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This is a story of a relationship that builds slowly, over a long period of time, with lots of complicated feelings from D.J.’s side.
Part of what makes D.J. like Chris so much is her ability to just be herself with him, and let out a part of her nature she can’t anywhere else. Part of what makes D.J. so attractive to Chris is her incredible ability to weave a realistic, interesting story that makes him feel like he’s watching it take place, like he’s right there.
This chapter is about the start of their time together, and the interesting stories that D.J. weaves that capture his interest, and maybe one day, his heart.
To N.C., and William H.
This one’s for you.
I love hearing from fans, but there was one whose accolades were more specific, encouragement more inspiring. After a while I wanted to reach out and say something to him or her specifically. I decided to put up a post.
It’s easy for me to think of characters for my fiction. It’s much harder to do anything real, especially nowadays. I bit my bottom lip as I tried to think of what to write, and I came up with a draft.
I’m a person divided. It’s been a balm to my soul to know that you’re out there, somewhere, reading my fiction. More than balm to my soul, a survival line.
I want to give something back to you, something precious. I wrote the story Darkly Stranger for you. I was hoping to give you something new, something fresh, draw you in further and keep you entertained. Each word I wrote was crafted with you in mind, guessing your tastes, hoping that I was creating something that would somehow be more original, make you like me more.
It’s hard to keep up under that kind of pressure. But it worked at least for the first few pages of that story I think, the anticipation of the unknown… it is sort of like you and I, I think. The character’s building angst, anticipation, and tension. But I wanted to give you even more than that. I just wasn’t sure how.
Then it occurred to me that perhaps you’d enjoy a little truth mixed in with your fiction. That maybe if I laid myself bare, told you things I never told anyone, swore I’d never tell anyone, you’d want more.
But of course that would mean revealing the mundane. And worse, revealing secrets.
I could dole it out. Little by little, piece by piece. Truth in the guise of fiction. And, I could… put it in a cocktail of delectable adjectives meant to entice, with the occasional outrageous multiple choice improbability. Would you like that?
I think you would.
Here we go.
My real name is, don’t gag, Debbie-Jean. Somewhere in middle school I decided that that name was the epitome of uncool and asked people to start calling me D.J. You can call me that. (I’m NOT going to tell you my last name. I need my anonymity intact if we are ever going to this.)
Anonymity. I like that. Deep breath. Anonymity. It’s kind of like a black silky blindfold. I like that too. It makes me feel secure. And you see, Chris, I need that because as I said in the beginning, I, like you I think, am in some ways really two separate people.
The one I am on the outside and the one I am on the inside.
Which would you like to start with first?
None of us are simple. We’re a conglomerate, multiple conglomerates, layers upon layers. It’s just that my conglomerates are starved. Starved in every way. They always have been.
I think you can imagine what I’m starved for, can’t you? I mean, I’m writing here. I don’t want to turn this into just a journal, or a letter. I want to entertain you.
I feel a fist squeezing my heart when I thought about how wrong that letter seemed. I looked up so the speck of dust and moisture in my eyes would not roll over into something more. I hadn’t even done anything yet and already, if I were to be honest with myself, I was worried I would come up short.
I blinked a lot, took a deep breath, and took a hold of myself, mentally. I trashed that letter and wrote a new one, and this time I posted it.
— Posted by DJ Naberts —
Thank you so much for your positive comments. While every positive note makes me smile, there was something about your comments that has kept me going, that has been a lighthouse in the storm, an oasis in the desert, a shiny apple amidst a sea of rotting junk food.
I want to reciprocate. I wrote the story Darkly Stranger for you. I thought maybe you’d like something different, with an anticipatory edge? I worked hard to try and make it… enticing, agonizing over every adjective, comma, and sigh.
Hope I’m doing as good a job as I can for you.
I thought for a change, maybe you’d like some truth with your fiction? A blend where it was “all truth” or was it?
