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.

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)

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.

Missing breakfast

[Listen to the podcast here]

I awakened missing his scent filling my nose, missing the feel of his skin under my fingertips. I miss the sounds he makes and the way his body moves under my hands. I love the way he softens when he's been with me a while, the way the social armour starts showing more and more gaps until eventually he sheds it and the only thing standing between us is our skin. I love the way he is a sponge, soaking up the love that radiates from me, from every pore, and that leaks from me, sometimes in the form of tears, but more often as wetness. My love is warm and slippery, and when he is near it escapes me. When he is near I feel myself swelling like a ripe fruit whose skin can no longer contain its juices. I want him to put his mouth to those places where my skin is split and leaking, and suck me dry. In my dreams he bites into me like I am a piece of fruit and I squirt, my juices filling his mouth and drenching his face. I miss the love we share between us, the love that grows and glows and makes me ache so sweetly, makes me ache the way my mouth does before that first taste of him in the morning, breaking my fast.

[Edit: I uploaded the audio for this and fixed the RSS feed for the podcast]

He teases me

I like the way he teases me.

Correction. I love the way he teases me.

How is it that he's gotten into my mind, learned where the buttons are, the buttons I used to keep well-hidden but now seem to be revealed to him? Sapiosexual I am, and he knows this, knows to start with my mind.

He starts with little puns. Clever little puns that his clever big brain comes up with on the fly. The first one always catches me by surprise. Makes me laugh. Me. He hits my laughter button regularly. I know people who have made it their mission to make me laugh and he does it with a single pun.

More delightful puns and then comes the sly innuendos. He has a way with words, this talent at finding the twist necessary to alter something innocent into something sexual. Early on he is so deft that I am uncertain as to whether or not the sexual connotation is intentional, but as time goes by my reactions egg him on.

Eventually, he will ask questions that focus my mind upon areas of my body, heightening my awareness of my arousal. He'll slide in a comment about something I'd said or done during love-making that makes me blush. And then the brushes. His arm will brush my nipples with accidental deliberation. His hips will brush up against my ass. He'll whisper something in my ear and his whiskers will brush my neck or shoulder, making my shiver or gasp.

And finally, when I am wet and scented with my own arousal, vibrating with need, he makes me wait. Dinner. A movie. A trip to the store. Always a delay, but an enjoyable one. He'll give me knowing looks. He'll comment on my squirming. Teasing me.

When we get home, he takes me. Bent over the couch. On my hands and knees by the door. Pressed up against a wall. It doesn't matter to me. What matters is that empty place that needs filling, that aches to be filled, and the hardness sliding into me, into the warm and welcoming wetness.

And then its my turn to tease him, to squeeze my muscles around him, to squirm and wriggle and moan and sigh. And when he is on the edge I beg him not to come, even as I grind myself against him, even as I try to wedge him farther into me. I look into him and he looks into me. We watch each other's eyes. And when the moment of ultimate superfeeling arrives, we ride that wave together, crying out, clinging to each other like castaways clinging to a life-raft.

Yes, he teases me so well.

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.

I am now a published author!

My story "Where The Women Are" has been published in the anthology Wetter: more true lesbian sex stories edited by Nicole Foster. It was published by AlysonBooks in May and I didn't find out until today when I picked up the TON of mail from the post office.

Another story "Picnic Beneath The Willows" will soon be published by Mojocastle Press in the anthology The Longest Kiss edited by Chrissie Bentley with an introduction by Dave Thompson.

I'm so excited!

Playing Doctor (story)

Two weeks in hospital, and it wasn't until my libido started kicking in that I knew I was getting better.

My lover had been coming by every day, sometimes twice a day, and he teased me. He wore that cologne that always made me want to pin him down and nibble him all over. He wore silky boxers and shaved skin underneath them, and invited my hands to feel. He shaved his face every other day so he could tease my neck and shoulders with his scruff, making me shiver and squirm. And he teased my nipples.

My nipples always stand up and say hello when he is around, and for some reason they were terribly sensitive, so each tweak or brush of his fingers made me gasp. I begged him to leave me alone, to not get me worked up, that it was not fair to arouse me and leave me hanging, but he delighted in teasing me.

One night he did so rather mercilessly and then offered me a piece of chocolate to consummate my desires. I feel asleep with the richness on my tongue and was swept away to the land of endorphin dreams.

