Author: amiepetite

I rarely tour. I don’t like to travel on a tight schedule or with uncertainty and I prefer to stack reasons for visiting an area. If I have friends, family, or other reasons to visit somewhere, I might travel far afield, but I generally don’t prefer to travel alone, or far from home without a very good reason.

I have also generally declined to fly bespoke to locations near and far. When I travel, I stay at my location long enough to make the irritations of air travel worthwhile. I like to get my boots on the ground and enjoy the area I spent so much time, effort, and jet fuel to reach. This means my fly-me-to-you minimum would be quite a long appointment. I never thought that would be worth it to anyone but, since folks have been asking, here it is.

First: check my calendar. If you see several days of availability in a row, it’s likely I’m not busy for enough hours in a row to allow a trip. If you are planning ahead I can sometimes make room.

Second: Calculate my minimum appointment length. My minimum appointment will be: (flight time + 75 minutes) x3, then round up. A trip to LA is a twelve hour appointment. Chicago would be 15 hours. Flight time includes layovers so small towns mean longer appointments.

Third: Send in your inquiry. For my darling friends who have met me before, that’s easy. For new clients, Submit a screening form first, then ask about the trip. This means asking about specific dates, not vague ideas about sometime late next month. Offer several dates if you can. Rose will confirm my availability or suggest alternatives.

Fourth: Get out your credit card. You will receive a deposit invoice equal to:

-25% of my fee (50% for new clients) – Partially refundable
-Premium class airfare – Nonrefundable
-Food Per Diem of 50$ per day – Refundable
-Hotel cost at our destination – Nonrefundable
**I will not discuss details of any trip without this deposit.**

Finally: Enjoy! I LOVE getting excited about trips. New eateries, museums, skylines and sunsets? How fun! Plush hotel beds and room service? Yes, please! Someone to share it with? Living the Dream.

If the above feels like all too much, why don’t you fly yourself to me? Seattle has much to offer the curious traveler. Fine chocolate, fresh seafood, gorgeous mountain sunsets, lush parks, quirky pit stops, and of course myself and my bevy of bodacious belles.

Wherever it happens, I look forward to seeing you there.

This past year I’ve been envious of my neighbors. Raised beds, tiny lawns, fruit trees, trellises, rain wise gardens, way more tomatoes than is strictly necessary, all inspiring longing and envy. I love being outside and I love working with my hands. I love food and green growing things. I love the smell of blooming shrubs and trees. I love the satisfaction of eating something I coaxed from the earth myself. And I live in an apartment.

I’m finally going to have my own garden. Back east, somewhere in the general vicinity of Spokane, there’s a place I go sometimes. I’ve been here for the past four days and right now my hands are so, so tired. I’ve been raking and digging and drilling and hammering and picking up and putting down and ripping out and planting and hopefully, by next spring, it will all burst forth with greenery and beauty.

But right now it’s dirt and empty and holy hell my hands hurt and I tried to fit an eight foot by two inch by twelve inch plank in my Prius (successfully, with clear awareness of how ridiculous I looked loading them (yes them. There were four) into my hatchback) and I only fixed one of the screen doors… Projects are endless but it feels good to watch them progress.

I am not a submissive lover but after this week I understand absolutely the pleasure of marking. Marking, usually bruising, often simply soreness, sometimes something as extreme as scarring, is a reminder to the bearer of good damn times. My hands are sore and my back hurts, I’ve got a scrape on one shin and bruise on the other, there are matching blisters on my thumbs, and I am in sore need of a manicure. They’ll heal and fade and that’s for the best, but as I type, I can feel the evidence in my body of the work I’ve been doing the past four days. It feels good.

After 18 months of forced doing-nothing-ness, it feels good to have, and work on, a project. In retrospect I should have been doing this all last summer but hindsight and all. I thrive on projects. Little things like replacing a switch or rearranging the furniture. Big things like moving house or building a garden. All of them feel good to do, and to have done. I sometimes pile on more than I should, and get mad at myself when I don’t get it all done, but without them, I flounder.

So it was no surprise to my friends and family when, last year, I fell somewhat apart. I did make a short film, and a website for it. And I did play all of Zelda: Breath Of The Wild (I will fight anyone who says that’s not an accomplishment). And I did continue to volunteer weekly taking care of shelter animals. But I didn’t finish learning French and I didn’t knit myself any more hats and I didn’t build a garden and I didn’t join a digital choir and I didn’t build the new Seattle sex worker website and…. And it took another year for me to be ok with that.