You would write back and tell me if I were on the wrong track, wouldn’t you? Perhaps I should stop here, before I go further, before I tell you anything else, anything real. Maybe you’re only ulus escort interested in fiction and you don’t want any true stories about me at all.
I’ll give it a day.
I see you’ve been downloaded more than 100,000 times. I know Chris is a common name, one of the most common; I would be a fool to think that this new post is addressed to me. Yet, I did favorite you as one of my favorite authors, and I would kick myself if I were the one Chris you were waiting for and didn’t get a response from. So I’ll just say, if the question is: Do I want to read more from you along these lines? Would I love a story where I might actually get glimpses, slices, hints of the real woman behind the magic?
Absolutely, unequivocally, yes.
I’m one of those women who on the surface had everything, but on some deep levels had nothing. Many, many years ago, I lived the life of the very wealthy. Everything was only an arm’s length away, but still out of my grasp.
Now, I live in an amazingly beautiful, lazy, Southern town, with incredible trees that bend and twist over the streets to create tunnels and balconies, and Spanish moss that drips to create curtains and hideaways and places for trysts in broad daylight. It was a balmy 75 degrees today as it is many days of the year. I don’t live too far from the beach.
I’m from up North. I sound like a southern bell now. I drawl. I say y’all. I look a little bit like a cross between a young Brooke Burke and young Isabella Rosellini when I’m at my thinner weight and not quite so much when I’m at slightly heavier weight. I wear funky glasses. The heavier I get the shorter I cut my hair. It’s chin length now.
But those facts are hardly entertaining stories. They are skirting around the stories, like an inexperienced lion tamer circling the cage but never willing to get in.
I guess I’m going to need a little encouragement. There are millions upon millions of stories in the fabric of our lives. I need a little direction if I’m going to focus on, and pull out, one thread.
Any thread will clothe me and any morsel will feed me. Surely you know that?
I was glad to get the response. There was an underlying sexiness to it, an ability with words that pleased me. Also, it was a blatant complement but the ‘surely you know that’ part made it all the more wonderful. The underlying message of ‘of course you’re a diamond, everybody knows it but you’ was somehow both a tease and a confidence booster.
Yet it didn’t give me any idea of which story to tell first.
Kind words build lattices in my garden and flowing pathways in my heart. But they don’t give me direction. If that’s how well you usually give direction, then I feel it’s my obligation to tell you: You suck.
I wasn’t sure if the tone of the message was quite right. It was like knocking flint pieces together. Depending on whether you’re doing it over a campfire or in a powder keg could determine whether the action was smart or not smart.
Tell me a story about you that nobody else knows. Be bold in the face of facelessness. Tell me about the first time you were really wicked, or really shy, or did something taboo.
And if that is not direct enough directions for you, I’ll have you know, I can always make parameters tighter.
Well fuck. Play with fire and all that. Well, hmn. I wracked my brain for something that will be the right amount of devil and angel.
Fact or fiction:
Once upon a time, I lived in one of the most prestigious, expensive high-rises in Manhattan. There were doorman at both entrances who would hail you a cab, a distinguished concierge at the front desk who would announce your visitors, and uniformed elevator operators, a throwback to the times when you had to drag a gate closed across the elevator door. Now their job was just to look pretty and press a button.
One of them looked really pretty.
Or should I saw handsome.
I was young, but he was younger.
Smoldering was the word that came to mind.
It was many, many years ago. I’m almost ashamed to say that I don’t remember his name now, or the country he came from. But I remember his black-as-night hair, and lanky strong body, and the way I couldn’t help smirking and then looking down every time it was his shift in the elevator.
This went on for a year.
Dimitri. That was his name.
And fraternizing was obviously forbidden. But when you’re 21 and 22, when tension sizzles, things forbidden are that much sweeter. You don’t really care.
Perhaps that’s enough for today. Let me know if you want to read more.
*From yenimahalle escort Chris1970*
So far, I believe that story’s a truth. Although whether you’ll bend the road to fiction or stay the course has me intrigued.
My fair lady, my kingdom for nuggets of truth from your pen.
