But in the meantime, I'm devising a new purpose for Deepest Violet. My male character was inspired by the man I've so often written about here. I've mentioned him on my "real life" blog many times, but always in an acceptable context. I mean, my husband and son read that blog, so how explicit am I going to be??? Despite his celebrity status, I do know him and his family. His wife reads my blog. More than I thought she did, apparently. Before I saw him last month (two nights in a row, road-trip for the concerts), I got some email from his wife. She commented on an old blog post, giving me information about a song lyric I had been pondering. I wrote to thank her, and said I hoped she didn't mind my blog or think it was too silly. It's a humor blog, and I do go a bit over the top sometimes. I don't really plot against the missionaries cruising my neighborhood. I'm not really going to drag the clean-cut boys into my basement and corrupt them with pornography and drugs (probably), but I get an idea and run with it. That's what the blog is about. I've made a point to try to promote this man and his band on the blog, and get a bit hyper about it. And, given his off-the-charts delectable hotness, how better to bring in (female) fans than by focusing attention on him??? His wife replied that she found some of what I wrote "a bit odd," but wasn't offended. I didn't need to remove any posts. (I did, however, de-drool-ify my Facebook page, which she also follows.)
So. No can talk about him on my regular blog. Cannot discuss the fact that I'd like to lick his tattoos. Cannot discuss the fact that I also sit and look at some of the pictures from last month's shows and want to lick the sweat from the hollow of his throat, just above the cords and chains of his necklaces. Cannot mention wanting to get my arms around that lean, firm waist and pull him to me. Can't wax poetic over the things I'd like to do involving his hair.
But I can here. And so I will. When I have inappropriate thoughts about him (hourly, though I don't have to write about them that often), this is the only place I can do it. If you're here, you either found me through one of the catalog listings and have no idea who I "really" am, or you're a trusted friend I've invited. So you don't know who he is, either, or you do and I can trust you with that information.
So. Stay tuned. There may be more here than there's been in a while, if I can stop editing my book. It's funny... my character started out AS this man, but developed into a person of his own. I hope I can create characters for my next book that I love as much as I love my hero and heroine in this one.
Yours,
Deepest Violet
Yours,
Deepest Violet
The restlessness is part of my nature, my need to ponder and explore the Deepest Violet side of me, and it always has been. For reasons I cannot fathom, autumn causes it to stir, until it nearly rages, demanding I acknowledge it.
Spring and summer seem to sparkle with the possibility of excitement and adventure, so restlessness lies quiet, trusting that I will find enough ways to satisfy it on my own. With the coming of crisp days and chilly nights, though, it senses the inevitable bleakness of winter and begins to assert itself. It tells me that hibernation is not far away, and I must stoke the fires to survive the season.
In the past, there have been times that merely looking within myself and nurturing my fantasies has not been enough. The restlessness insisted that it must be realized, to flex its claws in the physical world. Several years ago, I fell under its spell at this time of year, and began seeking ways to allow it the freedom it demanded without destroying the life I’d so meticulously built.
This, of course, ended in near-disaster. Full of schemes, I am a dismal failure at execution and deception. Only my husband’s forgiveness, and my devout pledge to never tread that path again, saved me.
I learned much about myself that year, and know how to make sure those lines between fantasy and reality remain distinct and uncrossed.
Still, the restlessness cannot be denied, and so I allow my secret obsessions to flourish, knowing that any attempt to repress them will quickly lead to an unbearable buildup of frustration that could explode and shatter my world.
Yesterday I awoke already feeling needful. Before I even left the house, I was longing for something that I knew would not be granted, at least not just then. I spent the day partially aroused, clenching my thighs in an attempt to quell or encourage the sensation at various times.
If I could have stepped into my fantasy world, I know it would have been so easy to stop the ache, to achieve release from the exquisite agony of wanting. He would make sure that this was so.
I imagine…
I slide my hands under the hem of his soft, worn t-shirt, first skimming the planes of his stomach, then moving around to his back and up to his leanly muscled shoulders, drawing him to me. He cups the back of my head, under my hair, and tilts my face up toward his, as he slowly leans down. His lips brush mine, barely more than a whisper, yet my whole body begins to come alive at this slightest touch. He kisses me again, this time savoring each lip in turn, before slipping his tongue between them. He tastes of smoke and barley, as our energies are caught up together, combining to form the genesis of the coming storm.
