Stories by Gwen

I feel silky flower petals gliding up my spine, then softness against my wrist, my palm. The blooms make the return trip, up to my shoulder, my neck, and down my left arm, goosebumps trailing in their wake. She places the flower in the vase on my bedside table. One in the vase. Five remain. --- The doorbell rings shortly after I get home. I'm padding around in socks, looking forward to leftovers and Netflix. She stands on my porch in the rain. "Gwen," I say. "I wasn't expecting you." Gwen gives me that look, the one that melts me. Her lips curve in a knowing smile. She's carrying a small bouquet. Calla lilies. "Are you going to invite me in?" I like flowers - what girl doesn't? - but I know better than to take a bouquet from Gwen at face value. Why lilies? I know her too well to think she chose them for their fragrance. They're symbols. Puzzle pieces. I'm overthinking this, I know. But I know Gwen too. There's ...

I pedal a little harder as I round the last corner, the wind tickling my cheek as I hurry home. I press the remote and the garage door opens just as I arrive. It swings shut behind me as I lift my bike onto the rack. I hear the door open behind me. I turn to face Joyce. "No briefcase?" she asks. I hold my empty hands out and wiggle my fingers. "I'm taking the night off," I say. "There's nothing left but some revised proofs. I can check them in the morning." Joyce raises one eyebrow. "Monday, I mean," I say. "I'll read them Monday morning." Joyce's broad smile melts me as it always does. She takes my hand and draws me down the hall. She is leading me to my study, but I stop her, pushing her back against the wall. I kiss her pretty mouth and press the length of my body against hers, holding her there. I take hold of her hands then, and raise her outstretched arms in half circles until they are pointing straight up ab...

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...