This Is What I Want

I make no noise but you lift your head anyway, as ifyou’ve scented me…and maybe you have. Among the smells ofink and paper, of dust, I carry the odor of roses, because that ishow you imagined I would smell. I wear white, because that’swhat you dreamed I would wear.

I’m the princess of every fairy tale you’ve ever read. Themaiden in the tower, the sleeping beauty, the cinder-smudgedwaif waiting for her prince. I am your desire made flesh; myblood, the ink in your pen; my skin, the crumpled softness ofyour parchment.

You put down your pen. I glide to you on slippered feet,silent. There is room on your desk, when we make it. The soundof the books hitting the ground is very loud. Neither of us turnsour head to see the destruction. All you want to see is me.

You reach for me. Your hands find all the places on mybody you’ve spent long hours creating. You kiss me, soft andslow, and hold me as carefully as though I were built of glass.

I sigh, as you want me to, when you push me onto yourdesk and lift the silk of my skirt over my thighs. Your hands slideup my skin. Your mouth brushes the soft floss of my pubic curlsand your thumbs part me to your gaze.

“You’re so beautiful.”

I have longed to hear your voice from your own mouth,to hear you say the words you’ve thus far only written. I likeyour voice. It’s low, deep. Rough like the rasp of a cat’s tongue.I shiver.

You kiss between my legs as sweetly as you did mymouth. I arch into your embrace when you slide your armsunder my shoulders. Your mouth finds my throat. My fingersrake your back when you enter me; your cry of surprise urgesone from my lips. You push into me, nevertheless, and fill mewith heat and pleasure.

I was made to take pleasure from your touch, and Iwrithe under you as you thrust. I wrap my legs around yourwaist and hold you closer. Under my hands your shoulderstense.

Ecstasy fills me like water, overflowing. My body shakes.You hiss when I carve the evidence of my passion into your skin.You fuck me harder and we both surge into delight.

Later you stroke my hair as you murmur the litany of mymany names. I am your princess, your waif, your creation. I amyour desire made real.

* * *

Her latest blog entry had been live for only a few minutes before the first comment came. The rush of it swept through Eve all the way to her toes. There was nothing quite like the thrill of almost-instant feedback.

You’re brilliant.

“Thanks, Puppetboy,” she murmured, leaning back in her chair. It wasn’t the first time he’d said so.

Depeche Mode crooned at Eve from her speakers and she adjusted the volume as she refreshed her browser to reveal three more comments. Her e-mail program dinged at the same time, alerting her. She smiled, savoring it. She’d make poor Puppet wait for a reply while she read the others.

Eva had started blogging two years ago during a messy breakup with the man she’d been certain she was going to marry. Not because she was madly in love with him, though she had been, once upon a time. No, she’d been certain she would marry Brad because he loved her.

Or at least he had, once upon a time.

For Eve, the standard, once-a-week missionary position had ceased to satisfy, but Brad had been threatened by her suggestion they explore what he called “that kinky shit.” She’d long felt he didn’t really listen to her, but time and time again he’d proved it when she’d tried to interest him in something beyond the plain vanilla sex life they had.

She couldn’t pinpoint when she knew she no longer loved him, nor could she determine exactly the moment he stopped loving her. It would have made things so much easier if she could have. But no, convinced of the other’s esteem, both had struggled in the relationship for too long, until finally they not only no longer loved each other, she was pretty sure they’d hated each other. Because someone who cares about another person doesn’t try to hurt them over and over again just for fun, which was what it felt like Brad had been doing to her, and a person who loves another doesn’t shut that person out completely, the way she’d done to him.

Her first blog had served as a way to relieve some of the anxiety of the breakup, which had turned ugly not only emotionally but financially. When Brad discovered what he considered a betrayal of their intimate life, it had turned ugly physically as well.

He’d only hit her once, mostly by accident because she got between him and the computer he was intent on smashing, but once was more than enough. Eve had kicked him in the nuts and told him to get the fuck out of her house and her life. She hadn’t heard from him since, and if there were times when her bed seemed vastly empty, there were more times when she considered the silence that greeted her every night the purest sort of blessing.

The experience with Brad had taught Eve the wisdom of using a different name online, however, and she’d chosen Eris Apparent as sort of a whim. The goddess of chaos had seemed a perfect namesake for the turmoil in her life at the time.

Her second blog wasn’t about her real life at all, but rather the life she imagined for herself. To her surprise, for Brad had done his best to convince her she was an anomaly, she was far from the only person blogging about sex. She’d discovered an entire community where she could, for the first time, be herself.

Or someone else.

Eris liked what Eve liked, but Eris was the one with the guts to put it out there for the world to see. Eris was the one who came up with the flirty, sexy responses or snappy comebacks. She was everything Eve was inside but hadn’t yet managed to bring to the surface. And also, frankly, Eris was Eve’s shield, saying and living the sorts of virtual experiences Eve was afraid to tackle in reality.

Three more replies materialized, all from regular readers. She granted Puppetboy some mercy and gave him a command or two she knew would send him into a frenzy of gratitude. Hell, truthfully, knowing that somewhere he was refreshing his browser as often as she was, hanging on her every word, was a huge turn-on. For Puppetboy, she was a goddess.

She traded a few back-and-forths with fellow sex blogger Lavender_whiskey, mostly good-natured taunts about the alternate uses for men’s ties. Lavender wrote more often about submission while Eve’s fantasies tended more toward being in charge, but both of them wrote about what they wanted.

She hadn’t done ninety percent of what she wrote about, but that didn’t matter. That was the point of fantasy, after all. It didn’t have to be practical. She’d grown to think of Eris as almost a different person. Someone bolder. Someone worshipped.

Loved.

She was getting ready to sign off for the night when one last comment came through. She didn’t recognize the username, Tell_me, but there was nothing unusual about that. Through the wonder and glory of blog lists, Technorati and search engines, Eris’s blog got hundreds of hits a day.

I like what you want.

Tired and ready for sleep, she debated not bothering to reply, but it had become a point of pride with her that all comments, aside from the obvious flames, got an answer. She hated blogs that grandstanded and poked, demanding attention, but gave none in return. If you were going to blog-hop and pimp yourself, you should be prepared to reply to someone who took the time to leave a comment.

Thanks for stopping by, she typed. It was a mild answer, neither encouraging nor insulting.

It was past time for bed. She’d spent hours online, chatting and commenting and living her life as someone different, but her real life paid the bills, and her real life body needed sleep. The ping of her e-mail stopped her in the doorway, and like any true addict, Eve gave in and checked “just one more time.” It was Tell_me again.

Do you really not care who I am? I think you do.

She paused, fingers on the keyboard, debating. Was this a troll, or a sincere question? Readers like Puppetboy never dared question her entries, but constant praise meant nothing without occasional criticism to temper it. And the use of I…

Eve hesitated. She wrote a sex blog. She didn’t cyberfuck strangers.

What makes you think I mean you?

Two minutes passed with agonizing slowness while she waited for the answer.