Our shirts chase each other to the floor, and he guides me down, settling my head and shoulders on the pile of brocade pillows I’d so carefully arranged on the bed not even an hour before. He steps out of his jeans before gathering my skirt around my waist and quickly skimming off the scrap of material beneath. His hair shimmers over my breasts and belly, as he sinks down between my trembling thighs.
His hands part my legs further, and his tongue plays over the smooth-shaven outer lips. I smile secretly, knowing I made them so, purely to be more inviting to his attentions. His thumbs open me, exposing my need, and he strokes his tongue slowly all the way from bottom to top, his lips nestling briefly in the small, trimmed patch above.
My pulse is racing as his mouth descends, his lips and tongue undoing me, and I wrap my fingers through his hair, unsure whether to push him away or pull him more tightly to me. Still undecided, I lift my hands to my breasts, cupping their weight, caressing the globes with my palms and rolling the sensitive nipples between thumb and forefinger. He is relentless, driving me beyond pleasure that seems too overwhelming to endure – and yet I never want it to end.
He becomes more urgent in his ministrations, and then, abruptly, he rises, sliding up my body. He lifts my knees to his waist, then grasps my wrists and pins them tightly to the pillows beside my head. He kisses me deeply, before pulling back and looking into my eyes. Normally a crystalline blue, his eyes are now a turbulent ocean blue, and he does not permit either of us to look away as he plunges into me.
Like the waves of the northern sea that is still reflected in his eyes, he crashes over me again and again, bombarding me with the force of his love, and daring me not to love him back. The headboard is protesting, but that pounding is soon drowned out by the hoarse cry coming from my own throat, and I am washed away.
He won’t let me escape him, ever, and certainly not now. The rush engulfs us both, until there is no sound remaining but the beating of our hearts.
Sometimes they are daydreams, when I think of where he is and what he’s doing at that moment. I especially like doing this early in the morning, when I know that he is sleeping, relaxed and unguarded, his breathing deep and even, and the pillow warm under his cheek.
Sometimes my dreams are in the form of the bedtime story I tell myself, about that alternate reality in which other-Violet meets him and he falls immediately and irrevocably in love.
And then, of course, there are the nighttime dreams, completely unscripted, in which we are together and I am almost unable to believe that I have won the heart of this amazing man.
In my bedtime story, I currently have a favorite scene. It is the morning after his first night in my bed, and I awaken before he does. Fingers of sunlight are poking in around the edges of the drawn shade, giving the room a pleasant glow. He is sleeping on his back, one arm bent and resting on the pillow. His face is peaceful and his sleep-rumpled hair tumbles around him, a single wayward tendril across his cheek.
I carefully tuck the hair off his face, lest it disturb him, and trail my fingers through the soft strands lying across his pillow. Moving closer, I study the dark blond tresses, and marvel at the contrast between them and my own long, dark auburn curls. I idly begin twining bits of our hair together, autumn gold and darkest wine, thinking this is yet another way for us to be joined.
I am drawn to him as inevitably as the rain is drawn to the rivers and then the sea. I reach out, my hand under the blanket, and caress his hip. Moving to his thigh, resisting the temptation to touch him too intimately, I encourage a slow arousal intended to bring him gently from sleep.
He begins to respond, his erection brushing the side of my hand as it stirs to life. I allow my fingers to brush softly over its length, just as his eyelids flicker and then open, revealing the clear, intensely blue eyes that never fail to make my heart skip a beat. His lips curl into a drowsy smile, and he stretches languidly before rolling toward me, the loosely braided section of our hair parting as he does.
He glides under the covers and moves over me. Taking my hands, he extends my arms over my head, and rests the entire length of his body on mine as he lowers his face to give me a tender good-morning kiss, and then bends one knee to nudge my legs apart. Positioning himself to enter me, he finds me already – or still – wet with desire, more than prepared to welcome him.
Once fully enveloped in my deepest, wildest, most needful core, he stills, kissing me, the light scattering of hair on his chest pressing delightfully against the hardened peaks of my nipples. I wrap my lower legs around the backs of his calves, allowing as much of our sleep-warmed bodies to be in contact as possible. My every nerve is profoundly, almost painfully aware of him, of his touch, his heat, his vitality.