Until I got that message I wasn’t really sure if Chris was a male or a female. But at that message I was pretty sure it was a man. You don’t see a lot of chicks saying ‘My fair lady’ to their girlfriends.
It was the hottest day of the year. A record breaker, topping out at over 100 degrees, so warm it felt like the blacktop would melt. Everyone who could stayed inside in the air conditioning.
It was hot outside; I was hot inside.
Dimitri was working the west wing elevator, my side, overnight shift.
I couldn’t sleep. Restless.
I put on a red evening gown, a simple one. Halter neck, high leg slit, no jewelry. Red heels. Pushed the button.
“Hello, DJ. Going down?”
I had to roll my lips in to avoid the smirk. Nod from me. I got in. Down to the first floor. He held the door for me. I didn’t get out. I pointed up. He closed the door. We rode up. Thirty-two floors. In silence. We did this four times. I held up three fingers. Third floor. My floor. He pressed three. Holds the door for me. I get out. I don’t invite him to follow me. I don’t look back.
Let me know if you would like more of the story.
If I were with you in person, I might have to punish you for pausing the story and making me wait. On the other hand, if I were with you in person, perhaps you could see on my face how much I wanted you to finish. So to speak.
So far, I still vote fact, not fiction.
Here’s some concrete direction. Finish the story. I want to know. If you need compliments, I’ll give them to you. I check every few minutes to see if your story has popped into my inbox. It’s distracting. These cliffhangers make it hard to concentrate on work. Finish. The. Story.
Where was I?
I strode out. I didn’t look back. Went back to my apartment. Waited.
I changed into the shortest jean skirt you can imagine. One with frayed edges because it has been cut to reach just the top of my thighs. A skirt so short it looks more like Daisy Duke shorts really. And a white wife-beater muscle shirt, no bra. No shoes. I sauntered back down the hall.
Pushed the elevator button.
Dimitri arrived. Boy in a box. You gotta love that.
His eyes popped out of his head.
He didn’t say anything.
I didn’t say anything.
He took my hand and walked me down the hall.
To the service elevator.
He pushed the button. I mean, that’s his job, after all, and he was on duty.
It’s 3:30 in the morning.
The inside of the elevator is all dull grey with peeling paint, a sharp contrast to the shiny people mover.
The large hot box seems a metaphor for something, I’m not sure what. The inside of the elevator a railing that goes around it, safety bar maybe. Dimitri lifted me up. Set my ass on the edge of it, used his hips to keep me in place. I put the bottom of my feet on his legs. My arches fit perfectly on his calves.
The Aerosmith song was out that year, you know the one.
He pushed my tank top up, very slowly using his hands to glide up my ribs. We still hadn’t said anything, and on his face was just one question ‘when is she going to stop me?’
I tilted my head tilted back as he coasted over my nipples, baring my throat to him an automatically arching my lower back. He made a sound then, an ‘mmmnah’ sound, like a child who had just received a beautiful gift and a the same time was in pain.
I must have gasped and the speed changed from slow to fast in less time than it takes to crack a whip. Then his mouth on my breast, his cock thrust inside me, and his gentle lifting and lowering, forced me to ride him perfectly. It was the best sex I’d had to date.
With a single person that is.
And I’d never told anybody.
Fact, fiction, or some of each?
I’m not sure I care. I just want to meet you.
P.S.: I need another story, like NOW.
Laughter from me.
I’m serious about another story.
Fact or fiction:
Washington D.C. this time. It’s a few years later. I’m 29 now, instead of 22. I’ve matured considerably. I’m working for The Washington Post. I’m supposedly editing, but I feel like my entire job consists of getting coffee. I live in an extremely swanky condo building because college roommate is dating a diplomat and he got us in. The woman in the unit next to ours is a model.
It’s Christmas time, and for some reason the radio station is playing that Right Said Fred song over and over. The model’s name is Giselle. We’ve never said more than hello, how are you.
I’m envious of her. She’s tall and lanky. I’m average height and voluptuous.
