Stories by Gwen

Gwen is coming to town. For two or three weeks, it's all I can think about. Gwen is coming. I'm counting the days. Finally the big day arrives. She invites me to meet her at her hotel - the same luxury business hotel where she always stays. She always gets a big suite on the floor reserved for frequent travelers. I park in the lot and make my way through the lobby. I announce myself to the concierge on Gwen's floor, who checks a list before directing me to a door at the end of the hall. I press the button and hear a musical chime. The door opens and Gwen is there. I am always surprised, in person, to be taller than Gwen. Her virtual presence is larger than life. I guess that's natural, given the nature of our relationship. Gwen is dominant, I am submissive. I get pleasure from being told what to do, from being or doing or experiencing whatever Gwen decides. She gets pleasure, she says, from controlling me, from treating me like an object, a sex toy to be used however s...

I've decided to allow you to attend your company party. I am escorting you. We'll put on evening dresses to mingle with the corporate executives and important clients. I'm wearing a little cocktail dress. You're wearing a black halter dress and a delicate collar that discreetly symbolizes that you belong to me. And heels, of course. The party is being held high above the city. The room is beautiful in a spare, modern way. There's a bar in the middle, and all around the edges are floor-to-ceiling windows. You can stand and look down at cars navigating the nighttime streets far below. We look at out the moon and it seems almost close enough to touch. You see your co-workers in a new light, dressed up as they never dress for work, all in their fanciest and prettiest clothes. Suits and ties, cocktail dresses, gowns. The executives and their young trophy wives cluster together drinking scotch. We sip wine as we walk slowly through the room, intent in conversation. After ...

It's Sunday morning in our flat in San Francisco's Marina district. The sun shines through the large bedroom window, waking me gently. I pad out to make us coffee as Julie awakens slowly. I return with two mugs and sit on the edge of the bed next to her. I know there's nothing on Julie's schedule for today, and I have deliberately kept my own agenda clear. "Get up," I say as the aroma of fresh coffee gently awakens her. "Let's drive down to Carmel for brunch." Carmel is a lovely city on the Pacific coast, about 100 miles south of San Francisco. It's full of rock formations and twisted cypress trees, lots of little shops full of homemade candles and crystals and tie-dye - and some of California's best restaurants. Our favorite is on a rocky bluff overlooking the ocean. The waves crash into the rocks below the outdoor deck where we have our brunch. It's a favorite destination. Julie kisses me with enthusiasm for the idea. It...

Attending a women's college was not my idea. I had the grades to get into any number of good universities. What I lacked was the means. St. Abigail offered a generous scholarship and a work-study program that would afford me a chance to earn spending money during the school year. Once my parents did the numbers, the decision was made. The brochure tried hard to sell the benefits of single-sex studying. St. Abigail would give me "a chance to focus on classwork without the social distractions of a typical campus," all that. I had my own opinion: All work and no play makes Jen a dull girl. But as I say, it wasn't my decision. And so it was I found myself in Prior Hall on a crisp New England morning. Freshman composition. Some of the classes that met later in the week might prove to be a challenge, but I wasn't worried about composition. I know how to write grammatical sentences and well-structured essays. I actually didn't think I needed this remedial course...

Right this very moment I am thinking of us awakening together in bed. We're soft and drowsy, and the bed is inviting us to stay, stay, to push aside our other commitments and remain in each other's warm arms all day. I lie against you and hold the length of your body next to me, and I find myself rolling my hips against your thigh, parting my legs so I can rub my panties against you, and my clit, right through the fabric. I've been trying to pretend that I'm still sleeping, that I'm not doing any of this delberately, but I can't maintain that fiction any longer. I start grinding against you in earnest and I pull your head to me in a deep kiss. I begin teasing your bare breasts as I rub myself against your thigh. I pull myself away all at once, and strip off all my clothes -- which in this case is nothing more than my pink and white Hello Kitty panties. I crawl up to the head of the bed and kneel, facing the headboard, with one knee on each side of your p...

 I lead you to the bedroom and relieve you slowly, gradually of your clothes, murmuring endearments as I unbutton, unclasp, unzip, drawing the fabric across your skin slowly and deliberately as I unwrap you like a precious gift. When the last shred of fabric is gone I pull you gently to the bed. I arrange you there on hands and knees. I gently position your knees until the space between them is precise. You work with me earnestly to take precisely the position I have in mind. I press my hand softly on the sweet skin between your shoulder blades and you understand that I mean for you to drop your face to the mattress. You're on the bed now in the position I've chosen for you, the side of your face flat against the bedspread, your ass raised high over spread thighs. It is an unambiguous position. You can't write like this. It's not a comfortable way to watch television. You're not going to arrange yourself this way to have a beer. No. This position is about sex and on...

