New Release: Where The Women Are 3

Just a heads-up for everyone who likes my Where The Women Are lesbian stories, I've completed production of the audio version and it is now up on my AudioSensual.com website. The about-blurb says this:
Ever wondered what goes on at women's colleges? In her Where The Women Are series, Kayar Silkenvoice tells a few tales out of class. This third episode starts with her roommate taking her basket of toys for a masturbation workshop, continues with morning sex between her and her boyfriend, and ends with witnessing one of her co-eds being spanked - - all before breakfast. With something for everyone, this audio has 40 minutes of superb storytelling by a woman whose voice is one of the most erotic you will ever hear.

Want more Silkenvoice?
My CD: on iTunes or Amazon.com
My Site: www.Audiosensual.com
My Blog: Silkenvoice.blogspot.com
My Podcast: Audiosensual.blogspot.com

She threw herself at me

She threw herself at me.

Well, not really -- but it sounds good, doesn't it?

Actually she was standing too close to a tiki torch and when the wind blew the flame toward her, she leaped away from it -- and into me. It was rather nice having my arms full of a buxom blond who smelled like Lolita Lempicka. I helped her steady herself and smiled as she blushed and apologized profusely. The man I was talking to when she stumbled into me made introductions. As we shook hands, I noticed her wedding ring.

"Emily?" I said. "A lovely name for someone so warm and soft and sweet smelling."

The way she looked at me, I knew I'd read her right. Married she might be, but Emily liked girls. And dominants.

Our mutual friend Bruce laughed. He and Emily had a lot in common, apparently. Both were married, bisexual, and submissive. We chatted for a while, and I enjoyed the energy they sent my way. Subs do that in the presence of Dominants--they bend energy our way.

I turned to Bruce. "I brought my Sybian... if you help carry it in, I'll let you choose who rides first."

"Oh!" gasped Emily. "Me-me-me-me."

I smiled at Bruce and he gave his delightful laugh.



He laughed the same way when Emily climaxed later that night, her hips bucking on my Sybian and her eyes wide. She kept saying "OhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGod" like a Buddhist reciting a mantra that had her on the cusp of enlightenment. And maybe she was. She looked utterly transformed: luminous, uninhibited, joyous. Her hair was a disheveled mess and her nipples, her little pink nipples, were incredibly hard, the large aureoles crinkled up tight.

I had slowly been turning down the vibration on the Sybian as she slid down her peak, looking drowsy and replete, but Bruce gave me a thumbs-up sign and moved behind Emily. He kneeled and pulled her back against him, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and another under her ribcage. Once he had her secure in his embrace, I goosed the power on the Sybian. Emily's eyes popped open.

"NoNoNoNoNoooo," she screamed. "Make it stop!" Her head tossed from side to side.

"Ever heard of forced orgasms, Emily?" I asked her. I knew I had a devilish expression on my face. I love making women cum.

Emily shook her head wildly. She choked on something that could have been a moan or a sob.

Bruce slid his fingers down her belly. I watched him tease her clit as I stepped out of my skirt, leaving a pool of silk on the floor. As I walked toward them, my fingers flicked my right thigh, the thigh that the holster for my strap-on dildo usually rode on. But not tonight. Tonight my tool of choice was the Sybaan.

I stood over them and gave first Bruce, and then Emily, a kiss. Then I took her hair in my hand and pulled it downward until her upturned face left her no where to look but my eyes.

"You are going to eat my pussy, Emily love, and you are going to make me cum. You are going to cum on my clit, making it vibrate with the force of your own screaming orgasms. And only your being limp and senseless will make it stop."

I tightened my fingers in her hair and pressed her face against my pussy. With my other hand, I pressed the control box against my thigh and turned it to its highest setting. Bruce leaned into Emily, forcing her pussy and clit down against the machine.

When she came, it was with an explosion of hot breath against my clit that went off like an explosion in the back of my mind. The keening sounds she made were muffled against my flesh, but the vibrations rippled through me, pebbling my skin with wave after wave of gooseflesh.

So close! I pressed myself firmly against her face until I could feel the suction of her mouth and nose struggling to find air. She sucked pussy juice deep into her nostrils and then I set her free, letting her gasp for air. Mmmm. So close!

I watched as Bruce humped his cock against Emily's ass, a blissed-out expression on his face.

"Finish in her mouth," I instructed him.

Bruce staggered to his feet and moved to stand before Emily while I got behind her on the Sybian. Even without the dildo attachment the vibration of the machine was enough to make me cum. I wrapped my arms around Emily and humped against her and the Sybian as Bruce cradled her head in his hands.

As profane as the scene might have seemed to someone else, to us there was something transcendent and sacred about the giving and taking of pleasure, of the abandonment of inhibitions and fears, and the release of our primal selves in this ages old dance to the orgiastic, orgasmic beat of carnal love pounded out in the drums of our flesh until we fell asleep in a sodden, tangled heap, our bodies imperfect instruments of the tireless, divine spark within.

Quickie intimacy

The sun and the wind conspired to tease me. The sun glowed in a cerulean sky, and its touch on my skin was like a lover's smile, warming me from the outside in. The wind tickled me, dancing along my skin like my lover's fingers. My nipples peaked, the heat of the sun and the chill of the wind enflamed me, and I sighed languidly there in my lounge chair by the pool. My languor was interrupted by a shriek of laughter from my niece, a green-eyed coppery mermaid whose hair and skin were all of a color now that summer had kissed her. I lifted the edge of my big straw hat in time to witness my lover pop out of the pool, grab hold of my niece, and unceremoniously dump her back into the water. She came back up, gasping and spluttering, and I closed my eyes.

Water dripped on me. I opened my eyes to find him standing over me, barechested and bronzed, gleaming like a god. I moved my legs to make room for him and he sat by my calves, resting his hand on my thigh, just above the knee. It made me gasp, the coolness of his hand on my over-heated skin. My libido surged. My nipples crinkled up so tightly they ached, and my skin pebbled until it felt like every hair was standing on end.

"I miss you," he said to me, and his fingers moved in a minute caress.

"Mmmm," I sighed. I missed him too, missed the feel of his legs tangled with mine, missed pressing my lips to the smoothness of his chest, but my niece had supplanted him as my bed companion and would do so for another few days. Hell!

He was sliding his hand up my thigh when my niece called out his name. His fingers squeezed me and then he rose and with a few quick steps, launched himself back into the pool. While they splashed and played, I lay in the sun and dreamed of love.

* * *

My bedroom. She sat on my bed waiting for me to pull out a change of clothes, and when I turned around she was asleep on her side, limp as a kitten. She didn't wake when I unwrapped her from the towel. I left her in her swimsuit and covered her up, then slipped out of the room and closed the door behind me. I made my way quietly down the stairs with an eager smile on my face, only to find my lover stretched out on the couch, napping. Darn!

In the kitchen, I warmed some sweet almond oil and grabbed a hand-towel. He made sleepy noises when I sat on the couch and moved his feet into my lap, then moaned when my hot, oiled hands touched him. I massaged his feet firmly enough to hit his pressure points but not enough to hurt. He sighed and moaned and stretched his legs out. His fingers laced themselves just below his navel, and his cock moved a bit, thickening.

I poured more oil into my hands and slid them up his calves, massaging him with long effleurage strokes. More pleasured moaning from him as I worked up to his thighs, my hands alternately gliding and pressing into the muscles. His cock swelled and twitched when I reached his inner thighs. I worked his trunks down past his knees and squeezed that nice warm oil on his balls. He sighed and spread his thighs for me then, one leg bent and leaning against the back of the couch, the other draped across my lap. My fingers quested, teased, pulled and pressed. My slippery hands glided along his cock, bringing it to full attention.

