restroom and then to the break room. The busy morning had kept her from pondering too much about what she’d write later tonight, but with the bathroom out of the way and a coffee and doughnut to fill the hole in her gut, Eve had time to think about what waited for her at home.
Most of the comments to her blog were one-liners or casual compliments. Praise for her writing or the ideas she’d presented. A fair number were from what she considered admirers—bloggers who got turned on by her entries and weren’t shy about telling her so. Every once in a while she even earned a “troll,” someone who commented with the sole purpose of insulting her or her readers and taunting them into a battle of words. Eve never engaged trolls, simply deleting their comments without reply.
Sometimes, though, she got something special. A fellow blogger, maybe, with similar tastes. Occasionally a particular comment turned into a spectacular dialogue and led her to places she hadn’t known she could go—or wanted to. Other times, someone new found her online persona and left a comment that led to another, and a friendship grew out of that small, random moment.
She sipped the bad coffee and nibbled the sugary doughnut on her way back to her pod. Her pulse leaped a little, thinking of what they’d said and what they’d say, how they’d react, her faceless admirers.
Her worshippers.
Some, she knew, like Puppetboy 1241, would rave about this morning’s post. He always loved the ones in which she demanded homage. He’d already offered, privately, to be her slave not only online but in real life, too.
Well, not hers, precisely. Not Eve’s. He wanted to be slave to Eris Apparent, the name she blogged under. It was a tempting offer and one she might have considered but for one small reason. A simple, silly and ridiculous reason, Eve thought as she rounded the corner into her pod. She stopped short at the sight of her computer screen, which she’d left open to her queue but was now back at the log-in screen, and the Mocha Mint cup, steam still curling lazily from the top, sitting on her desk. An unattainable reason.
Lane DeMarco.
* * *
This is what I want.
You, surrounded by books. They teeter in towers ready to topple with a glance, and you’ve settled in the midst of them like a king looking over stacks of gold. Papers in piles make whispering noises when you shuffle them. The room smells of ink and paper. Of intellect.
You’re bent over the desk, scribbling furiously. Your glasses have slipped down to the end of your nose, and I know you’ll push them up when you think of it, but for now your tongue is caught between your teeth as you concentrate. Your pen scratches on the paper, creating worlds with words.
You’re lost to everything.
Except me.
I make no noise but you lift your head anyway, as if you’ve scented me…and maybe you have. Among the smells of ink and paper, of dust, I carry the odor of roses, because that is how you imagined I would smell. I wear white, because that’s what you dreamed I would wear.
I’m the princess of every fairy tale you’ve ever read. The maiden in the tower, the sleeping beauty, the cinder-smudged waif waiting for her prince. I am your desire made flesh; my blood, the ink in your pen; my skin, the crumpled softness of your 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 sound of the books hitting the ground is very loud. Neither of us turns our head to see the destruction. All you want to see is me.
You reach for me. Your hands find all the places on my body you’ve spent long hours creating. You kiss me, soft and slow, and hold me as carefully as though I were built of glass.
I sigh, as you want me to, when you push me onto your desk and lift the silk of my skirt over my thighs. Your hands slide up my skin. Your mouth brushes the soft floss of my pubic curls and 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 like your 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 my mouth. I arch into your embrace when you slide your arms under my shoulders. Your mouth finds my throat. My fingers rake your back when you enter me; your cry of surprise urges one from my lips. You push into me, nevertheless, and fill me with heat and pleasure.
I was made to take pleasure from your touch, and I writhe under you as you thrust. I wrap my legs around your waist and hold you closer. Under my hands your shoulders tense.
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 my many names. I am your princess, your waif, your creation. I am your 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
