a simple debate that gets swallowed up in kisses and teasing. Why am I writing this? Because sex is funny and fun. It's been so overwritten that it's overwrought and submerged in cliche. Have some foreplay instead. Go start a conversation.

Monday, November 15, 2010

NSFW

He flips me over and hauls my hips back toward him, rubbing the head of his cock over my clitoris, still throbbing. I feel the wet drooling down my legs and know he is just as ready as I am. 

He starts to push, insisting the head of his penis past my resistance and teasing. It’s too much and not enough all at once, but he manipulates my hips away and refuses any more. I’m burning, throbbing, starting to lash my hips and arch my back, craving some kind of stimulation. 

One finger traces a line down inside the edge of my labia, but he snatches it away quickly and rewards me with a long exhalation of cool air. “Please!” I beg. It’s barely a word. Nothing. He just breathes down my spine, thumbs me apart so I’m gaping and waiting. “Please!” I’m growling, I want this so badly. His hands come back to my hips and I anticipate the thrust, but he barely touches me. 

Then it comes. One long thrust that fills me and rocks us both forward on the bed. He curls his body around mine and I am entered, enclosed, held and rocked. There’s nothing in my mind but the sensation of our two bodies grinding together. 
It feels like forever and no time that we hang in space like this, but then he lifts his weight up and above me and leaves me bereft and empty. Then full. 
We fuck, lazily, feeling the burn rise, secure in the pleasure that’s coming. 

I feel him even harder, the rise of his erection and his balls gathering, and I pull myself together to squeeze him tight. He doesn’t catch my slow roll and crush of a pelvic floor toned by plies until it tips him over the brink, and then the long heat of his ejaculation pulls me down as well. 

We lie tangled and collapsed, stickiness down our legs and sweat in the crevices of our bodies. “Let’s go again.”

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Attrition

Wolf approaches me like I’m a small animal poised to take flight. His fingertips slide down the inside of my arm, like he’s afraid of leaving a smudge. Like I’m some kind of porcelain freshly glazed but not yet fired, too fragile to be held. He sits beside me with a sigh.

“Why am I doing this?”

I don’t completely understand, but up this close I can see his dazed confusion, creased around his eyes and the unconscious scratch of stubble. He smoothes the same line again and again, shaking his head.

“Doing what?”
“You’re not mine to have.”
I tip my head to one side. It’s interesting, knowing where people’s boundaries lie.
He clasps his hands under his chin, elbows on knees. Turns only his face to me. “I’ve been telling myself that I can feel what I like, it’s what I DO that matters.”
I try to hook his gaze with my own, but it’s sliding into the corners of the room faster than the evening shadows. “So, you can dine me and wine me, buy me presents, draw me…”
He closes his eyes, enunciates harshly. “That’s different.”
“I don’t understand how." I’m not trying to be cruel, just clear. This is how I see the world.

He raises his eyebrows as if to speak, but then finds a stray thread on one knee that needs attention. Rolls it between thumb and forefinger just for something to do.
“You’re not mine to have.”
“Am I anyone’s?”
“Well. You wear a wedding ring.”
“Yes. I choose to. “
His lip folds pensively under his top teeth. “All the time. All the time that we’ve drunk tea and I’ve tried to decide if your eyes are truly green or some witchy hazel, and I’ve watched you… It’s been okay, so long as I didn’t lay a hand on you. Well, not – he waves a hand expansively through the air – but it’s felt allowed. Permissible.”
“We could go on like that,” I offer. I’m testing.

He swallows again, shakes his head. “I don’t want to. I mean – I want to, but I don’t want to. I – I want this. I want this so badly.”
“You don’t have to take it. I’m offering. You didn’t come over here and undress me. You made me want to undress myself.” It’s a fine line, but I’ve always been about semantics.

He reaches a hand, slowly runs the back of his fingers down my thigh, shudders at the contact of our skin that can’t be explained by therapy or cold or friendship.
I close my eyes, and his hand is behind my ear and down my neck, across one shoulder. The same single hand, fingertips tentative, suddenly cool, brushes my breast, and my eyes open slowly into his, only a few inches away.