I awakened to the sound of the bed rail being lowered in the darkness. There was a masculine presence in the room with me, warm and gentle, and his hands slipped under the sheets, massaging my legs. The hands were tender and skilled and they worked up to my thighs, sliding the hospital gown up as his hands moved to cradle my hips. I sighed voluptuously, and felt the warmth of my center ache for fulfillment. So much teasing. So much unconsummated craving. Gently, he spread my thighs until they formed a vee, and then his hands touched me, explored me, seeking proof of my arousal. Which he soon found, oh yes, and his fingers explorered further, deeper, opening me.

I thrashed a bit in my bed, wet and aching, and begged him to cover me. I wanted to feel him on me and in me. Gently, oh so gently, he turned me on my side, and lay behind me, pressing his warmth against my back. I felt the brush of whiskers on my shoulders and moaned, and pressed my ass back into him, into the heat of his groin. I felt him pulse against me in response, and smiled with joy. His hand guided his cock between my thighs, into the slippery wetness there, and I soon felt the nudge of his head between my pussy lips, tickling my clit. We rocked gently that way for a long while, and then he drew back and pressed upwards a bit, and then he was there, yes right there, the mushroom head pressing into my opening, and slowly, ever so slowly, gaining deeper access to my secrets. I tried to rock back against him but he shushed me, and I held still as his hand moved to hold my hip. His body strained against mine, and his fingers gripped me hard as he pressed onward and inward. When he could go no farther, when he was pressed up hard against my ass, he slid his hand into the vee of my thighs, seeking my clit. when he found it, I gasped and bucked, and he again shushed me. His lips pressed to my shoulder and then his mouth opened, and he sank his teeth into me oh so gently.

Impaled like a butterfly on the pin of his cock, I held still, caught between his teeth and his hands. There was no movement but the gentle press of his fingers into my clit, and the clench of my muscles around him. No friction, no movement, he did not want to hurt me, I knew. I hung in sensuous delirium for endless moments. And then he rolled my clit between his fingers. That movement, that act of rolling my clit between his fingers, was like the flick of a thumb across a cigarette lighter. It ignited in me an orgasm both hot and gentle, one that pulsed though me and made me catch my breath. His fingers covered my mouth and I bit into them as I shook with drowsy pleasure. I heard his gasp and low moan, and he thrust hard against me, and his fingers pressed into my clit, and then he came, his cock pulsing again and again, and I drifted off to sleep, warm and loved, and sated.

Freeing Persephone

Persphone and Pomegranate by Rossetti

This whole sad hiatus has been somewhat productive, creatively. Yes, I've been doing some rather dark poetry, but I've gotten some lovely photographs here and there, and I even managed to finish an erotic story and get it submitted to the Sex & Spirituality anthology that Samba Mountain Press is publishing this summer. Hopefully it will be accepted. I called it Freeing Persephone. Here is an excerpt:

"What do you want?" His voice was careful-sounding, almost neutral.

In that moment I understood with perfect clarity that the antithesis of death is sex. That the act of procreation, of self-perpetuation, was the only consolation my body and spirit could accept. The previous evening, in an unsuccessful attempt to cope with my grief, I'd tried meditating on the Buddhist thought-problem: If the only certainty in Life is Death, and the time of death is uncertain, what am I supposed to do? The answer, apparently, was Fuck.

"Make love to me," I asked of him.

And he did.

He began by worshiping my back, the entirety of which is an erogenous zone with a sensitivity level just shy of my clitty. Stoke a cat from head to tail and she will raise her hips, purring and kneading the bed. I became more and more feline with every scrape of his whiskers, every caress of his fingers. The warmth of his mouth and the tickle of his breath were delicious. He soon reduced me to a mindlessly writhing creature whose gasps and moans held an entirely different meaning than the ones just moments previous.

I ground my bottom upwards into him and gasped as I felt his hardness wedge into the cleft between my cheeks. My need escaped me in a low hiss, a sound we both knew well. He pressed my thighs apart and ran a hand along my flesh. My labia opened to his fingers and weeped like the skin of a ripe nectarine splitting under the pressure of its own juices. Deftly, he strummed the folds of my center, delving deeply into my heat, coaxing my clitty out from under its hood.