And I am. Ok, I mean. Life kinda got stuck there for a minute and I *did* learn to forgive myself a little. But man am I glad to be back in the thick of some projects. I return to school for a certificate program in just a few days and my sore hands tell me I did something big this weekend. Week. I have planning to do for other things and there’s a surprise in the works for my darling clients in the coming months.

But for now, I and my tired fucking hands are going to sit by the fire and try to catch up on my crosswords.

It’s good to be back.

I went for a long walk last night. I started out just wanting to stretch my legs. I’ve been awfully sedentary the last little while and my restlessness is finally getting the better of me. It’s a restlessness I’ve felt in all aspects of life. I’m not as busy as I want to be (though if you’d asked me about it two weeks ago I’d have had a different answer). Not with work *or* with my personal projects. I missed a major opportunity last spring to disappear into the woods for three months and avoid *gestures broadly at the world*.

So I was restless and started walking, aiming for the nearest hill and a direction I don’t usually go. I didn’t have a clear idea of where I was going but about halfway there I realized I was going to the beach. Up hills, down them again. Up more hills… until I found myself on a pitch black sidewalk under a hooting owl. Rabbits racing through the bushes kept startling me. Dark and quiet, in a place full of other people, is unsettling. I could see a crackling fire off to one side and avoided it. Looked hard through the windows of the cars checking for strangers. I aimed for the beach and walked softly, trying not to alert the person at the other end of the shoreline.

It took a minute, but once I assured myself no one was coming to bother me, I settled in to watch the water.

I love being at the water’s edge. Something about the sound of the waves rustling, the reflection of the light on the water, the pebbles, skittering as they come in and go out again. It felt soothing. Calm. But not quite right.

Light from the east side reflected off the clouds and the water. Only the very brightest stars were showing. I could hear someone coughing. I would see a flicker of flame, hear a breath, then a cough. I tried not to think too hard about what exactly he was smoking. The drum circle didn’t feel safe and welcoming, it made me nervous. Everyone kept to themselves, as I expected. And everything was fine, but I was unsettled.

I realized it wasn’t home.

For the first time, I realized that Seattle isn’t quite home anymore. Sure, I love the restaurants and that you can find culture wherever you go. I love that it’s an enormously sex positive space full of people striving to do better. But sitting in the sand, listening to the waves, my feeling wasn’t what I had hoped it would be. I wanted to be out at the lake.

It took another forty minutes to get home. Once I got back to the land of the street lights I felt much better and started to dissolve into imaginings. A warm barn with bleating goats and crooning chickens. The smell of alfalfa hay. A walking path that smells of balsam and dark earth. The lake lapping at the sand just a few steps from my door. The dark a welcoming blanket instead of nervous veil.

I remember one year, at Christmastime. I couldn’t sleep. It was late and dark. Everyone was asleep. I sat by myself in the living room, watching the tree. Some of the lights were those blinky ones, the ones that go off and on at a slow tempo. With my glasses back in my room, the halos around the lights that stayed on grew and shrank as my pupils dilated and contracted over and over. I don’t know how long I sat there, childish wonder keeping me awake.

Just a few weeks ago, in Charlottetown, walking to the pier at 2 on a Tuesday morning. The only people around were clustered at the only open bar. The only sounds at the water’s edge were the swish of the wind, the tinkle of rigging against masts, the shushing of the waves as they came in and out. Even though I wasn’t home, I felt safe.

Sitting by the lake in the middle of the night under the milky way feels safe. It might not actually be any safer from human encroachment than the city, but it *feels* like it. I feel ownership and responsibility. I know the people who might come down and join me. And that they probably won’t. I know the steps of the trail such that I don’t need light. The sounds of the bats and the swallows as they skim across the water. All familiar.

I’ll be there tonight. At the lake, listening to the bats and the birds and the waves and my own heartbeat. Tomorrow I’ll tear out some undergrowth and try to build something. Always building. Or fixing. I love it. It feels like building a home.

I took a break from writing because, as I think I’ve said before, misery inspires some of the greatest writers to some of the greatest works in literature. I am not one of them. Inspiration, for me, is beauty and sunshine, joy and pleasure. The past 18 months have been spare on joy.

But today, for the first time in a very, very long while, I *wanted* to write. I’ve told this story a few times in longer and shorter versions so this may not be new to every reader but I can’t help but share my nonconsensual night in Toronto.