And when I could bear it no longer, I straddled him. I straddled him and sunk down onto the thickness that jutted ceilingward and we both moaned at the long slow glide of him into me. Our hands joined, fingers entwined, and I bounced ion him, my white sundress concealing everything. I bounced and rocked and watched him, watched his mouth open, watched each gasp and moan percolate from him. The tension built and eventually his eyes opened wide and unseeing. His body tensed and bowed beneath me and I rose all the way up and slammed back down onto him, loving the feel of him inside me. I clenched on him, clenched and released, trying to find my orgasm in time with his, knowing that I had to come, come now, now now now because it would be days before I could come again.

I released his hands and placed mine on the arm of the couch, one on each side of his head, and I battered myself against him, grinding my clit into the stubble on his mound. His hands rose and he pinched my nipples, rolling them between his fingers, and I convulsed, opening my mouth on a silent scream as I came hard. Pleasure slammed my body again and again, rocking us both. And as I climaxed he bucked under me, bucked a few times, and then he, too, was coming, his face frozen and his dark eyes blank.

I sat astride him for a few minutes, catching my breath and enjoying the tremors and jolts that ran through me like the aftershocks of an earthquake. It was marvellous, a delicious and much-needed intimate interlude that was interruped by a little voice calling for me.

I lept up and tossed the handtowel to him so he could clean up, then headed toward the stairs, our fluids running down my thighs.

What happens in Vegas...

Vegas.
In July.
Is HOT.

The sidewalks are shimmering by 9am. The palpable heat rises upwards, forming thermal air currents. The wind blows one way, then another, evoking the experience of a convection oven. If you're unlucky, it blows your hair about, making it stick to your sweaty forehead. If you're lucky, you're inside, gambling just to have an excuse to be where it's cool. If you're really lucky, you're winning at the tables or the slots. Or at the game of love.

We checked into the MGM Grand around noon. Our room was on the 20-something floor. From the windows I could see the fountain show at the Bellagio, and the construction of the monstrous new Cosmopolitan Resort, which was rather depressing. Given the state of the current economy, I wondered when its three towers would be completed. Plaiting my hair in twin braids that gave me a girlish look, I took a quick shower and changed into a flimsy white muslin sundress with a plunging vee neckline perfect for hanging my sunglasses on. I've got plenty of décoleté and I was fully aware that eyes would be drawn there--especially since my nipples get very hard and long in the air-conditioning.

My lover gave me a long, level look when he saw what I was wearing. His eyes are dark, and while they are often as open and transparent as a child's, in this case, I sensed a good deal of ambivalence. He walked up to me and gave me a long kiss, then snaked a hand up between us and tugged on one of my prominent nipples, making me moan and lean into him. I hadn't seen him in weeks and I was so hungry for him all I wanted to do was tie him to the bed and keep him there for days.

His other hand slid searchingly along my backside. He broke the kiss and said authoritatively, "Wear panties under that dress."

I pouted and considered going commando anyway, but in the ever-present struggle for dominance that is our relationship, I knew he'd simply pull his trump card. He'd deny me what I wanted most from him: the feel of him over me, on me, and in me. In the world of D/s some people are controllable through pleasure, some through pain. Me, I am controllable via my turbo-charged libido. I'll do anything if I'm denied sex long enough, and silly me, I'd taken a vow of monogamy -- albeit a rather loosely defined version that would not be recognized as monogamy by most vanilla couples.

So I went and put panties on. And for revenge I put on the granny panties I always pack just in case Aunt Flow decides to visit. And then we took the elevator down to the casino.

I like the MGM Grand because it's one of the more understated hotels on The Strip. Not as understated as the Park Hyatt in Tokyo, mind you, but for Vegas, it's quite bearable. Since I choose not to watch television or listen to the radio (I think I was Amish in another life) most of the Las Vegas casinos overstimulate me within minutes, and seeing as I had been high up in the Sierras just a few days prior to visiting Sin City, my sensory net was particularly sensitive. It didn't take long for me to blue-screen, and I lost count of the number of times I bumped into people because I was wandering around in a daze. Finally, my lover pulled me aside and asked how I was doing.

"Protein," was all I could think to say.

He took my hand and towed me over to the Rainforest Cafe, where I devoured my lunch to the accompaniment of trumpeting elephants, nodding leopards, and thunderstorms. When I finished, I wanted a nap.

"Let's play the slots," he said.

So I followed him to a bank of slot machines and watched him sit in front of something that looked suspiciously like a video game for 8 year olds. Push a button and watch five rows of three symbols roll around until they stop. And when they stop hopefully there is a row of three symbols matching, and hopefully on the line you bet on. I'm not a gambler. It goes against the grain to throw money at something where the odds of coming out ahead are so low. Sitting in front of slot machines is suspiciously like the grinding one does in MMPORGS like World of Warcraft. Push button. Spin spin spin. End turn. Push button. Spin spin spin. End turn. Repeat. Yawn. I grew bored of watching and pulled out my iPhone. Heros of Sparta was far more interesting.

Eventually he grew concerned about my apparent boredom. Was there something else I wanted to do?

To reassure him, I pulled a dollar out of my pocket. For all the times I've been to Nevada, I've never gambled there. I fed the dollar into the penny machine I was sitting at and blindly pushed a button. It cost me ten cents to watch the video screen tumble. Nothing.

A man sat next to me, drink in hand. He looked at my breasts, noticed me noticing him looking, and asked, "How's your luck?"

"Nothing yet," I said, and turned back to my machine.

I pressed the button again.

The screen rolled, same as before, only this time, when it stopped, the machine started dinging. And kept dinging. And dinging. Apparently I'd hit a jackpot for 1300 credits. Which on a penny machine means I made 13 dollars.

I cashed out.

My lover smiled at my good luck and asked me how I wanted to celebrate my win. I leaned over and whispered something into his ear, then hit the 'cash out' button on his machine.

Time to head upstairs to our room.

We threaded through the casino, following the 45 degree angle of the floorplan from one side to the opposite end, where the hotel access was. The elevator was empty and he teased my ass with his hand on the way up, making me squirm. I leaned forward to kiss him, but he blocked me, giving his head a firm shake.

He let us into the room and I went immediately to the bathroom, which was quite spacious, with black and white marble tiles and a big oval mirror on the wall between the shower and the commode. I ran the tap on warm and stripped down, then stepped into the tub to give myself a quick anal douche. I knew what I wanted, and I wanted to be ready for it.

Feeling clean and confident, I rinsed off and towelled dry, then slipped into a short and slinky black satin nightie. When I stepped into the bedroom he was waiting for me, completely naked. I felt an anxious thrill as he slipped his arms around me and gave me a long, lingering kiss. His hard cock pressed against me and I took it in my hand, wincing a bit as I did so. Even after four years, his size was a bit daunting.

Suddenly, he pushed me forward onto the bed so that I landed face-first and somewhat sprawled, with my legs mostly over the edge. His hands gripped my hips and he pressed himself against me, searing me with his heat. I wriggled a hand under me and guided the head so he rubbed against my clit a few times, making me gasp with pleasure. I moved my fingers farther back, opening myself, fingers seeking the wetness deep inside, but he pushed my hand aside and shoved into me. It hurt. A lot. He's so thick that I can't take him without serious lubrication, and so my body produces a profusion of it -- only this time he wasn't waiting for it. This time he wedged his cock incrementally into me, making soothing sounds whenever I cried out. He brushed my hair aside and kissed my back, grazing it with his whiskers. Another shove, this one easier than the last.

"There we go," he said. "I found what I've been drilling for."

He pulled back until he was almost all the way out, then pushed in again, seeking to tap all that moisture. Within moments we were both well-lubricated. And within moments, I was coming. It was a voluptuous orgasm and I relaxed into it, my body lengthening and my throat releasing my pent-up breath on a long wail of pleasure.

No sooner was I finished coming than he pulled out and pressed the big mushroom head of his cock against another opening.

"Oh wait, please wait," I begged him. "I'm not ready there. It's going to hurt."