He begins to move within me, his entire body shifting and sliding along mine with each long, slow, delicious stroke, his hands still clasping mine above my head. His hair falling around our faces, he kisses me more deeply, the bristles of his unshaven face scratching at the sensitive skin around my mouth in a wickedly sensual way.
The precious intimacy of this interlude fills my soul, making me feel utterly alive. I move my hips against him, and the pressure of his body grazes the bud at the center of my arousal. Waves of warmth radiate through me, drawing a long, satisfied moan from my throat as I contract around him, my fingers clenched tightly in his.
His thrusts quicken and become more purposeful, intensifying and extending my climax just as he reaches his own. A groan rumbles deep in his chest, and I feel its vibration through my whole body.
When we are both spent, he releases my hands and rests on his elbows, still above me, still joined. He kisses his way across my cheek to my ear, where he whispers, “Morning, darlin’. Think we should just stay in bed today?”
I don’t think I’ve ever heard a better idea.
The last time I’d seen him, he’d been an awkward-looking teenager, though smart and confident, with a keen sense of humor and easygoing manner. When he finally arrived that day, I was stunned to see just what a gorgeous young man he’d turned out to be.
He was a bit late, because as he told my son, he’d had a girl over the night before, and he didn’t leave his place until she was on her way to work. Oddly, I found myself being jealous of this unknown “Chiquita.” But what woman with one drop of estrogen in her body wouldn’t be? Looking at him, I assessed him as a very desirable man, instead of the boy I’d previously known.
The tallest of the assembled group of “volunteer” movers, he stood at least 6’1”, and had the lean but fit build of a swimmer. His legs, below the bottom of his almost knee-length cargo shorts, were muscular and tanned, and I found myself wanting to feel the dark hair of his calves on the sensitive insides of my wrists. The corkscrew curls of his collar-length dark brown hair would have been the envy of many women, and could have looked effeminate on some men, but his masculine jaw, bearing something between three-day stubble and a very short-cropped beard, ruled out any possibility of being “pretty”.
His warm brown eyes were intelligent and lit with secret amusement, set above broad, well-shaped cheekbones. His mouth seemed made for teasing smiles, as well as more intimate endeavors, with even teeth and sensually-shaped lips.
The veins and muscles in his forearms stood out as they maneuvered sofas, chairs, and boxes out the door and down the stairs, and later as things were unloaded and set into place in the new house. His t-shirt stretched tightly across his back as he bent to set down a large box, and I had a flash, a vision of how those shoulders would feel under my hands as I leaned into his chest. He laughed at something that another member of the “crew” said, and I imagined how that soft, unselfconscious laugh might sound in the dark, close to my ear, with his lips brushing my cheek.
Once everything was unloaded, a discussion took place to decide how many of them needed to go to a relative’s home nearby to pick up a heavy sectional sofa. He said he could stay behind and put together one of the new end tables, and I had already planned to remain to keep an eye on my son’s small dog. As the debate continued around me regarding the distribution of the various tasks, I harbored a faint hope that he and I would be the only two left at the new house. I even allowed myself a moment or two to fantasize about what could happen if that were the case.
He was no longer the child of the past; he was now a 24-year-old man – or perhaps man-child, given the fact that I am 43. If fantasy were to become reality, he would be my youngest conquest (conqueror?), but not by much.
There was a period in my life, not so many years ago, during which I took some terrible risks in order to experience things that had not been a part of my younger years. While I hadn’t been a virgin at 17 when I started dating my husband (though he was), and I was not a particularly faithful girlfriend, it had still been many years since I’d touched or been touched by anyone else.
Why this was so important to me is hard to say. I am admittedly unconventional when it comes to the idea of monogamy. In my mind and my heart, sex between any two (or more) consenting adults can simply be about the joyful sharing of a natural pleasure, something special that makes us all human. It doesn’t have to have any emotional component, and doesn’t have to impact any other relationship in our lives. Many, including my husband, would vehemently disagree.
Still, that doesn’t change how I feel, deep in my soul. The joining of two halves of the whole defines the balance of the universe, and is a gift meant to be enjoyed. It is a celebration of what it means to be alive, and to fully be a part of the energy of the Earth. Even knowing that if my husband learned what I was doing our marriage would likely end, it was important enough to me that I sought out what I felt I had been missing.