A few weeks ago I visited friends all the way over on the west coast of America’s friendly hat. Prince Edward Island is a little province north of Maine, famous for Anne of Green Gables, Lucy Montgomery’s red headed spitfire, idol of many a feisty young girl. PEI is the New Zealand of Canada: rolling hills, friendly farmers… I half expected to see a hobbit hole if I looked close enough.

For five days we dug for clams, ate cheese curds on fries, swam in a deliciously warm ocean, stayed up late drinking mead and watching Werner Herzog documentaries, and enjoyed what for some of us was our first meaningful human touch since March of 2020.

I had been planning two trips at the same time when I booked my flights. The dates for both trips are similar but not exact. Unfortunately in my double booking, I scheduled myself to leave a day before everyone else. I tend to try to make the best of things but I was missing out and my heart was heavy as I headed to the airport. I had a long day ahead of me: take a puddle jumper from the island to Toronto, wait two hours for my flight to Detroit, then four more hours before finally coming home. I was already tired by the time I reached my connecting gate in Toronto but, resigned to the day, I plugged in my phone and curled up in a corner.

I had seen a sign asking passengers to upload their negative covid tests but I had assumed that was for foreigners entering, not for citizens returning. Until I heard my name over the intercom. The arrogant American tourist in me thought “they won’t keep me, right? I’m an American citizen, going back into America. They’ll chastise me and put me on the plane because otherwise I’ll miss my flight. I’m an American. I’ll be fine.”

Incorrect. At fifteen minutes to boarding, I was escorted back through security and pointed in the general direction of the ticket counters. The agent apologized for the trouble. Both of us knew I wasn’t making that flight. She told me that she would have to check to be sure but, though they would put me in the next seat from Toronto to Detroit for free, that next seat was on Tuesday. It’s currently Saturday.

Crying in public is really no fun. People try to fix whatever is making you cry but they usually can’t, so you wind up with people just being uncomfortable near you while you are also, but usually more, uncomfortable. Crying behind a mask helps prevent conspicuous onlookers, but presents soggy issues of its own.

So I’ve missed my flight, I’ve returned to the ticket counter for Delta but no one is there so I go to speak to WestJet. The agent does her best but, like a rube, I purchased my tickets third party and it’s a Delta flight operated *by* WestJet so after a half hour standing in line and on the phone, I am referred back to the Delta counter where an agent has appeared.

I figure that if I fly to Vancouver, at least there I can simply rent a car and drive home. And Covid tests are only required for international flights.

Incorrect. The Delta agent tells me I need a test for every flight, even to Vancouver, and points me at a train to a parking garage where I can get a rapid test.

The outlet on my puddle jumper wasn’t working and, assuming I’d have access to outlets all over the airport and on the next flight, I hadn’t guarded my phone battery very well. Smart phones are magical devices, granting access to knowledge of and connectivity to every corner of the world. Sometimes I forget just how useful they are. Standing in line, staring angrily at signs asking me to register for my test online, I remembered. I was also extremely conscious of my mood. I try to recognize that the service people helping me have really nothing to do with my bad mood and it’s not fair to be rude to them. I can hear my clipped sentences and add “hyper aware of how upset I am” to the list of reasons I am now upset.

I got my test, the fourth test I’ve gotten in less than a week, returned to the terminal, and speak to the gate agent at Delta again. There are no more Delta flights that day. She can’t issue me any refunds or credits because, having booked third party, I have no privileges and she has no flexibility. What she does find, however, is a flight to Vancouver with WestJet. It leaves in 90 minutes. I am light on my feet. TSA preckeck, a backpack and nothing else, no liquids… I can do this.

Correct. *I* can do this. The HERD OF COWS in front of me cannot. Between the family of five with two under two, the old lady whose bag is two kilos overweight but can’t possibly leave any precious items behind, and the sheer volume of folks in line… my excitement at maybe getting home tonight starts to fade. I watch the minutes tick by on my wrist. Ninety minutes to boarding. Seventy five minutes to boarding. An hour. Forty five minutes.

I have now cried perhaps five times in the past two hours? Maybe six. Most of them have been relatively containable but I can feel it coming. There are gonna be actual sobs this time. Not only am I far from home, I’m stuck, and my friends are still in our gorgeous air bnb, relaxing on the patio and celebrating their successful SCUBA certification. Not only am I lonely, I’m hot. I haven’t eaten in nine hours. I’m tired. I’ve got a headache coming on. I am *this* close to ugly crying in (a not socially distanced at all) line at the airport.