"You like it when it hurts," he reminded me.

"Yes, but it's been weeks since we had anal sex and I'm not opened at all."

He backed off a bit and planted both hands on my ass, separating the cheeks. I collected some of my juices on my fingers and worked them up against the dark rosebud he'd been pressing on. I knew he wasn't going to give me much time, so I slipped my fingers inside, opening myself up, frantically trying to get as much pussy juice around that little hole as I could. Anal sex normally pushes the pleasure/pain barrier, but with him, well, accomodating him was akin to fisting -- and I'd tried that with one of my girlfriends. (Yikes!)

Apparently, watching me slide my fingers in and out of my asshole got him worked up even more. He grabbed my wrist and pinned it to the small of my back, then pressed his cock into me. I drew my breath in between my teeth, alternately hissing and whimpering. I wiggled my ass around under him and squeezed and released my sphincter, doing everything I could to ease the pain. Then with a short little shove the glans popped through the over-stretched ring of my anus. He moaned and I gasped. His hands dug into my flesh, pulling the cheeks of my ass apart like one pulls apart the segments of an orange. He pressed relentlessly into me, and every time I begged him to slow down he told me I'd taken him this way hundreds of times and I was going to take him a hundred times more. My hands fisted the coverlet on the bed and I buried my face against it, crying into it, alternately begging him to stop, and begging him to push on. There is something about anal penetration that is both excrutiatingly painful and exquisitely pleasurable.

He paused for a moment and then pushed on, wedging himself into me in the same way he had worked himself into my pussy -- incrementally, backing off and pushing forward, bit by bit, until at last I could feel his shaved mound pressing against my ass. Deep. It-can't-get-any-deeper-than-that deep.

I sighed and whimpered and begged him to be still, to give me a chance to adjust. He was so huge and so deep and I felt so impossibly stretched that I would have cried if I hadn't known that crying would only make it hurt worse. In response he leaned forward until his chest was draped over my back. As he lay there on top of me, his weight pressing into me, I danced my ass around, wriggling and jiggling and squeezing, trying to get past the "ouch! what the fuck, get the hell out!" stage.

Finally, it happened, whatever it is that happens that changes the terrible stretching from pain to pleasure. Like a leg muscle being repeatedly stretched and worked in different ways, the muscles in my backside finally relaxed and warmed up to my intruder. Something in me changed at the same time. That thing that always happens when I'm pinned under him with his cock in my ass. I became a supplicant, a penitant, a mendicant, and a full-blown anal slut. I released my grip on the coverlet and raised my head.

"Fuck my ass," I said to him. "Fuck it like a pussy, baby."

And oh, did he ever. He arched himself up and grabbed my shoulders in his hands, using them as leverage for penetrating me deeply. He fucked me slowly at first, using slow strokes that reminded me of how long he was, and then he'd clench my shoulders and push deeply, making me gasp. Sometimes he pulled all the way out, and sometimes he pulled out just until the head of his cock was inside, and then he'd fall forward into me like a meteor down a gravity well.

"You love this, don't you, you dirty girl?" he asked after my first orgasm.

"Yes," I gasped, taking his cue. "I love it. I'm such a dirty girl, I love the feel of you fucking my ass. Fuck it so I'm sore for days, lover."

He turned onto his side and brought me with him, and his fingers dove between my thighs. I hooked a leg up over his to give him easier access, and soon he had three fingers buried inside me, pressed up against my G-spot, while the heel of his palm ground against my clit. He cradled my head against his shoulder and gripped my breast in his hand and started fucking my ass with short fast strokes that had me moaning deliriously. Shudders ran up and down my spine, making my fingers tingle like they were sparklers on the fourth of July. I came on his fingers, came hard, a triple anal-vaginal-clitoral orgasm that totally wrung me out. I went completely limp in his arms and he pulled me back to the edge of the bed. I had no resistance left. Conquered completely, I balanced on unsteady legs as he stood behind me. And then the ass-fucking began in earnest.

He pounded my ass through the languidness of the post-orgasmic endorphin rush. Pounded it past the tingly phase. Pounded it into over-sensitivity. Pounded into me until I was begging him to cum, begging him to fill me with his cum, begging him to end it soon because the pleasure arc was no longer smooth. It was jagged with points of pain.

"Please baby, please. I'm such a dirty little anal slut, you know I am. I want you to cum deep inside me. I want to feel your cum inside me all night."

And then he slapped my ass, a hard flat-palmed slap on my sweetspot, which made me bolt forward, and he followed me, mounted me higher, his knees up by my hips, sawing his cock between the cheeks of my ass until he came with a roar, his body jerking and swaying as he pulsed inside me again and again.

He leaned forward and kissed my shoulder. "You're going to feel that for days," he said smugly. "And when you I notice you're no longer wincing every time you sit down, I'll do it again."

I moaned, half in supplication, half in anticipation. As a Dominant, I know how to make a man mine, but this man, he knows how to make me his. Like no one else, he knows how to make me his.

Homecoming

Home was dark and lonely with my lover out of the country, and so I delayed going home for as long as I could. My friends were great, very pleased in fact to have me to themselves for an evening, but around midnight I thanked them for a wonderful time and left.

The drive home was a bit stressful. Fog had rolled in, covering Silicon Valley in a quilted blanket. As I drove down the winding road into the valley from the mountains around Los Gatos, deer materialized in the fog, grazing on lawns and watching me pass with curious dark eyes. I got turned around once in the dark and the fog and when I finally found the ramp for I-280 I heaved a sigh of relief. Shoulders I didn't know were tense suddenly relaxed.

An hour later, I reached San Francisco. I pulled into the garage and as soon as I did, I had thoughts of my cold bed. Tempurpedic it may be, with silky-smooth 1000 threadcount sheets, but the night was cool and there was no one to warm myself against. I felt a bit of melancholy, but chased it off with the mantra "Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'll be home."

I love the darkness. I've always found it friendly and embracing, and I have excellent night vision, so I didn't bother with lights. I walked straight up to my room and started stripping down. I was bent over, untangling my panties from around my feet, when hands seized my hips. I knew it was a man by the erection he ground against my ass.

Fear froze my throat. I couldn't breathe, couldn't talk. I wanted to pull away, but self-defense training kicked in. I leaned backwards, throwing my weight against him. He fell into the door, taking me with him. I dove my hands between my thighs, aiming for his balls, determined to emasculate my uninvited guest. Or at least stun him long enough to get away.

His "Ow! Kay that hurt!" saved his ambition to one day be a father. I knew that voice.

"You should know better than to sneak up on me you stupid idiot!" I hissed at him as I helped him move to my bed. The way he was rubbing his back it looked like he'd taken the doorknob in his kidney.

"I wasn't sneaking up on you. I told you I'd be here around One," he grumbled.

"I thought you meant 1pm not 1am!"

I helped him lay down on my bed, then crawled in next to him.

"I'm sorry baby," I said, and kissed him.

"I'm sure you are," he said with a grin in his voice. "Who knows when I'll be able to have sex?"

I ran my hand down his chest and put my head on his heart.

"I don't mind if you just lay there," I said suggestively, letting my hand slide farther down until I was cradling the warmth of him.

"Well I do!" He said, and pushed my hand away. "My back hurts!"

"How about I kiss it and make it better?"

"How about we go to sleep and try this again later?" he responded grumpily.

I threw my leg over his and kissed his chest.

"I'm glad you're home," I said, and gave him a big squeeze.

"I can tell. Some homecoming!"

Saturday Afternoon

We were over at a friend's house, leaning against the stone wall that separated us from a 300 foot drop into the ocean. The sun was shining and the sky was clear of any clouds. If we'd been further inland the temperature would have been in the 80's, but as it was, the ocean breeze was brisk enough to make me shiver once in a while. He put an arm around me and I nuzzled his neck. His body warmth and the naturally spicy scent of him immediately enthralled me.