Day after Christmas she knocks on my door. When I answer she has a look on my face that makes me think she’s looking for my roommate but doesn’t want to say so. I ask her in. She looks around. I’m glad I’ve straightened up.
Obviously my roommate isn’t around. In fact, she’s gone home to New York for the holidays. I make Giselle some hot chocolate. She’s hedging. I wonder when she’ll get around to what she wants to say.
Blah, blah, blah. I tune in. Costume ball. New Year’s Eve. Very important. Friend backed out. Mucky mucks. Needs someone.
Sure, I say.
Great, she says and flashes me the stellar smile that I’m sure photographs like a dream.
Pays a thousand bucks.
But she’s already at the door.
My mind is reeling.
Wait a second.
Did I just agree to what I think I agreed to?
Then I smile and bite my lip.
This shit just got interesting.
Hellllo, New Year’s Eve.
And fuck. I’m going to need a costume.
You have a reader for life. I’m betting this one is fiction, however I’m dying to know what costume you picked. French maid or harem girl seem so blasé.
New Year’s Eve was chilly with a dusting of snow. A white stretch limo picked us up. I went as Marie Antoinette, in a pale blue evening dress that had an extremely tight bodice and pushed my voluptuousness into creamy mounds bordering on perfect or obscene. I was very grateful for the mask. I was also grateful that the limo had alcohol.
Giselle explained very carefully that I was being paid for my time, not any particular service. I looked at the partition. Down.
Well the driver would have a story to tell.
I was kind of hoping to have sex. Lots and lots of sex. It had been a while. The limo stopped and started a lot in the traffic. Finally we arrived at a huge house. I think this is the party. It’s not. The driver gets out, opens the door, a man gets in. He’s totally hot. About my age. Yes! No. Not my date.
We drive on.
We stop at another house. Same routine. Man gets in. Much older. My date? I think so. One more stop. One more guy. Curiouser and curiouser.
I don’t say much. I go on the philosophy if they wanted a woman who talked they would have gone to a lecture.
The party’s at an embassy. That’s a surprise.
Luckily I know which fork to use.
It’s the Iranian embassy. I know a little bit of Farsi. I listen to conversations and catch pieces. When the moment presents itself, I say, ‘You look lovely, how are you this evening?’ one of the few phrases I know in Farsi.
‘You speak Farsi?’
‘I know this’, I say, and recite the most famous nursery rhyme, to the tune of I’m a Little Tea Pot. This gets a huge laugh, breaks the ice, and establishes my date as ‘man of taste’.
That’s worth a thousand bucks, I think.
Over the course of the night I also get to use my rudimentary French, and Hebrew. My date is impressed. Fortunately or unfortunately I have no call for my Spanish or Japanese, the only two foreign languages in which I’m actually fluent.
I drink much and eat little.
I compliment a wife on a piece of jewelry, which it turns out she designed and her husband made. My date wants to negotiate with the husband. Suddenly this seems easier. I smile at him.
Yeah, all this and a blow job. Next time I should ask for more.
Then it’s time for the countdown to midnight.
My date gives me a chaste kiss on the lips.
I wrack my brain for the words in Farsi. “You. Can. Do. Better.”
He bends me backwards over his arm and gives me a mind-searing kiss.
Once more with feeling.
I smile at him.
He pulls me to the door. Wait, wait, it’s only midnight.
Hey, hey, where’s Giselle?
I let him hustle me out the door and we get in a small black limo. He makes a circle motion to the driver.
He goes to take off my mask but I shake my head.
He brushes his fingers over the tops of my breasts and I moan; that’s one of my favorite places to be touched.
I’m leaning back, he’s pushing me back into the seat. He’s tugging up all the voluminous folds of my skirt, it’s like we’re drowning in petticoats. It seems he has some experience with corsets and layers and under-drawers because pretty soon I’m half undone and so is he. We’re fogging up the windows.
I look at the partition. Three quarters of the way up. I reach over to push the button to put it all the way up. He grabs my hand. Shakes his head.
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