With the warmth of his uncertain breath on my cheek, I watch him watching my nipple tense, pulled to attention and pulling his breath sharply up in his throat. I am so aroused that I can do this – evoke this in him. One more light graze, then he moves to the tip of my nose, lip, chin, clavicle, cleft, touching so gently I have to listen for the contact with my whole body. He seizes me suddenly and urgently, wrapping his fingers between my ribs as if about to hoist me overhead, winding me like a ball of string. We go backward on the bed.

For a while there is nothing but our mouths. They seem newly joined, fused and inseparable. He kisses the way he argues, passionate and forceful, backing down when he feels I’m convinced, tapering phrases with less weight, less force, but somehow the same intensity. He kisses like a concerto, until we kiss ourselves stalemated and wake from a daze like lovesick teenagers. No-one’s winning this war.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Laurent

Before I begin, I should thank the eternal worrier for the structure of this post: It's all about the number seven and quite unlike my usual writing style. More opaque, for one. 


Melbourne today: torrential rain, gale-force winds, staggeringly high heels (mine). Umbrellas, damp pedestrians, public transport and other bloggers. 


They can verify that 
1) I do exist and 
2) even look like my header, 
3) my hair's not a wig and 
4) I wear leather and 
5) (black) lace and 
6) a scarf with 
7) tiny fairy bells dangling from it's tattered black fringe.


Angela, Alicia, Lady Smaggle, Selena, Grant, Lady Melbourne and I (that's seven) made an upstairs table at Laurent our home for hours, talking toobs, clothing, jewellery, readership, cake, nuffnang and the science of confectionary-preference-compatibility.
(Photos here and here)


I'd be lying if I didn't confess nerves, and a tiny, miniscule, nagging crush. On whom, I'll let you guess. 


And my seven nominated bloggers? Well, there were six in attendance and one more I would very much have liked to meet: Esme and the laneway
Please participate if you would like. Mr London Street began it all in this post.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Selfish weekends.




I’m not one of these women lining the walls.

They clutch discarded bags and cardigans, shuffle small shoes into a semblance of order between their own flat-shod feet.

I don’t belong to their tribe. Perhaps I never will.

I have the luxury of empty hands, empty Sundays, the kind to while away with skin, coffee, papers.

I’m not sure this is my ultimate destination, but for now it’s enough.
I can come, I can go.
Just me.

Slinking in and out, I’m only visible to the husbands, the fathers. I imagine that makes me more dangerous.

I’d like to know what they’re thinking.
Is it as simple as “I’d like to fuck her,” or more complex; “My wife looked like that once.”
It might just be “I wonder where she got that coffee? I’d kill for a coffee right now.”

Would they send back the children in their own image to recover the belly before stretch marks? (Although our society has proven you don’t need to bear children to become fat, or ugly, or just plain old.)

Would they wipe out all the bickering and pointed remarks on the shortfalls of parenting just to bicker about politics? Who used the last teabag? Who used the last toilet roll?

I’m not sure what this is worth to me. If anything. 

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Her mouth is stained mulberry, and I can't quite look away.

When she rakes her hand through her hair, I se the imprints my teeth would leave inside her wrist. White, purple, blue. Indignant pink.
It's an effort to to pull my eyes off and misdirect.

He's over at the counter, ordering hot chocolate and waffles for two. Casting quick glances back over his shoulder to check I haven't changed my mind while he's surfed the queue. Max Brenner; the perfect place for too-sweet moments.

She looks down at her dinging phone and bites her lip. Stoops to scoop up her bag and wraps her scarf in preparation to leave. I'd like to grab her wrist and sit her next to me, stroke the hair out of her face and share my waffle with her. But then he's back, and glowing. Her radiance blows out before it's even begun.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Small cruelties.

I've added another bedtime story to the collection on the sidebar: When. Enjoy. 

In the darkness he laps me apart and coaxes me back, the long hands spanning my hips and unthreading my bones. I don't know how to describe these lost moments, even to him.

Even to myself.