"When we get home..." I started.

"Yes?"

"When we get home I want to tie you to my bed and ride you."

He made an interesting noise and pressed himself into me. I could feel his hardness against my belly. It was a tease and a promise.

A couple of hours later we headed home. I reached into the glove box for a toy and then reclined my seat. He didn't complain when I plugged the vibrator into the outlet, but he did shoot me an exasperated look that said can't you wait? My answer was to put my right foot on the dashboard and slide my left hand under my skirt. Waay up under my skirt.

Every guy fantasizes about having a girl who is always ready for sex, he told me once. Until he gets one and realizes what a nightmare keeping her satisfied can be. I chose not to take offense to this wry self-honesty on his part. I've found that my sex drive intimidates most of the men I date.

The drive home from Pacifica took seven or eight minutes. Enough time for me to have an orgasm and perfume the two-seater with the scent of pussy. When we pulled into the garage I leaned over and kissed him, teasing his mouth with my tongue. When he reached for me I opened the car door and dashed up the stairs.

He chased after me and caught me just inside the door. He pressed me up against the wall with his body and ground his cock against my mound, making me gasp when the seam on his jeans rolled over my clit.

I would have dropped to my knees right there if it wasn't for the fact that my mind was fixated on tying him to my bed. I wanted him that way. And so I grabbed his hand and pushed past him toward my bedroom, toward the scarf-draped hat stand that beckoned with promises of silken ties.

The Forfeit, part 2

(While this can be read as a stand-alone vignette, it is intended as a follow-up to this story.)

I massaged him first, anointing his flesh with faintly scented argan oil. From memory I recited the poetry of Rumi and Neruda, and parts of the Songs of Solomon, sensually guiding the words with their vivid imagery into his mind. I left no inch of him untouched, and when I finished, his body was completely limp with the exception of his cock, which I'd brought to full attention.

It took some effort to rouse him up off the massage table, and when he was vertical I had to help guide him over to my bed, where I put him on his back and bound his limbs with silken sashes. When I kneeled next to him on the bed his eyes fluttered open. They were warm and lustrous, the pupils dilated. He smiled at me, a slow, sensuous smile that brought my attention to his lips.

I leaned over him, slowly lowering my head until my lips hovered over his.

"I love you," I said, and as I said it I opened myself completely, letting the love flow from me.

"Mmm.... I love you too," he mumbled back almost drowsily, and pursed his mouth for a kiss.

How do you describe a kiss that commingles elements of the sacred and profane: awe and love and passion and desire? It was all there and more as we breathed each other in and let the energy flow between us.

I straddled him, and as I lowered myself onto him, as I worked the wedge of him into me, I felt myself splitting open on so many levels: physically, emotionally, spiritually. A prayer came to my lips unbidden, and as I sat, unmoving, upon him, I slowly recited, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul..."

His eyes opened, and he watched me, and his expression transformed from uncertain to transcendent in a few heartbeats. He felt it, I knew, that sense of the sacred that seemed to pervade our joining.

I leaned forward, moving my hands so they pressed into his upper arms, so the weight of my upper body restrained him further, and my eyes holding his gaze, I put my inner muscles to work. I sat unmoving astride his immobile body and yet we moved together, our PC muscles undulating. His cock twitched within the fist I made of my pussy, and it was intense, oh so intense.

We maintained the stillness as long as we could, but eventually his thigh muscles were clenching and releasing and I was swaying. I brought my hands up to my nipples and with one tweak I went off like a fireworks display, keening louder and louder. He convulsed under me, his entire body straining, pulling at the sashes that bound him to the head and foot boards. He lifted his head up off the pillow, his eyes wide and wondrous, and then his face contorted and his hips raised, lifting us both up off the bed. The power of his orgasm awed me, blew through me like the breath of God, and left me tingling with profound joy.

I untied his arms before I curled up next to him, drowsy and sated in a way that was soul-deep. My love for him and what we'd shared radiated from within. I felt like a small sun had been born inside me.

"We should do that more often," I whispered into his ear.

"Peace, woman," he gasped in response. "There is only so much God and sex the human body can take."

I smiled ruefully and nodded my head against his shoulder. I wondered briefly how many people really experienced Divine Sex, then drifted off to sleep.

The Forfeit

We met at Sutro Heights Park.

I waited for him in a sunny spot on the foundation of the old mansion, watching the ocean I'd recently flown across, the ocean that had stood between us for three weeks.

He surprised me by slipping his arms around me and burying his face in my hair. I relaxed against him and smiled, basking in his warmth.

"Missed you," he said into my ear, and I turned and burrowed further into his embrace, until at last I caught the scent of him and sighed.

"I missed you more," I said and smiled up at him with a bratty expression on my face.

In answer, he slipped his hands up under my shirt and pressed them against my low back. I gasped at their coldness and tried to squirm away, but he held me tightly. His fingers pressed deeper into my sacrum, pushing my hips forward and up. He wiggled his hips a little, brushing his hardness against me.

"Three weeks," he groaned into my ear. "I hope Japan was worth it, because I hardly slept for all those erotic dreams I was having."

"Mmmm.... it was amazing." I put my arms around his neck and kissed him, softly at first, with tenderness and love, and then I sucked on his bottom lip and scraped it between my teeth.

He growled "wench" and swung us both around until my back was pressed against a gnarled old tree. He gathered my hands together above my head and with his free hand teased my nipples. Such sensitive nipples. The touch of his fingers electrified me, making me vibrate with jolts of pleasure.

"Fuck!" I gasped against his mouth.

He pulled back and smiled.

"My place or yours?" he asked.

"Neither. Here. I can't wait."

"Here?" His eyes widened.

"Well, not right here, but there is this spot down below here, where the foundation is sheltered by trees...."

I pulled a hand free and started down the steps and then up a little trail. I glanced at my watch. 9:16 am.

"Here," I said, leaning my back against the rough stone wall and pulling him toward me by his belt. I had it unbucked and his pants unfastened in record time. My hands dove down into the open vee and pulled out his cock and balls. The sight of him engorged and bobbing made me dizzy and suddenly I was on my kness with my mouth on him, moaning deliriously.

He leaned his palms against the wall and watched me, his body occasionally arching, his thighs tensing and releasing under my hands. Too soon, he was pulling me up onto my feet and turning me around to face the wall. He raised my skirt and his searching fingers felt between my legs, delved deep until he found my wetness, and then he entered me slowly, releasing his breath on a long, low moan.

He reached around and found my clit, rolled it betweein his fingers. I yelped and thrust my hips back against him. I heard my voice, heard my self whispering to him, telling him how much I missed the feel of him inside me, begging for him to fuck me, to make me come. And fuck me he did, hard and fast, ramming himself into me while he tormented my clit. My orgasm slapped me like a rogue wave, tumbled me, sightless and breathless, into a realm of sensation. I threw my head back and screamed silently up into the sky. The feel of me clenching on his cock was all the invitation he needed. He flattened me into the wall and thrust long and deep, raising me up on my toes and sending a jolt of pain through me.

"Too deep," I wanted to say, but I had no breath, and so I clung to the wall and worked my body around the axis of impalement, milking his cock until he shuddered against me and moaned like a man in pain.

"Never again," he panted into my ear.

"Never again what?"

"Never again will I let you talk me into masturbating to the edge without cumming for three weeks. It was torture."

"Ah sweetie," I said, as I slipped away from him and pulled a packet of wet wipes from my bag. I glanced at my watch. 9:19 am. "It wasn't torture. It was teasing and denial."

He groaned and leaned his back against the stone wall, catching his breath while I cleaned us both up.

"I won, by the way."

"Oh?" he asked.

"I told you that you wouldn't last 5 minutes." I tapped my watch. "You managed three."

He growled and made a clumsy swipe for me.