 I take a last sip of wine, admiring the ruby clarity of the pool of Cabernet, and then I raise my eyes to your face across the table. The light from the torches adds a glow to your skin and their reflection puts a dancing gleam in your eyes. The rest of the diners have left, leaving us alone on the terrace. I take your hand as we stand. We turn for a moment and look out at the waves where they are lit by the moonlight and the torches. I stand close behind you, rub my hands lightly up and down the skin of your bare arms. You lean back against me as we watch the waves roll in and dash up the sandy shore. For a moment I feel your warm body pressed against me. We wander down the stone staircase to the beach, where you feel a breeze swirl the light fabric of your skirt against your legs. We remove our shoes and leave them at the base of the stairs. I take your hand and we begin walking slowly along the shore. The moon's silvery light makes the waves shine like cascades of diamonds as t...

What would it be like, I wonder, for you to simply give me your pleasure? Hand me the keys. Yield yourself up fully. You'll feel pleasure when I decide and how I decide. Edging. Cumming again and again. A long slow build-up or a quick jolt of release. When and where I say. Yes, I want to choose your clothes every day. I want to see my name written on your body. I want to hear you say that you exist to belong to me. I want to see in your eyes that ownership completes you, thrills and satisfies you in an emotional way that is only adjacent to sexuality. I want to own you so I can take care of you and guide you into thrilling situations and teach you to please me, because I know how deeply you need to give me pleasure too. I want to own you so my praise means something to you. But most of all, I want your pleasure. You know that I will respect and honor the gift. I will use it for your benefit, with growing expertise and confidence as we learn each other more thoroughly, wee...

I worked with her brother first. I met him on the job, at that coffee shop that connected me to everything, the place I found myself among an odd group of hard-drinking poets and intellectuals. He tried my name, discarded it with a frown, and renamed me "Freak" almost immediately. She started a month or two later. She looks like her brother: tall, lanky. I learn that she is polyamorous and bisexual. She has a child. She is quick, whip-smart, funny. We have fun at work. We talk about books and chess in the slow afternoon hours. Sometimes her boyfriend comes in and leans on the bar. (I cycle between wonderfully engaging and cripplingly shy; there is no middle ground.) She likes to point out women she finds attractive and I assess them with her. I don't consider myself bisexual but beauty is beauty and I'm not blind. One night she invites me to come over, north of the city, where she lives in the woods. She suggests we get some beer, play some chess, hang out. ...

It's a country town and the traveler is just passing through. That's what she tells herself. She drives slowly down a narrow street on the wrong side of town, scanning storefronts for a number she's written on the scrap of paper she clutches against the wheel. It's the kind of town that always thought it would get bigger. The town square is ringed with empty storefronts. A wide bridge spans the rushing water of a mountain stream. A lone stoplight presides over the junction of Main Street with the two-lane county highway that got her here. Farm trucks are parked in a neat diagonal row in front of the feed store. Five steeples are visible, revealing the presence of at least five churches of interchangeable evangelical denominations. On the way to this neighborhood she passed three pawnshops. But even this town is changing. She saw the trucks, far down the mountain, on her way in. The work crews were sweating over earth-movers and directing traffic with flags. The pr...

I am thinking about going to dinner with you. We’d dress nicely: a little black dress for me, that pretty white lace thing I’ve seen you in. We’d wear heels and do our hair and eat at a restaurant where a creepy waiter would wink at us when we order oysters. “They’re an aphrodisiac, you know.” All through dinner I'd have my hands on you. My hand rests on your thigh, just below the hem of your dress, as the waiter brings us our drinks. When the appetizers come, my hand is on your lower back, caressing. It is the longest dinner of all time. In the cab we are desperate for each other but we try to remain appropriate. My hand is much farther up your dress, playing along the skin of your inner thigh. I can feel your hot breath on my neck, your tongue tracing loops on the skin behind my ear. I am swollen, hot, needy. Your face is flushed. When we get to the door you fumble in your purse for the keys. My arms are around you from behind, pulling you back against me. My hands a...