Time is mutable; sometimes each grain of sand is an evaporating mote, sometimes a granite boulder. Lately my hourglass has been empty rather than full. I seem to rescue myself from steam-fogged mirrors more than I eat.

Hairline; etched eyebrows; panda eyes, a scuff of freckles and bowed mouth - then the spell is broken and I'm getting dressed. Again. Getting undressed is one of those evaporating-into-gone moments.

 Knowing full well he'd have to break skin to do it, I asked him to thread the earring through my ear.

He struggled with himself; desire to please me, frustration with my disobedient flesh. And then anger, when he saw the blood trickling from my mouth and on his fingertips, and understood. Fury that I'd let him hurt me, or perhaps that I'd tricked him into it.

These small things we do to make ourselves the other.

Sunday, February 28, 2010

Like to listen?

I've just converted Dismemberment and On starfish hands and high-arched feet  to mp3 files (click on titles); I hope they're more user-friendly and shall try to remember to convert them to mp3s in future. Help yourself.

If you have any requests for other posts being read aloud you're welcome to leave them in the comments below.  I'm thinking perhaps Observation but you probably have something else in mind. Don't be shy.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Vandals

He sees me to my car, opens the door for me and leans in the window once I've started the engine.
"See you at home?"
The drama of our life; we always seem to have two cars to drive home. "I have to make a stop on the way. But I'll be home soon."
He leans in for a chaste kiss, tells me to drive carefully. Walks to his own car.

It's after one now; we caught the last train running. I pull out onto the highway and drive a few stations back up the line. One of the main depots sits right across the road from the beach, and there's a security guard stationed overnight. When I pull up beside his car everything is quiet. There's no road noise, nothing from the tracks. Just the distant surf. It's been stormy lately.

I can see T's base; it's the carriage with all the doors shut and a filmy torchlight illuminating the windows. He brings a laptop and books to work with him, writes his thesis in between sweeps of the yard. He says that after two a.m. a kind of sixth sense takes over; footsteps crunch on gravel like loudspeaker crackle, voices carry clearly on the wind. He's fast and agile; the kids don't often outrun him and the druggies don't stand a chance. I'm not surprised that he's already walking toward my car, arms outstretched.

"Ellie! God, I've missed you so much. Isn't this like old times?"
"Hmmm. Well, I'm married, you're studying - actually, this is nothing like old times." It's exactly like old times; this is the way we tease each other into a softness. The camaraderie belies the urgency of our bodies. Whoever said attraction is magnetic wasn't lying.

"Come on.  I made camp early tonight." He grabs my hand and marches me across to the dead train. My shoes weren't made for loose gravel, and I have to tiptoe geisha steps until T. impatiently sweeps me up across his chest and carries me up to the door.

I'd thought he'd left a torch on the floor, but he can still surprise me. Candles. Tiny tealights. Perhaps a hundred of them; they're barely diminished when the draft from the door shocks a few out.
I didn't realise I was holding my breath until he hops up behind me and pulls me up from the floor. "Shall we dance?"
"You said it was a waste of time."
"No, I said learning to dance was a waste of time. Actually dancing with you, on the other hand, is more of an investment. Nearly as good as foreplay. In fact, I think it may count as foreplay."

Our banter's the real foreplay. "So, your thesis attempts to address the complexity of the female psyche now?"
"No, I'm looking at the simple parts."
"Short thesis then."

He pinched me lightly, a hint of reproof in his grin. "Now, now, you like to make yourselves out to be incredibly complicated creatures, but we all know how much the simple things matter. Reliable shopping companions, non-chip nail polish, the perfect red lipstick..."

He held me more tightly to him as I thumped his shoulder roughly, laughing "Bastard!"
"Which, by the way, I notice you're not wearing. Although there seem to be some rather stunning suspenders at work under this skirt. Very fetching."
He'd taken advantage of our clinch to ruffle my skirt upwards and do a little exploring.
"And silk, too. I do like the way you're so robustly feminist about most things."
"Because suspenders and stilettos are so inhibiting, I'm absolutely bound and gagged and unable to function."
"Shut up and kiss me."