Inaugural Ball

Watching the inauguration of President Obama left me with a high that I rode all day, like a surfer-girl hanging ten on a board riding the curl of a wave that carried me toward a bright and shining shore of hope. Adrenaline and endorphine junkie that I am, I also rode a tide of arousal that swelled as the day progressed. Spring was in the air, and the sun was warm on my skin as I sat outside and ate my lunch under the bare branches of a tree.

I sent my lover a text message: Sitting in the sun, the breeze tickling my bare mound under my skirt.
He responded with: Naughty girl.

I continued to flirt with him throughout the day, and by the end of it I was wet and ready for a wild romp.
Celebration dinner? I sent, hoping for a romantic evening with an orgasmic climax.
Conference call with India at 8, he responded.

Dinner at home then. I pretended to be disappointed, but I wasn't. It meant we could get down to the business of scratching the itch that had been bothering me all day.
Ok. How about I make a nice dinner, pour some wine, and we watch some of the inaguration coverage, I typed into my iPhone.
Sounds perfect, he responded, making me squirm. I am sensitized to the word 'perfect' after repeated exposure to a hypnosis session called Perfect Orgasm.

At home I put a chicken and rice casserole in the oven, followed shortly by cored apples stuffed with a mixure of pecans, brown sugar, and mascarpone. A 2005 Eberle Muscat Canelli put into the refrigerator to chill, a lovely wine sweet enough for his palate but less cloyingly sweet than most Muscats, and thus drinkable by me. I retired upstairs and drew a bath for myself. It was delicious, and the bath oils made shaving easy.

Towel-draped and turbaned, I opened a drawer looking for an ultra-rich moisturizing creme for my pruned hands and feet. What I found was a silicon butt plug that I'd forgotten. Shiny and blue, the same colour of blue as my recently-painted toes, it cried out to be used, filling my mind with naughty images and sensations. Mmmmm.

I dressed in a simple blouse and skirt, with black satin panties underneath, and beneath them, the round base of the plug parting my buttocks, making me hyper-aware of my ass.

Dinner is in the oven. I am freshly shaved. And I've got a plug in. I typed into my iPhone.
I'll be home soon. It was nearly an instantaneous response. I grinned.

I lighted candles, dished up dinner, set the apples out to cool, poured the wine, tuned the TV in to the Inaugural festivities coverage, and stretched out on the couch to wait, bare feet pointed toward the door. When he walked through it, I got carefully to my feet. Sitting up put pressure on the plug, making me shiver. He slipped his arms around me and gave me a big hug, then let his hand travel down to my ass. His fingers sought and found the base of the plug and he gave a good push. I gasped, then moaned.

"What have we here?" His voice was deep and amused in my ear, his breath fanning my neck.
I squirmed and leaned into him.
"I don't know what you are talking about." I lied.
He pressed harder, arching my hips into him. He took advantage of my imbalance and guided me backwards, onto the floor. Leaning over for a kiss, he undid his fly with one hand and pushed my skirt up. I felt the heat of him against my satin-clad mound and sighed with longing. Six hours of build-up and I was furnace-hot.

His fingers pushed the fabric aside and entered me.
"Wow!" he half exclaimed, half moaned. "You're so wet..."
"I've been waiting all day..." I pressed my hips upwards. I could hear Obama speaking in the background, along with military hoo-ah's.
"Have you now? he asked. He fumbled his pants down over his hips and guided himself into me.

I whimpered. There was enough wetness to provide lubrication for an orgy, but the plug in my ass made his slide into me a tight fit. He pressed slowly, not stopping until the closely trimmed hairs at the case of his cock were prickling my clit. He drew back and then slammed into me, his balls slapping against the plug in my ass. I cried out a little. He gave me a tight grin and shifted into the rhythm that works so well on me, rocking me to orgasm in a minute, perhaps two at most.