I’m out.

There was a hotel next to the testing garage. I’m getting a room so I can cry in private. “What brings you here today?” “I missed my flight” “Oh. I’m sorry.” One word answers make it easier to hold it together but I feel rude. “I’m sorry fo…” I’m sorry for not being polite. I was going to say that. I tried. I collected my room key as quickly as possible.

You know in movies when someone sits on the floor of their shower stall and cries into the water? That really happens sometimes. It feels so good (or at least less bad) to wash off the stress sweat and the salt. To feel fresh water sweep over you and really let it out. Privacy and resignation, a little catharsis… fifteen minutes later I felt a little better.

I plugged in my phone and climbed into bed naked. Texted to let people know I was safe and wasn’t coming home that night. Thanked my sweet rescuer who wired me enough to cover the hotel room and the very expensive ticket for a flight home the next day. Checked in for the flight and submitted my test results. Felt a little better. Still needed to eat something.

What the heck. I’m in one of the largest international food hotspots for the night. There’s a light rail directly downtown. I’m stuck here and if I have to be here for a night, I should make the best of it. I’ll regret it if I don’t. My phone’s got juice now, its warm outside, and I’m gonna go treat myself after a long and disappointing day.

This was not the right decision. Never let fear dictate your travel plans. The fear of missing out drove me into the world and the world kicked my ass.

The light rail leaves every half hour. I time it perfectly, get a ticket for the 7:30 train, step towards the doors, and a little old lady stops me to ask for help buying a ticket. Theres only a few minutes before the train leaves but I’m me and I can’t help myself and so I try… I have no idea how someone alive today doesn’t understand how to put money into a vending machine. She struggled so much with it the transaction timed out. I hate leaving someone who needs help but I can hear the announcement “doors closing” and make a break for it. Cue cinematic cliche number two: the doors close practically on my nose and I press the open button frantically and to no avail. sigh.

I kept reminding myself to be charitable. Kind to the people around me, even if they can’t hear what I’m thinking at them. The next train was already there so I took a seat and prepared to wait. Again. More. Two young people sat in front of me, chatting away about their travels. In another mood I’d have thought it was cute. Kismet. Youngsters in a foreign country bumping into someone from home. Budding love. Ugh. Gross. Fuck off ya twats!

I had dressed for the heat but the train was air conditioned so now I’m late, hungry, tired, cold, headachey, and still determined to make the best of it. I’ve picked a place called Alo. French food with local Canadian ingredients. Good cocktails. Highly rated. I love walking as a way of appreciating new places. The streets are bustling, everyone’s dressed in their Saturday night best, the girls all have their tits out and there are firm asses everywhere. It feels like there’s never even been a pandemic and all the blisters and irritation are worth it. The weather is perfect: warm and cozy. I’ve given myself permission to miss the last train back and just enjoy dinner. I can always have them call me a cab.

With really nice places on Saturday nights, it is wise to call ahead and check if there’s room.

At this point in the day, every time I hear no I just have to laugh. No you can’t get on the plane. No you can’t book another flight. No you won’t get anything back. No, you can’t get on the train. No you have no clean clothes. No, there’s no room for a single diner tonight.

Well I suppose I’ll just grab something quick and catch that train after all.

The blisters don’t really seem worth it anymore.

No, I did not fly across the country to get Dairy Queen, no matter how delicious it sounds.

That reminds me. There was an ice cream shop on the map on the waterfront. It’s hot, it’s late, ice cream on the lake sounds perfect! I can still salvage the night.

Are pedestrian traffic lights always this long in Toronto?

I’m getting flashbacks to standing in line for a ticket, watching the minutes slip away faster than seems appropriate. Watching my ice cream window get smaller and smaller. Watching it close.

Fine. No ice cream. But I have to eat something. It’s been twelve hours since breakfast and I’m thirsty, too. The words “Pulled Pork Poutine” in enormous letters on the side of a food truck signal my salvation. How delicious and perfect! Hot salty meat on fried potatoes, squeaky cheese curds, and a cold sweaty bottle of water.

Hahahahahaha! The poutine truck is out of poutine. The only bottle of water they have left is the displaying that’s been sitting in the heat all afternoon. They can make me a burger. I hope they can make it quickly.

