Marta was quite tall in her stilletoes, they helped her reach the files at the top shelf. She wore stockings and her lipstick was crimson. Her boss was Mr. Isaac Charles and he kept a thin steel chain in his deskdrawer with a hook for the collar she wore- at all times.

When the office closed its doors at 5, Marta quickly undressed herself and continued answering calls, barebreasted, in her panties, nylons, and heels. The clasp at the front of Marta's slim black velvet and leather collar--that was made for the hook of the chain in Mr. Charles drawer-- held a pearl as a pendant.

Mr. Charles would often have Marta bring him a scotch and water around 6 o'clock. He would make Marta set it on his desk, and then kneel at his side with her hands together on his knee waiting for him to be done whatever it was he was doing. Waiting here was a welcomed relief from waiting at her desk and from where she kneeled she got to watch Mr. Charles' movements. He was a panther, every move sure, strong, smooth,--controlled. Lounging as he spoke on the phone, an animal at rest. His fingers toying at the clasp in her collar or stroking her cheek; Marta would look up at him unabashedly in love and lust intermingled.

Mr. Charles had a small room hidden behind a flat door in his office, and Marta would think of all the things that could possibly happen from here to there, when he got off the phone. The small touch of her palm on Mr. Charles knee was always the torture to Marta. Feeling the heat of him through the fabric of his pant. Only that, under her palm--his muscles shifting gently, unconciously, perfectly--and waiting.

Mr. Charles' smell was of oak and unburnt tobacco and as the evening passed it would become deeper and more animal, mixing with Marta's own salt and sweetness.

Marta would wait and secretly flex her thighs against each other, or rub her nipples against Mr. Charles' pantleg, growing impatient as her senses warmed her. Mr. Charles jaw was strong and his eye was sharp, and Marta knew he could tell what was happening to her. He wouldn't even turn his head, Marta would straighten her back and become still again.

When she was very good, and waited. Mr Charles would close the file on his desk, or hang up the phone, and have a sip of his scotch, watching Marta kneel. He would rub her bottom lip with the tip of his thumb or wrap his fingers into the slack of Marta's collar and smile. He would tell her in soft low tones how lovely she was, what a good little bitch.

The sound of Mr. Charles top middle drawer was an interesting thing: when heard in the middle of the business day-- that particular heavy rumble with the shivery chinkings of steel link somewhere within it-- Martha would immediately grow a little damp, butterflies would swoop through her belly, her mouth would fill with sweet water...For, hearing it in this moment, Marta is more than a little damp and she smiles and tilts her chin up in anticipation of Mr. Charles hands moving against her throat, slipping the hook at the end of the cold and glinting leash into the clasp of her collar.

webcam

I'm not sure u're reading this--i don't know who else is either---but what if you do.

Look, you can see me.

Love story

I live under a bridge. It is not bridge built over water but a bridge that carries the track of the trains across a main way into the ghetto. The train reams across my shoulders and shudders my bones, the shadows keep the concrete cold against my back, my teeth chatter in delight and my toes have grown the dirty blue black of the dribbles of water that seep slowly through the stone cracks when the winter ice melts, and freezes, melts, and freezes.

This hole is as ugly as me. I could stay here forever.

The people hurry along, walking along a small path precariously pushed up against the lumpen sewage of traffic. I see the tops of their fragile heads and their paddle feet beneath them. They are puerile and fleshy as earthworms and I only pay them mind to spit pigeon shit upon their shoulders.

Nothing has caught my attention here for a span of time I will only describe as Past, because today I saw her. She unfolded herself from a crack in the sidewalk with a elegance the would make a mantis judder. She, of dust and gumb and sidewalk matter. She, as a dry stick, a grimy wrapper, a fastfood straw paper rose. She she she! O! She is as ugly as me!

and again, this time from the bottom

I wasn't even going to tell u about dirty itch, b....but I did--just like every other time, you crept inside me head and found my letters.

Remember that summer night, you stole my journal, you had read it! and then, audacious! made me sit there while you read out parts of it to me--you horrible boy, torturer. Because all that time, i was writing secret sexy things about you...and trying to b your friend while I couldn't take my eyes off u, ur shadows, that edge to your hand, the way your shoulders were wide and your waist so slim and brown like three cream coffee. You can't expect to walk around with your tshirt gone, your pants falling off you, the divot of your hipbones perfect tracks for my tongue and expect me not to lust after the friend that i loved. Lala. you know it, u are my best.

What did you want anyway? Snooping around my documents, finding much more shocking than u were looking for, im sure. the most decadent thoughts i had, so full they were laid on paper. They were read out loud, and tore the most masochistic holes in me.

Then u knew that I would take it all, every twist and tickle and thrust and torturrrre. Every thing u gave me i took. what a good little bitch Well here they are again, my friend: a dirty secret a dirty wish a dirty girl scratching letters 'gainst a dirty itch.

casting spells

ive always wanted to woo you thru words, I know my words are powerful and pull at the knot in your gut. I know that even though you can hold me down against my will and take whatever you want, whenever you want, if you want....I still have my fingertips there, against your tightest nerve, the basest button, the black against white, my light against the dark, in your head.

I went to get my ankle x-rayed today. When I entered the room it was as a womb, warm and gently spot- lit, table and slick frosted x ray machine--like altar and supplicant. I took off my boots and the technician crinkled his eyes at my soccer socks which he allowed me to keep on. He made me put my foot here and here, point my toes in line with his, bend me knee, step up here. the table was covered with white linen and i was posed with precision, back arched, leaning upright, hands behind me, legs bent knees pointed at the far wall, ass torqued into the light. Point your toes. curve your arches. i'm sure i looked a treat. When I came off the table, standing at its side, still in the light, I could see my hair, reflected in his glasses, each curl the outside lit in gold. He dropped his pen--3 times! at my feet, bowing under me, hopped up on caffeine and glowing in pale blue like an angel.

dirty b, you are selfish, if I found another master he would take me, and let you b. you still torture me from all the way there, quarter of a day away. You would torture me dirty b, and not call me yours?