I laughed. "Are you trying to get out of your forfeit?"

"No," he said. "I honor my bets. An hour tied to your bed it is."

"Sweet!" I bounced. "Lets get you back to my place."

He groaned. "Insatiable wench!"

"Hey, I figured after 3 weeks without sex, edging the whole time, you'd finally be able to keep up with me."

"We'll see."

Pushed

(My photo of ceramic artwork by Sher Grotts)
"Enough!" he said, and still I pushed. Not out of perversity, but because I am a woman. It is our nature to push. If it was not, no one would be ejected from the womb.

His eyes flashed darkly and his face tightened. He did not want me arousing him, and he was angry that I had. He needed to focus.

He needed to focus and I'd let him. I'd helped him. He brought his work home all week, and all week I moved around quietly, served dinner up at his desk instead of the dining table, brought him tea made just-so, massaged his shoulders and neck. I urged him to bed earlier than usual, and every night I snuggled up to him, skin-on-skin, and felt the profound rightness of it, of our bodies spooned together, and willed my body not to react to the wonderful scent of him filling my nostrils. Every night I wanted the feel of him over me, on me, in me, and every night I settled for pressing my lips, open-mouthed, to the skin of his chest, breathing I love you into him, holding that space of safety so he could sleep deeply and well.

And every morning in the shower I used the wand to pleasure myself, the pulsating water vibrating my clit bringing me to delicious orgasm, day after day. A week of that and I was quivering with need. Snuggling satisfied the skin-hunger but not the desire for bliss. I wanted more. I wanted to scale the heights of him and throw myself off the edge, to break the surface tension of our separateness and mingle freely in spirit, to know that flashing eternal moment of enlightenment that is orgasmic bliss.

And so I pushed him, woman that I am. I pushed him, and man that he is, he feinted and took hold of me, and bound me. Bound me to my sybian and tormented me with idle movements of his fingers upon the control box, his back to me, ignoring me. I gasped and moaned as artfully as I could, begging him to let me cum, but every time I reached the edge, he adjusted the vibration and the crest receeded. Again and again. I pushed myself against the phallus, eyes clenched tight, focussing on the sensation that eluded me. I can cum almost by wishing it, but so great was my frustration that I could not.

How long I hung in this state I do not know. But at some point he was there, naked and standing over me, his cock erect and his hands guiding my mouth onto him. And oh! I nearly swooned from the heat of him, from the taste of him, from the scent rising from his balls. My hands rose to embrace him and I drew him into my mouth as far as I could, and I sucked and licked as the intensity of the sybian increased until my body could not bear it any longer. I came with such intensity I threw my head back and screamed my pleasure, and his cock jerked and shot me with hot streamers of cum that burned as they slid down my breasts.

He leaned forward, leaned his hands on my shoulders, leaning his weight into me, pushing me deeper onto the sybian. He pushed me down, held me down on it, and the intensity of the vibration set me off again, and I came between breaths, convulsing silently until my body's air-hunger forced my lungs to inflate and then I became some symphonic instrument, part human, part machine, and I sang--oh how I sang--accompanied by the sybian's insistent buzzing.

I pushed him away from me and slid off the sybian. My legs did not work, but it did not matter. I curled myself up and shivered and twitched through the orgasmic aftershocks, pushed beyond endurance. Pushed.

(The audio version of this and other erotic stories can be found at my AudioSensual Podcast, audiosensual.blogspot.com)

Pretty Pussy

This essay was published in the Exotica section of Clean Sheets last month.

********

"Take photos of me," she said in a breathily timid and yet assertive rush of words.

I raised my eyebrows.

"I am not all that comfortable with photographing people, sweetie. There is something about the lighting that I don't get..."

"Oh they don't have to be professional. I don't think I would want anyone to see them anyway."

"You've lost me," I said.

"I want to know what I look like... you know... down there."

If possible, my eyebrows rose further. I developed a second hairline just below the first. I think I even squirmed a little. I'm very open and have gotten a lot of requests over the years, but never this one.

"Have you tried a mirror?" I asked.

"Yes, but the perspective is all wrong, and it feels awkward," she was silent for a long moment. "I was hoping I could see myself the way you do..."

And so I did as she asked. She was inordinately pleased to make her pussy's acquaintance. Thrilled, you might say. At last, she could see for herself that hers was, indeed, a pretty pussy. Which started my thoughts down a curious path that I've revisited periodically throughout my life.

I'd gotten up close and personal with her pudendum more than once, and it was the occasion of my telling her that she had a pretty pussy that prompted her to proposition me in that way. You see, a woman's relationship with her pussy is often very complicated, being fraught with unknowns. The territory can be explored, if we dare, but we never really see it -- at least, not the way our lovers do.

Quite often, I think a woman's bisexual curiosity is less about desiring another woman, and more a camouflaged curiosity about themselves, about their own anatomy. Unlike men, we cannot just whip our sex organs out and admire them. We rely on braille and mirrors and craned necks, instead, none of which is a satisfactory, shall we say, definitive view. The first time I came face-to-face with a pussy, I thought "Ahhhh, so this is what mine looks like!" Of course, the second one looked very different from the first. And the third, same thing. After I'd seen a few I came to understand men's apparent fascination with that part of the female anatomy. Men are extremely visual novelty-seekers, and pussies, even more than cocks, have a lot of variety.

Just as cocks look different as they transform from the flaccid stage to the tumescent and back, pussies change with arousal. I love the ones with larger outer labia that completely conceal the clitoris and the inner labia. As the owner of such a prize becomes aroused, the outer labia part. The inner labia unfold, the clitoris begins to protrude, and at some point the pussy looks like a ripe, juicy piece of fruit hanging from the crotch of, well, to use poetic license, a maidenhair tree.

It wasn't until I started photographing my own, though, that I realized pussies change with age. As I've grown older, my pussy has gotten poutier, and--dare I say it--lewder. Its variations in plumpness can be charted with my weight. The outer labia, still pale, have grown darker at the seam where they meet. My inner labia have darkened as well, and they seem, well, longer somehow. The inner pink looks even more vivid, probably because of the darker contrast. And my clit, it seems to have grown. Are clits like men's ears? Do they keep growing as we age? I think not.

Most likely, it has to do with arousal. In my early photos my pussy looks pale and virginal, and scared. Which it probably was. It had never been photographed before. But nowadays, as I set up my camera and take my position, I feel that tingle inside, that exhibitionist's arousal over making a display of myself. My skilled fingers creep inside, teasing out the wetness, making me gleam invitingly.

I like to think my pussy has gotten better-looking with age. And while that may just be vanity, or an improvement in my photography skills, I know one thing for certain. My relationship with my pussy has gotten a whole lot better. Familiarity breeds contempt, they say. I say "they" are idiots. Familiarity breeds prettier pussies. Enough said.

Angry Sex

We had angry sex, something I'd never done before.

It began when he reached for me, his hands hard on my flesh, and I tried to move away, but his hold was too firm. I dug a hand into his shoulder, squeezing hard, and he winced. The benefits of so many years as a massage therapist: I have thumbs of steel and know exactly where to press them for a desired effect.

"I don't want to fight about this," I said through gritted teeth. "Its ridiculous."

"Then lets not," he answered, and pulled me into the circle of his arms.

I was too angry to want a hug, but I recognized the peace gesture for what it was. I leaned my forehead into the place where his neck and shoulder meet, and instead of nuzzling him as I'd intended, I bit him.

"Owwww!"

He shoved hard enough to unbalance me. I fell backwards onto the couch, my arms and legs akimbo, my skirt landing high on my thighs. He started to walk away, but I flashed him. He changed direction, moving toward me and unfastening his pants at the same time.

"No panties, hmm?"

"I know how you like to touch me while you are driving..." I answered, thinking about the dinner date we had arranged for the evening.