My adventures during that time – and the nearly disastrous effects on my marriage – will undoubtedly be explored, in depth, in future editions of Deepest Violet, but my purpose in mentioning them today is to discuss some of the ones that fit the “older woman, younger man” category. To be honest, recent years have blurred together somewhat, and I am no longer entirely certain just how long ago these events took place.
Two of my “dates” were 29. Most of them, though, were in their early 30s. I was 40 or 41. Of all of them, there was only one who was older than I was. One, the one I alluded to earlier, was 26.
It was a bitter January night, and I’d slammed out of the house, angry about what I felt were unreasonable demands being placed upon me. No doubt about it; I was looking for trouble. I was ready to be very, very bad. I stationed myself at a local bar, wearing red and sitting in a way intended to show off my high-heeled boots and long legs.
It didn’t take long. I was soon at a table with a group of four or five guys who met at the bar regularly. They’d gone to school together, and while they now worked in different businesses in different areas, this was “their” place.
The 26-year-old was the senior member of the group. By some unspoken agreement among the guys, for whatever reason, he was clearly the one who would pursue me. I didn’t plan to make him chase me too hard, but he didn’t know that yet.
As the evening progressed, the group decided to move their festivities elsewhere, and this guy and I decided that our festivities might be more private in nature. He’d arrived with one of his friends, so he drove my car, and we went to his place.
This decision was many things on my part. Stupid. Reckless. Dangerous. Impulsive. Foolish. Selfish. Crazy.
It was also exciting.
When I first embarked on that period of time that I now refer to as “Slut-Fest,” I didn’t know what to expect. I wasn’t 25 anymore. “Fresh, firm, perky and curvaceous” were not words that could be used when describing me. But I soon learned that there are a lot more young men out there than you would expect who are strongly attracted to older women. While this discovery might have surprised me, it did not disappoint me in the least.
I must admit that I don’t even know his name. I think I did, at one point, but by the next morning it was gone. Joel? Seth? It was one of those short, concise, old-fashioned names that became trendy again. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. I’m sure he doesn’t remember my name, either.
I stayed with him for a few hours, before (again, foolishly) driving home from a strange neighborhood in a heavy snowstorm, the wine not as far out of my system as good sense would have dictated. But during those hours, I was reminded what it was like to be thoroughly enjoyed, used, savored, and satisfied by someone with the unrestrained enthusiasm of youth.
There has never been a problem with my marital sex life. But in some ways, I see it like having a favorite restaurant. They have so many things you love, and they always know the special things to do for you in order to make each experience memorable. Still, no matter how wonderful it is, you just need something different after a while.
So there you are, alone with a man 15 years your junior. He can’t wait to get his hands on you, and the energy is pouring off him in waves nearly strong enough to knock you off your feet. He wants to touch you, taste you, claim you, everywhere, in every way, all at once. He is strong and a bit arrogant, but you can see beneath it to the uncertainty he’s trying to hide. The way his lips move along your neck and jaw, to your mouth, and the way his tongue tastes the inside of your mouth is not like any other kiss you’ve had.
You don’t know how many girls he’s been with, but you know that’s what they were. Girls. No matter how trim and full-breasted, with no stretch marks marring their flat stomachs and pierced belly buttons, no matter how much they are willing to do, they can never give him what you can. You allow things they would not, and the uninhibited rush of your intense response will almost be more than he can bear. You know how to guarantee that his pleasure, as well as your own, will reach heights he can scarcely imagine.
You tell him to slow down, and he seems to appreciate that, because it frees him from the fear that he has to do everything, now, quickly, so you’ll know he’s good at this. He is learning that “everything” isn’t necessary; it’s more important to fully experience each and every thing that you do.
He’s rough at times, taking charge and asserting his masculinity, but you allow it, because it’s what you want, too. Then you make him lie back and submit, as you taste every inch of his trembling, sweat-glazed body. You love his scent, and the way his skin feels on your tongue, and the way the length and girth of his erection are subtly different from anyone else you’ve ever known. He fits into your mouth and your throat, touching spots that go untouched by others, and the feel of his beautifully tense thighs under your fingers is beyond description.
