Deb and Jake already know to skip entries after date nights, so this is just an extra warning to you two. Don't.

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Oh, my god, last night was amazing. I know I say that every time, but really. REALLY. It was intense and intimate. It was possibly one of the best sexual experiences I've ever had.

When Sara arrived at our house a little after 8 p.m., she was wearing a light jumper, a very snug sports bra that Jake had shrunk in the dryer last summer, and a pair of panties suitable for cutting off. Yuh-umm.

I told her that we wouldn't be doing any role play. I'd been feeling pretty mellow all day, and in fact was getting sleepy by the time she came over. I got over that once we went upstairs, though.

We layed down on the futon and started to kiss. She told me that she'd been hoping for some role play after her hectic day; she wanted to float away into fantasy. I reminded her that I could do anything that any of my characters could do, listing some of her favorite torments and techniques. I promised that I would make her fly before we were done. I kept my word.

I told her that I was her master, her daddy, her rapist, a stranger with candy ... and I could feel all of the details of the day slide away from her.

I took my time undressing her, teasing her, torturing her nipples with my teeth. I pulled out my knife and told her to close her eyes. I slowly traced lines across her skin with the edge of the blade, listening to her breath catch and hold. I worked my way down to her panties, and in small increments shredded them to pieces until they lay like a useless rag beneath her. I pulled the tip of the blade across the lips of her vagina and felt high myself from the responsibility and the enormous trust she gives me.

That's about as long as I could wait before I put the knife away, cradled her in my left arm, and plunged my fingers inside her. She came in powerful, body-wracking floods.

I think it was after that first round that she asked me to mark her. I pulled the knife in arcs above her right breast, making red lines in a broken, offset circle. Later, she said she couldn't remember asking me to do that.

We kept going and going. Hardly taking a break until we had to stop. At one point, she was on her belly, I was inside her, and she stretched her arms out to hold on to the mattress. Delineations of muscle that I'd never seen before sprang up across her shoulders and upper back. It was beautiful.

Twice she told me that I'd drained her of every drop of fluid that she could come, but the next bout would be even more intense, and from somewhere I pulled more.

We finally had to wind down so that Sara could go home. I felt so close to her. So in love. So attuned to her desire. So appreciative of everything she gives me and everything that I have. We talked about our natures as top and bottom, about how well we please each other, about the weird sort of lesbians that we are, about the strange sense of pride that comes from being able to make her come that way.

As we were headed down the attic stairs, me with a huge armload of bedlinens, I looked at her with glittering eyes and said proudly, "And I just washed all this stuff yesterday!" She said I looked like Calvin (of Calvin & Hobbes)�the devilish pride in destruction look. It's true. That's how I felt.

By the time we hit the bottom of the stairs, we were talking about formulating a game of sexual Calvinball.

"You're in the opposite zone, so you have to fuck me now!"
"But I have the flag of complete submission, so you have to throw me down and dominate me!"
"Woo-hoo! That means I get sixteen points plus a bonus flogging."

We get silly sometimes. And we get busted sometimes, too.

As I said goodbye to her on the front porch, one of our gay flight attendent neighbors walked by with his dog. Sara said I had pretty obvious post-sex bed head. It was also about 10:40 by that time. Pretty late for a weeknight social call. It doesn't really matter. In fact, it's kind of titillating to consider who might be wondering what. As long as they don't think we're cheating without permission.

Casualty list for the evening: one pair of panties, three towels (All that I had upstairs�bad Boy Scout), four bed pads, two latex gloves, 24 ounces of water, the comforter, the sheets, the foam eggshell mattress cover, and the futon itself (Big, big wet spot even through all those other layers�I blotted up as much as I could and left it to dry out). I never even strapped on last night.

It's a wonderful life.