He leaned over me, looking into my pleasure-blurred face.
"I think you're ready now."
"For what?" I asked.
He rolled me onto my knees and deftly pulled the plug out.
"For your Inaugural Ball," he answered, and pushed, making me see stars that danced to the ballroom music coming from the TV.

Announcing updates to Silkenvoice.com

I enjoy writing and recording erotica. I enjoy the conversations I get into and the feedback I receive. I enjoy the freedom of being fully self-expressed in this area of my life. But one of the consequences of expressing myself in this way in the current culture is that some people consider my work to be questionable, objectionable, or pornographic.

I like to think that the quality of my work speaks for itself and that anyone exposed to it would find that it is neither degrading, disgusting, nor without artistic or educational merit. I deal in pleasure and happiness, two things I consider to be ultimately good, but some people object very strongly to the subject matter, and some organizations fear lawsuits over it. So I've found my work banned from iTunes (despite the availability of considerably more explicit podcasts) and Lulu.com asked me to so heavily edit my product descriptions that I decided they would be misleading as to the content.

I've spent the past month looking for better options, and have finally found something that suits my needs. As such, I have updated my Silkenvoice.com website and have established a relationship with Payloadz.com to provide the shopping cart functionality for selling my audio files. Please visit my website at Silkenvoice.com. There are now 12 erotic audio stories/files available for digital download at my catalog page.

Being Known

Why do you fear being known?
I ask when he says
I know him too well
that echoing well deeper than his voice
He does not want to be predictable,
dull, uninteresting
But it is deeper than that


I know
the fear of being known is fear of intimacy
I know

I know this fear. I lived it
Lived it like the babe uprooted from his mother's breast
It goes back that far, yes
for all of us

We fear losing our mystery, we fear
losing what makes us compelling strangers
lest we lose what we fear most to embrace

Our intimate other selves
So we dance, dear
dance with our fear and the Other
who might be mother or father
in addition to lover

Know me, I challenge
stripped bare of pretense my body a gift
Here are my mysteries, touch them see
how my skin pebbles
fingers playing tumescent flute
same song every time

yet novelty is not lost
right now
in the moment
in the primacy of here-now

Why flee this intimacy, savor it instead
like tongue savors nipple tasty
forbidden pastry sugar-sweet
as carnal knowledge of one's beloved

I nurture you
penetrate me
Know and be known
Some things can not be lost
Some things will not keep

Love, by Pablo Neruda

(artwork by: SynfullyDigital Designs)

I've added a recording of Pablo Neruda's poem "Love" to YouTube.
I've also made some recent updates to my Silkenvoice podcast page. I have erotica episodes scheduled to post there every 10 days through February--next one will be January 15th.

A week into the new year

I am sipping coffee from a french press, a strong, dark roast whose beans, when ground, scented two rooms. When brewed, the smell wafted up the stairs. I could smell it while I was showering. I showered late, partly out of laziness, and partly out of reluctance to wash away the reminders of last night's lovemaking. The morning light is filtering through the ornately-carved teak screen in the living room. The day is clear and bright, deceptively so. It is cold outside.

Things are slowly coming together as I unpack my old life and fit it into my new one like pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. His stuff and mine, commingling in this townhouse like our fluids in my body. Artwork hung, furniture moved around, oriental carpets laid like lines in the sand, and so far, no conflict, and very little criticism.

"This is a big change for you," he said yesterday. "How are you doing? Are you happy here?"

It is for his capacity to ask questions like these that I love him. I know him to be caring and playful, in addition to the intensity for which he is well-known. His forceful personality and self-confidence are intimidating to some, but not to me. They are simply aspects of who he is. After dating for 3 years, I know him well enough that he finds it scary. Yet I rarely put the depth of my understanding into words. A wise woman knows how greatly men treasure the mysteries of the feminine -- and allows men the illusion of their own mysteries. It is one thing to penetrate another's mysteries. It is another to reveal them.

It is now a week into the New Year, and I can honestly say that I have begun the year as I would like it to continue. It has been full and rich already.