The sounds he makes as you ride him, guiding him exactly where you most want to feel him, are unique, and the way he throws his head back during his climax is a sight that will always hold a special place in the most secret corner of your heart.
Those are some of the joys of a young man, a virtual stranger, someone you’ve never met before and will never meet again. Someone whose name might have been Joel. Or Seth.
Back to moving day, where I was wondering if I was going to be left alone with the 24 year old friend of my son, a decision was made. We would all go to the relative’s house and visit, while some of the guys loaded the cumbersome sofa.
Was I disappointed? Certainly. The possibility of any flirtation, let alone anything more than that, has passed.
Was I also a bit relieved? Probably. Initiating anything beyond an innocent conversation is fraught with risks and potential embarrassment, but experience had taught me that once the ice is broken, unexpected things tend to rush in. Maybe it would have been worth the risk.
The rest of the day I watched that beautiful man-child and wondered, what if…
In this world of Deepest Violet, I am often submissive. He might think he is only taking, and that my submission is mere passive acceptance of his dominance, abandoning my own needs in light of his demands, but he would be wrong. By giving, wholly, I receive everything I’ve ever sought.
Even my aggression is, in its way, submissive. I serve. I embody fantasies. I feed desires.
Submission can, in fact, be the ultimate power. If I am willing to surrender, I become desperately, fervently needed. Desired. Consumed. He will do anything to lose himself in what only I can offer.
Oral sex, more than any other kind, separates the give and take. I release my inhibitions, my shame, and allow his desires to become my own. I exist only to grant this pleasure, and am not seeking anything for myself, though the act of arousing him and bringing him to completion does satisfy me in many ways. By abandoning myself, I capture him.
My lips, full and stained the Deepest Violet, brush down his length, then back to the crest, before encircling him and drawing him into the silken heat of my mouth. He smells of sunshine and vanilla and musk. I love the feel of him, iron-hard beneath, but encased in delicate sensitivity. I savor each in its own time, and swallow the primal taste of his skin.
He’s watching, and I know this. I want him to. I expect him to. I need him to. I love knowing that he can’t take his eyes off my lips, and later my tongue as it dances over him. He watches my fingers as they wrap around him, squeezing, and sliding in time with my lips when I want him to be nearly overwhelmed with the sensation.
I feel his slight disappointment as I retreat, once again showing him the wonders my lips, teeth and tongue can offer. I revel in the feeling of his moisture-slickened tip as I trace it over the sensitive skin around my mouth. A shimmery-wet trail marks its passing. My nails trace lightly, then more firmly along his inner thighs, up to the junction of his legs.
Then, when he is intently focused on my performance, I shift again and allow him to fill my mouth, my throat, while firmly swirling my tongue along every rigid inch. Fingers now tangle in my hair, holding my face close to him, not letting me escape. I struggle briefly, as if I want that escape, so that he’ll pull even more tightly and begin to shift his hips, seeking to lodge himself more deeply within my throat, which relaxes to receive him. My struggle serves its purpose. He can imagine he’s overpowering me, I can imagine I’m being overpowered, but in truth there is nowhere else I’d rather be.
He allows me to show him again the delicately insistent ministrations of my tongue. I feel him swelling, tightening, and I use my hand to stroke him, while my lips continue to tease his glistening tip. His breath is coming quickly now, and he uses my hair to drag my head back just a bit, so that when his release comes it pulses onto my face, my lips, my tongue, my chin, my hair.
And we are both satisfied.
Yesterday, I indulged in a secret pleasure. Wholly alone, without the subtle scrutiny of my husband, I allowed myself to fully immerse myself in fantasy.
Call me Violet. It’s not my name, but it’s who I am, at least when I am here.
I have a popular “mainstream” blog, where much of my life is on display. Even there, I am often accused of sharing too much, revealing too many intimacies, but they are only the smallest glimpse into what lies beneath.
I do not consider myself vulgar or crude, and I try to handle the most raw of emotions and desires with beauty and honesty. You may be shocked at times, but look into your own soul before you condemn. You have these thoughts, these feelings, too, if you will only stop running from them and see.
Things I can share nowhere else, with nobody else, will be here, to be explored and savored. Visit me, and stay if you wish. Indulge in Deepest Violet.
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