Lolnope. That burger and the fancy boobs were the highlight of the entire day. Elegantly seasoned, cooked to perfection, on a brioche bun with fresh toppings, it was definitely worth the time it took to make it. Unfortunately ‘worth the time it took’ and ‘have the time it took’ are different things. Despite walking as fast as one can walk with a map in one hand and a dripping sandwich in the other, despite almost getting hit by a bevy of bicycles (cinematic cliche number three), despite running as many pedestrian lights as felt safe (very few), I missed the last train home.

The second guy in line at the taxi stand agreed to take me to the airport for fifty bucks (first guy said…… you guessed it: no). He got the last of my American cash at a 1:1 exchange rate. I hope he had a nice rest of the night.

The hotel bar is closed for renovations. Would I like a tiny overpriced bottle of off-brand Chardonnay? Finally, my turn to say no.

Fucking Toronto.

I believe I have discharged my accumulated bad karma from the past seven years. I have never had a day so full of mistakes, disappointments, tiny irritations and aches that stacked, one on top of the other, until they began to feel inevitable. By the end of the day it was either cry more or laugh hysterically. I was too tired to do either.

I got a late checkout the next day, slept in, and caught a direct flight back to Seattle. On which there was a medical emergency. I’ve never been on a flight that had to wheel someone out on a stretcher but it felt appropriate that this one was my first. Like this poor woman took over for me on the crappy karma train and I watched as it left me at the station.

Fucking Toronto

You want to be nice. I get it. It feels like a gift, sharing something you enjoy.

Unfortunately, it’s not.

Being around my beloved clients is beautiful. It helps me keep my best self in practice as I take care with my appearance, behavior, and speech. There isn’t a moment I’m with you that a corner of my mind isn’t gauging the vibe and adjusting my words, behavior, expression, closeness… to bring out just the facet of me *you* find most engaging. It might surprise my lovers to know that I take the same time and care choosing my “wear whatever you’re comfortable” outfits as my “can you wear heels” outfits. It is a joy to be able to do that for my beloveds and a pleasure to know I’m doing it well enough that they’re happy with our arrangement.

It’s also why it’s so disappointing to be offered things like accompanied trips or services without also being offered appropriate compensation. This happens to all providers and these offers are rarely made in bad faith. Sometimes they even work out and in those cases, I am glad. I recognize that the intention behind offering a stay in one’s vacation home, an all expenses paid trip to Chicago, a week in a cozy Alaskan cabin, or a guided rafting trip is generosity, an outpouring of enthusiasm and the desire to share something joyous with a cherished friend.

Unfortunately, these things are not gifts. They are not gifts, because they come with *THE STRING* attached. *THE STRING* is my beloved, caring, doting, loving client’s presence.

Because no matter how much the client assures us (and we believe) they’ll be appropriate, no matter how well intentioned that is, no matter how sure they are that they can behave themselves, a relationship dynamic cannot be unmade. No matter how carefully we avoid certain topics and the exchanging of looks, we will never un-fuck each other. They will never be just my host. Despite their best intentions, I will never be able to fart freely in the presence of a client.

And why would I want to!?! I don’t *want* to avoid naughty glances! I don’t *want* to be frumpy in front of you! I don’t *want* to un-fuck you! It’s why I keep doing this year after year! I love my client time. I genuinely believe it makes me a better person. Which is why it’s so painful to have to reject it when it is *THE STRING* instead of an appreciated part of my work. I’m not ungrateful for the impulse, truly. And I’m not mad (though the more often it happens the more likely I am to become so). I’m just more and more sure I can’t accept.

Because, you see, I had to learn the hard way. I let myself be talked into a weekend trip for far less than my quoted rate and came home feeling taken advantage of; resentful and a little angry at myself. I’m still a little steamed at that client, in no small part due to him booking a same-day 90 minute foursome that cost him almost twice what he gave me for the entire weekend. Which he used money set aside for my fee to pay for. Scheduled for less than 30 minutes after I made it from the airport to the hotel. Which I had to make pretty for girls because it was all overhead lighting and sports on the TV.

I love my clients and prefer not to be annoyed with them. Which is why, when offered “free” trips and services that come with *THE STRING*, I decline. Not because I don’t like my clients, but because I love them, and I want to keep it that way.

Sex work is weird. It’s a place of vulnerability and compassion and interconnectedness within which we all take risks in order to enjoy the company and touch of another. There have always been those who wish to use the vulnerable nature of the work to take advantage of others. The people, mostly women, who offer their intimate services have devised many ways to lower the risk inherent in occupying space, naked, with a physically stronger stranger. I make use of the threat of the law on one hand and a client’s reputation on the other.