I scootched farther up the couch, until the arm hit the middle of my back, and then he was on me. He pressed himself between my thighs, his hand guiding his formidable angry-red cock. It was my turn to wince as he barged inside. The oil I'd applied to myself after shaving my pussy bare eased his way. though. We both groaned from the pleasure and pain of it, of the pain of penetration and the pleasure of him spreading the walls of my pussy apart as he drove the wedge of his cock inside.

I looked into his eyes and saw that the pupils were dilated very wide despite the lamp behind me. He slipped a hand under my neck and kissed me hard as he made his final push and slammed against my mound.

"Owwww!" I cried as he bottomed-out. Normally he was conscientious about it, but this time he didn't care if he made me bleed by going to deep.

"Fucker!' I slapped my hands on his chest. "That hurts!"

"Oh?"

His fingers tangled in the hair at the back of my head, holding me immobile. He watched my face as he slid back an inch or two, and then slammed back into me.

Again, that deep pain. It made me flinch and him smile.

I tighted my body up, tightened my thighs, trying to mitigate the force of his thrusts, but it didn't help. He was there, using the full weight of his body to drive his point home with enough force to expel the air from my lungs.

I closed my eyes and focussed on the seeds of my arousal. I could feel the lips of my pussy clinging to his cock as he moved, could feel the warmth of my pussy from the friction. Another deep push and then he was no longer leaning over me. His fingers sought and found my clit, rolling it. I gasped and bucked under him, then locked my legs around him.

We battered each other with our bodies, trying to break down the barriers that our anger had become, seeking the momentary oneness that blinded our eyes and blended our spirits. And we quickly found it. When climax hit, my breath caught and my eyes flew open. I exhaled a wail and then his face contorted. He made those signature noises that accompanied his own orgasm, and then collapsed onto me.

I wrapped my arms around him, and awash in a flood of endorphines that overpowered the earlier adrenaline, realized that I was no longer angry. Sometimes love looks like war, I thought. Yes. Sometimes, love looks like war.

The scent of a submissive

She squirmed delightfully.

Her squirming couldn't have been more artful if she'd intended it, but given her discomfort, I doubted she was aware of how she kept shifting in her seat. Normally, I would have been kinder to her, to this young woman scarcely out of her teens, but something about her brought out my inner sadist instead of the nurturer. It was the scent of submissiveness. Most cannot distinguish between vulnerability and submissiveness, but a natural dominant can taste it in the air, and this girl had my sub-dar beeping. She was aroused, embarrassed by her arousal, and aroused by her embarrassment. Hence, her squirming.

I leaned forward to stroke the backside of my footstool, Mika, who purred in response. A good girl, that one, very compliant, and eager, oh so eager, to feel a firm hand on her bottom. The front of my yukata fell open further, revealing more of the patent leather bustier that mounded my breasts impossibly high. From the corner of my eyes I saw the girl lean forward. Her breath caught.

I looked over my shoulder and gestured vaguely, and the boy came forward carrying one of my grandmother's porcelain tea services on a silver tray. Jacob served me one day a week, for two hours, and paid for the privilege of doing so. Apparently it is difficult to find a woman who appreciates panty-boys. He was honored that I'd chosen him for the humiliating task of serving tea to my vanilla guest wearing a ladies camisole, silk panties, stockings, and heels. His hair gleamed as silver as the tray when he bent over to place it on the table.

"Cream or sugar?" I asked the young woman when the boy had poured tea into a cup and looked in her direction.

"Neither," she said after a pause.

The boy handed her a cup, bowed, and then brought me mine. I tousled his hair as a reward and he gave me a tremulous smile. I snapped my fingers and pointed down, and he gratefully sank into a kneeling position beside my chair.

"Next question, Erika?" I prompted, reminding her of her purpose for being here. She'd asked to interview me. I'd tried to discourage her, but she was insistent, and in the end I'd admired her persistence enough to agree.

"How long have you been in this... business?" she asked. It was her third question.

"I've been a pro-domme for five years now."

She jotted a note, then asked, "Was it difficult to find a clientele?"

"Not really. There are many more submissives out there than there are dominants." I ran my fingers through the boy's hair. "Within a year I had enough word-of-mouth traffic that I had to turn people away."

Her eyes widened and she squirmed again.

"You have provided me with a list of the services you provide. Thank you. What I would like to know is why people pay to have these sorts of things done to them?" She cast desperately curious glances at both my footstool and the boy.

"Girl," I said.

"Yes, Mistress?"

"Do you want to answer her?"

"If it pleases you Mistress, I will, but I would need to hear the question again." An elegant confession that she was not paying attention.

I let my hand fall on her left buttock with a loud smack. My footstool took it silently, with the barest flinch. Her bikini-clad ass flared out just a bit, begging for another one. As I leaned back, the tie on my robe loosened completely and the fabric fell open to reveal my full attire. Bustier, paddle, velvet boyshorts, and thigh-high boots. Erika's eyes widened just a bit, then shifted back to my footstool.

"Mika-girl, the journalist in training wants to know why you pay me to spank you. Sit up and tell her."

I removed my booted feet from her back and Mika sat up, resting her lovely broad bottom against her heels.

"Mistress understands me. She understands that I need pain in order to fully experience pleasure, and she knows that asking for pain does not mean asking for abuse...." Mika's sweet contralto trailed off for a long moment. "I trust her. I trust her to give me what I pay for, and to respect the terms we've agreed upon, which frees me to surrender to the experience--experiences I would not otherwise have without...without some personal risk."

"Personal risk?" My interviewer asked Mika.

Mika looked at me for permission to respond. I nodded.

"I have asked for what I wanted from boyfriends in the past, but they did not know what they were doing, and sometimes I was injured..."

"Oh. Okay. I think I understand," she said, obviously not really understanding.

"No. You do not."

I stood up, shrugged off the robe, draped it across the back of the armchair. Moving to stand before the girl, I took an assertive stance and watched her.

She didn't know what to do with her eyes. They jumped all over the place, bouncing from breasts to boots to the leather paddle swinging at my side. Her hands twitched, sending her pen flying. I gestured for the boy to fetch it and he brought it to me, palms up and head bowed.

I took the pen and tapped it against my thigh. Her eyes followed it.

"Why are you interviewing me, Erika?"

"I am working on a series for the Weekly."

"And why this particular topic?"

"Why?" she asked dumbly.

"Yes, why this topic?"

"I--Well, I---uhm, learned about your profession from a friend and I was curious and I couldn't find much out there in print so... so I pitched the idea to my editor and he said he'd consider publishing it."

"That is an answer, girl, but it is not the answer."

She swallowed. Her eyes met mine and were caught.

"You were more than curious when you heard about us. You felt a naughty tingle, something that delved into secret sexually-charged places in you. Didn't you?"

She nodded slowly.

"I've been watching you, girl. You are sexually excited by your perception of their humiliation and by your embarrassment over it. Don't bother denying it -- I can smell your arousal from here."

She blushed scarlet and squirmed half out of her chair.

I lifted my hand, palm open toward her, in a 'stop' gesture, and she subsided.

"I suspect that you have bondage fantasies. Something in you wants to be tied up, stripped, and put on display. You want to be embarrassed, humiliated, and sexually violated while completely helpless. But at the same time you don't, because you don't want the emotional fallout that comes from it happening for real. You've probably even played at being tied up, but it is never as exciting as your fantasies."

I leaned forward, took her chin in my hand and looked into her eyes.

"You are here, interviewing me, because you want to be subjugated, you want to submit, and you are curious as to whether or not a pro-domme can fulfill that want."

Silence.

She blinked. A tear rolled down her cheek.

"Come now, girl. Answer the question. Why this topic?"

"Something is missing," she whispered. "And when I heard about--about pro-dommes, I got excited on so many levels..."

"Good girl," I said. I collected the teardrop and rubbed it between my fingertips.

I strode over to the armchair, sat down, and gestured for Mika to lay across my lap.

Erika cleared her throat.

I shot her a stern glance. "This interview is over. If you want to remain, you will be silent. When I have finished with these two, we can discuss arranging a session for you."

I switched my focus to Mika, giving her my full attention. She was paying me for it, after all.

"Now, girl, it is time for your spanking. Will you need a ball-gag again this time, or are you going to be a good girl?"

"I think I will need the ball-gag, Mistress," she answered.

Ahhh. She wanted a thorough thrashing, and the freedom to really let herself go.

"Very well then." I gestured for the boy to bring the ball-gag I had set aside earlier, then untied the paddle from its place at my waist.

I held Erika's eyes for the first fall of the paddle against Mika's pale ass. She squirmed onto the edge of her chair and watched avidly, her arousal perfuming the air. I breathed in the intoxicating and familiar scent. The scent of a submissive.

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.

His kiss was gentle

His kiss was gentle. His lips pressed softly into mine, and they were warm, almost chaste. I leaned into him, sighing a little, and turned my head so my cheek leaned against his bristly one. He had not shaved all weekend, so his shadow was heavy and it stung deliciously. His chilled fingers sought the warmth of my flesh, sliding themselves beneath my waistband of my jogging pants. I hissed briefly as his fingers pressed into me like an icy brand. He turned his head and kissed me again, and this time his tongue sought mine. I opened my mouth to him and let myself relax against him, enjoying the cascade of sensations tapping on my nerve-endings. His hand slipped farther down, his fingers just a bit warmer, until the tips touched my panties. With a flick he snapped the elastic, making me jump a little. He chuckled, flicked a finger again. Again the snap of the elastic against my skin, and again, I twitched. With his free hand he pulled me closer and I leaned my forehead into the place where his neck met his shoulder. The scent of him was strong and heady. His naturally spicy smell teased my nose. My mind shut off, all resources dedicated to critical thinking abilities abandoned to the heightened demands of my sensory net. "Mmmm, " I breathed into his ear. His hand wriggled farther down until I could feel his fingers on the globe of my ass, teasing the cleft there. Another kiss, this one hot and penetrating. It left me somewhat dizzy and wet, that kiss. I became aware of my hips rocking against him, of the little noises I made as the nub of my clit rubbed against a seam in his pants. He surprised me as he pulled me tighter against him and his hand dived downward, deep into my seat, until they found the wetness he was seeking. He moved back and forth between the two openings, making his fingers, and me, slippery. I lay against him, moaning open-mouthed into the skin of his neck, my hips rocking to speed him up. The teasing was a becoming almost unbearable when he drove his fingers into me, up into the hot slippery core of me, and it made me gasp and jolt. He rocked his fingers deeper and his knuckles rubbed against my pubic bone once, twice, three times, and then I convulsed, my body goaded beyond the limits of sensibility. I cried out, and my tongue tasted the salt on his skin. I shuddered through a long climax and he urged me to keep coming with his voice and his fingers. Just as I was beginning the slide into relaxed orgasmic bliss he pressed a finger against my ass and popped it in. I gasped and jolted and sank my teeth into his shoulder, coming again to the feel of his fingers skillfully penetrating me and the sound of his delighted laughter. We did this for what seemed like eternal moments, until I was breathless and trembling. When I finally went limp against him he withdrew his fingers and slid out from under me, leaving me draped over the arm of the couch. I started to move but he bade me lie still, and then his hands began inching my pants down. I smiled into the leather of the couch. His turn. And fortunately, the only thing I'd have to do is come. Again and again.

Awakening

I awakened to the strong pull of a mouth on my nipple. To whiskers brushing the mound of my breast. To the sound of myself purring. And gasping. Gritty eyes opening to grainy morning light streaming over my lover's shoulders. They gleam, muscles rippling as his mouth dips, teeth nip. Another gasp. Once fuzzy, my mind is sharpened by pain. Here are my hands, here is how they work as my fingers tangle in his hair, forcing his face into my other breast, pebbled and pointed and aching. My nipple is a straw and with it he draws forth juices from my core. My voice, whispery and hoarse, begs for him to fill me, to stop the teasing and give me a new reason to ache. And so he does, filling me again and again until I cannot breathe, until I am writhing out from under him and leaning over the side of the bed, gasping for air. He takes me there, from behind, pressing himself into me, whiskers brushing my shoulders. Fingers gripping the headboard, my leg curled behind his thigh, panting. Panting out the rhythm of his thrusts, panting after our climax spins me to a giddy pinnacle and I fall, twitching, into a pool of slumber.

Attention Please I (erotic audio preview)

It is my intention to give voice to the sensual immediacy of life. I consider myself a thoughtful, provocative, and creative writer and narrator of erotic stories.

Today I am sharing a preview of my erotic audio story "Attention Please I". The complete text of this highly-rated story is available at Literotica.com

Summary:
This is the first of a two-part tale about the consequences to one woman for her attention-seeking behavior. This woman wants her lover's attention now--even though he is on the phone. He's made it clear that he doesn't want to be disturbed, so she sits on the edge of his desk and teases him by masturbating herself. When he finishes his call, he gives her what she so richly deserves--bent over his desk. Attention Please I has a short, but well-described build up, a very hot seduction, and a steamy finale.
This is a story that men, women, and couples will enjoy. For adult listeners only.
Length (11:56)

If you like what you hear, you can purchase the full version for $3.00 at Lulu.com or at Payloadz.com


via Paypal.

Big Wally

She'd been tracking the box's progress from the Midwest. Every time the shipper scanned the package she received an update, and she knew that today would be the day it arrived. She'd taken the day off because she knew the box would arrive in the morning. Special rush delivery by 10:30am--she'd paid extra for it.

The contents of the box already had a name, one she'd given it the day it was ordered. Wally. She was so excited about Wally's arrival that she'd taken great pains to make sure that everything was perfectly arranged. She walked back to her bedroom to check again, wondering if she'd missed something. She'd put her yoga mat on the floor in front of the mirrored closet doors. Nearby was a small stack of hand towels with a handful of condoms on top, and beside it, two bottles: one of water, one of lube. Her eyes caught her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing a short babydoll nightie with a silk robe over it. Her legs gleamed in the morning light, shaved smooth and lightly oiled. And though she could not see it, she knew her pussy was wet and open. She could smell her own arousal.

When the doorbell rang, she wasn't sure how long she'd been standing there, hypnotized by the images playing through her mind, but the sound of it galvanized her into action, and she rushed to the door, her body suddenly on fire with excitement. The delivery man was nice enough to bring the heavy box inside, and when he gave her the slate to sign, her hands were shaking so much she dropped the stylus.

No sooner had she closed the door after her breathy "thank you" than she turned to the box. She had placed a razor knife on a nearby table and she quickly reached for it. With deft, sure strokes she sliced the tape holding the box closed and pulled the packaging out until Wally was revealed.

She stopped for a moment to admire the gleaming black hump. Her fingers caressed it, pressed into it, tested the firmness of the padding. She lifted it from the box, and in her eagerness it might have weighed one pound instead of twenty, for all the notice she took of it. Putting Wally down, she reached into the box and pulled out the attachments and the illustrative pages with the word SYBIAN printed all over it. Her hands tingled, and that tingle spread through her body with such force it made her shiver.

A sybian. Her very own sybian.

Scooping up the fucking machine, she headed for the bedroom. She couldn't wait another minute to give Big Wally a ride.

He loves her

He loves her. He loves her, and denying it is like denying air to his lungs: the longer he denies it, the more wretched he feels. He is surprised by the depth of his feelings for her, by the sheer visceral-ness of it, even knowing her for years.

He wants her. It seems like he's always wanted her, wanted her since the moment she smiled at him, her eyes sparkling with intelligence and humor, and gave him her name in a voice that could melt glaciers. He'd felt a stir in his groin, and as he watched her lips move as she spoke, he'd thought "Butter melts in that mouth, but my cock won't."