The threat is easy: once I’ve verified who you are, I can check to see if you’ve hurt others before, and later find you if you hurt me. The reputation is somewhat harder. It takes time, and not all reputation is equally convincing. Some of it is downright useless.

For example: some clients lean into their OKs on p411 for reputation. For those who don’t know, an OK is simply a yes answer to “did you see this client and he did not rob or harm you?” There is no room for nuance or explanation, and no difference between ‘was the worst client I’ve ever had that wasn’t bad enough to blacklist’ and ‘gave me the best time of my life.’ On TNA board it’s called a vouch. TNA also has a ‘friends’ list that could mean anything from ‘favorite regular client’ to ‘Posted a comment I agreed with once.’ The vagueness of these definitions renders them worse than useless; they offer a false sense of security. It makes it easy for a boundary pushing creep to keep moving on to new providers, without risk of them encouraging each other to hold him accountable.

It’s easy to see why I don’t accept those one-time check marks as security for not just my safety in-session, but the likelihood you and I will actually like each other. It’s maybe less easy to see why I don’t give them.

I want providers to ask me. I want to get an email from pretty Jane at proton mail dot com, with her url in the footer, asking me if I have seen this nice boy and if so, was he actually nice? Partly because I get excited to network and share within my community. Partly because I’m a lil nosy and like to know what people are up to. But mostly so I can tell Jane that he’s got a huge D and if she has internal condoms, to have them on hand. Or to tell her that he takes 20 minute showers and to allow for that. Or that he’s allergic to cats or is really shy and will need her to make a move or that he will ask for a million off-menu things but never gets mad when you say no.

I bend over backwards to offer comprehensive but not gratuitous references to whomever asks, and I commit to incorporating feedback into my references. I have had providers reply to me about clients and it was extremely helpful moving forward both for me, and for future reference requesters. I don’t reply to reviews (except in unusual circumstances), vouch for clients, and rarely give OKs.

I’m writing about this because I’ve been asked more frequently for these things lately and I’ve never learned to like saying no. I want things to be as easy as possible but sometimes, in order to make things better, they need to be harder.

Fellow providers: if I have seen a client, I will ALWAYS give you an honest reference. It will ALWAYS be timely. I will ALWAYS accept feedback if my client was not as expected and I will NEVER out you if you give a bad reference or negative feedback. I adore my clients but I am not unaware of the presence of bad actors; I will never sacrifice the safety of my colleagues to spare someone’s feelings or protect my own ego. I am not jealous, and I am lucky enough to be able to refuse clients who mistreat others. If you’re on the fence about reaching out, please see this as my invitation.

My dear clients: Know that I am as generous with references as I am with everything else, that I will give you a fair shake and that I won’t share more than is necessary to prepare your future date. I am honored to share your delights, your quirks, your needs, and your kindness with my respected colleagues. Know that if I say no, I have spent as much time sweating over it as I have over every instance that led to me writing this. And if you reach out to someone who isn’t willing to do due diligence, consider yourself blessed when things don’t work out.

“Teach me” you said. “I want to pleasure you. Show me how.”

I blush. Years of practice have made it easier but I still struggle to tell lovers what I want. How to touch me in the ways that make me sigh and shudder.

“Like this.” A kiss. Slow, lingering, gentle, lips pressed fully together, tongue gently exploring. “I like gentle touch.” My blush deepens, a smile slips onto my lips. When I get nervous or feel awkward, I get giggly. “The tease, the slow touch. I like that. Also wet.”

A fit of giggles. My awkwardness finally got the better of me.

You smile. Deep breath. I settle back onto the pillows and let you explore. Your lips and hands drift down my body, slowly. I close my eyes and let myself sink into the music. Into your touch.

My mind drifts in and out of the moment. A caress under the curve of my breast. A tongue gently flicking my nipple. Fingertips stroking their way past my belly, slipping under my thigh. 

First contact. Exquisite. Tantalizing. Satisfying. Drawing a throb from deep within.

Your tongue is my world. Exploring, tasting, teasing. Where will it go next? How long will you keep it from me as you scatter kisses across my quivering thighs? What must I have done in my previous lives to earn my place here, under you?

The cares of the year are a distant mirage. You are an oasis. Lush, between my thighs. No matter how deeply I drink, I want more.

Merry Christmas to me.