She already had a partner, he learned, and normally he would have let it go at that, but damn if she wasn't unforgettable. So he stayed in touch. And so did she. Every once in a while she'd call or email and invite him to accompany her somewhere. And somehow, he always found the time, because time spent with her was magical.

He loves her, he wants her, and now he has her, and he's a bit scared, because he's not tiring of her, even after a couple of years. She hasn't bored him yet. Sometimes he thinks she might even be smarter than he is, and he likes that. She hasn't pushed him into any emotional corners. She doesn't make him talk when he doesn't want to. And she gives great head. He'd never really understood why so many guys were so enthralled by getting their cocks sucked--until she'd put her mouth on him. And then he knew.

She sucks cock like an epicure eats a gourmet meal. She approaches fellatio with the same reverence a penitent approaches an altar. And with his manhood in her mouth he knows what it is to be desired and accepted. The sounds she makes as she opens her mouth wide enough to stuff him inside. Her fingertips massaging his balls. Her tongue lashing the underside of his cock until he knows what torture is, and he finds himself begging for more. And he feels powerful, with this woman on his knees before him, this incredible woman on her knees worshiping his cock, worshiping him. It is a rush like one he's never known with anyone else and he doesn't want to lose it, to lose her.

He wants her all to himself and when she comes to him, he does everything he can to imprint himself on her, to mark her as his. He knows there are others in her life, others she loves, and he wants to be different, special. There is no one else for him, has not been for quite some time. He knows what he wants. He knows how to work for what he wants. And he knows how to get what he wants.

When she comes to him he makes sure her needs are met. He fills every hole with his dick and his fingers and still he wants more. He wants to find a way to wedge himself so deep into her that there is no knowing where he ends and she begins, until those magnificent orgasms roll through them both on a regular basis and she is mindless with the pleasure of it every moment. He loves her mind, but he loves pushing her to the point where her mind shuts off and she's pure animal, wild with lust. Lust for him.

Afterwards, he loves the way she smells. Loves the scent of both their juices mixed together like some pheromonal aphrodisiac that has been shaken and stirred and is best served hot and sweaty. He loves the way she smells between her breasts, and the way her nipples stand up and say hello whenever he is near. He loves the way she moves her body with his, and the way she vocalizes her passion. And he loves the way he feels with her, the sense of peace he feels after he has conquered her, after he has been on her and in her and through her. He wears her scent on his skin like clothing and is loathe to shower because as soon as he does, he misses her.

He misses her and some part of him thinks it is a weakness, to love a woman like this, with a depth approaching his first love, the woman she says he never quite got over. And maybe she is right but what she doesn't know is that when he is with her, when he is in the presence of the love they share, there is no one else and never has been. Its just them: 100% real, 100% awesome.

(podcast: listen here)

She loves him

She loves him. She knows it as well as she knows that he loves her. He's proved it countless times without his intending to or her asking him to. It has caught them both by surprise, this love, and neither of them seems quite sure what to do.

She had doubted it would ever come to her, this feeling. Oh she's loved others, but never with giddiness and longing, with aching in places she did not know love could make her ache. She understands at last the concept of "lovesickness" which previously has been so foreign to her, understands that this weakness could easily infect a person's will. Her will.

She is a warrior. Something in her perceives this love as a potential danger and stands poised to sever that which might weaken her, destroy her. No one storms her inner keep, yet she stands guard over it. Her lover raids her treasure room and takes that which is freely given, leaving behind both more of himself and taking with him pieces of her heart. She wishes to submit to her feelings, to him, to the golden experience of loving and being loved, and she does--when they are together. It is when they are apart that the doubts rise, and the warrior, carelessly dismissed, resumes her watch over the treasure trove.

When he comes to her, she does not know how to act. Like any woman she considers playing the emotional games, considers baffling him with changes in mood and behavior, considers punishing him for making him love her in any one of the countless tiny ways that women have in their arsenal of punishments. But she does not. They have loved each other long enough and true enough that when he comes to her she stands naked before him and responds from her heart. Anything less would be unworthy of them both.

When he comes to her, any thoughts of artifice fade like mist before the sun. He is her sun, her moon, her stars--and her crown of thorns. She tells him so. Tells him as he slips into her from behind, his thickness opening her, stretching her, making her flesh sting. He savours her wince, the catch of her breath, and the long low moan of pleasure. She knows this by the slowness of his pace, and by the sound he makes, the sound every woman knows in her primal self, for it is the sound a man makes when he is conquering a woman with the subtle violence of penetration. There will be blood, she thinks, and this thought fills her with satisfaction, the satisfaction of a woman anticipating the feeling of being well-used.

He is a musician and she is his instrument. She feels this as her body lengthens and arches, as her leg flows back to hug his upper thighs and his fingers strum her core. Her body vibrates with it, vibrates against his chest and belly, vibrates under the palm of his hand rocking against the peg of her clit. She hears the smile in his voice as he urges her to climax and she does, voluptuously and without restraint, her voice raised in noisy song.

He moves out of her and presses his slickened hardness against another opening. She moans again, her body moving in supplication to his desire. His push through that forbidden portal draws from them both a gasp, and she knows again what it is to love and to submit all that she is to love. She wonders, as he presses hard against her, as he forces himself into her as deep as he can go, if he knows how he devastates her with each thrust, how even the pain of it is turned upon itself to become pleasure, his pleasure, her pleasure, until the violence of his penetration and her opening to it becomes a doorway to spiritual oneness. His fingers slide between her thighs and again she opens them to him. He strums her again, fine-tuning the sexual energy, and then his fingers dive into her, into that awe-inspiring warm wetness, filling her to the point where pleasure meets pain, and she flings herself into him, battering herself against the fingers and the cock that cleave her, wondering if she dare pass through that portal of intimacy, wondering if he will meet her there, on the other side...

(podcast: listen here)

Geek Fetish (a story start)

OSCON is coming to town next week! Portland will be inundated with visiting geeks. Which reminded me of a story I need to finish....

(This is for the geeks who read naughty stories. I thought they might like to read one where the hero was one of their own.)

"What is it with you and geeks?" Trina asked.

"There's something about them that makes me want to rub my clit against their minds," I answered with a naughty grin.

"Kay! You are so bad," she laughed and shot me a mock-scandalized glance.

I smiled smugly and looked at the business card in my hand. It said, Kristian L Thiessen, Senior Hardware Engineer, Intel Corporation, Hillsboro, Oregon and on the back was his cell phone number, written in the slightly slanted block-print of a southpaw. I felt a tingle on my skin as I remembered the way he held the pen as he scratched his number onto the little rectangle of paper. Parts of me wanted to see what those fingers could do to flesh.

I have a geek fetish. Or perhaps I am a geek-a-holic. Whatever you want to call it, there is no escaping the fact that a man who can talk about eigenfunctions, complexity-chaos theory, or quantum mechanics makes me moist. And this geek--this geek named Kristian--definitely did it for me.

**************

Trina needed to upgrade the RAM on her laptop and we were waiting for the next available Fry's guy to assist us when I spotted him walking toward us. He was tallish, probably 6'2”, and he wore square-rimmed glasses that somehow managed not to conceal his gorgeous blue eyes. His blond hair was receding a little and cut No. 2 short. He was heavy-set, carrying an extra 30 pounds or so, and his broad shoulders had the desk-jockey slope characteristic of most geeks. I was hypnotized by the movement of his belly under his black “resistance is futile less than 1 ohm)” tee-shirt. I found myself wanting to pull his shirt up so I could nibble and blow on his stomach. The nice, thick black belt threaded though the loops of his khakis beckoned to be undone in preparation for my exploratory hands. But for all that, it was the intent expression on his intelligent face that did it. I wanted to straddle that face and rub my pussy all over it, no doubt about it.