I ached with both need and despair even as I rode his fingers. I wanted him and I didn't. I wanted the transport, the sweet oblivion, that only he could provide in that moment, and I hated him for it, hated him for making me want him even in the midst of devastating grief. I was born of the fruit of good and evil, but I'd eaten the seeds of the knowledge of life and death and I wanted to know, in every fiber of my being, that I was alive. Alive!

I fought the impending climax even as I craved it. So he wrung it from me. Wrung it from me with the twist of his fingers inside me, with the jolt of his arm rocking me, and finally, finally, with the pop of his thumb through the star of my anus. I cried out as flashes of white lit my retinas and then flung myself against the bed in a paroxysm of pleasure that rocked me for a good minute, probably two.

I surfaced with a gasp, drenched in sweat, my body still trembling. I rolled over onto my back, pushing my hair away from my face, and when I opened my eyes, he was there. His eyes were dark, his face flushed with excitement, and his sex... Oh sweet heavens, it was so full of blood that it bounced with each beat of his heart.

His hand tangled in the hair at the back of my head, pulling me inexorably forward.

"Suck me," he demanded, and I did. He rose over me like the lord of the underworld, Hades himself, and as I wrapped my mouth around the inflamed pomegranate-colored cap, I felt a kinship with Persephone, trapped in the Underworld, pining for the world of the living.

I worked my mouth artfully upon him. I love oral sex. It is its own form of worship, of worshiping the divine spark in my partner. I gave myself up to it, to the sacred joy of it. I was Persephone, and the cock I worshiped with my mouth was a flaming torch, and the thighs before me were sheaves of grain, and the passion-blurred man presiding over me, he was a god, my god. Oh god, please, please, I panted, begging for the fruit of his pleasure. When he came his body arched and shuddered, and his hands forced me to pull back, so that he filled my mouth instead of my throat. He tasted like sea salt and persimmon, and tart, yes, a bit tart like pomegranate, I fancied, as I swallowed his seed.

Blue toes

"I'm going to California tomorrow," I told him.

I leaned back into his couch and put my bare feet up on the table. I smoothed my skirt across my thighs, enjoying the feel of the fabric.

"What's this?" he asked, leaning over to look at my feet. "Blue toes?"

I grinned and lifted my leg, sliding my shin along his cheek until my toes were just inches from his face.

"I had a pedicure today. Do you like?"

He studied my toenails. I'd chosen a metallic blue nailpolish that went really well with several of the skirts I wear this time of year. The nail art on my big toes was done in delicate silver, black and white dots and curliques.

"Very nice," he said, taking my feet into his warm hands.

"Mmmm," I purred. I hadn't realized they were chilled until he'd touched them.

I wriggled around on the couch until my shoulders were braced by the arm and my feet were in his lap. He proceeded to give my feet and legs an acupressure and massage treatment that had me limp as a kitten within 10 minutes. Which is no mean feat given my stress level of late.

"I'll miss you," he said, as he lifted my foot and kissed it. His hand slid along the underside of my thigh until his fingertips brushed my bare mound.

I'd forgotten myself in the sheer pleasure of the moment, and neglected to keep my thighs together. How long had he been looking up my skirt? I wondered, and then decided it didn't matter. I was certain that the voyeur in him deemed it a fair trade for a delicious foot rub.

The skirt

We explored the jungles of Central America searching for El Dorado on his 50-something inch plasma TV. The video game had wonderful graphics, and I soon lost track of time.

Eventually my cell phone chirped a reminder at me.

"I need to get going," I told him, and got up from the couch. I started gathering my things together--briefbag with laptop, winter coat, shoes...shoes... where were my shoes? I turned around to find him laying down on the couch, hands smoothing his jeans over a respectable erection. I looked at him and shook my head.

"I have to go."

"You're wearing a skirt," he said. "Seems a shame to waste it." He opened his arms and smiled.

Anxiety tightened my throat even as I felt myself flushing with warmth. He does so love me riding him, my skirt pushed up my thighs, his hands alternating between gripping my hips and squeezing my bouncing breasts.

"I'm going to be late," I said, despairingly. I had pushed the time-limit already so I could be with him for as long as possible.

I looked away and when I did, I spotted my shoes. I shoved my feet into the black pumps and adjusted the fabric of my 1940's style skirt so that it would flow freely.

"A kiss then," he said, his arms still raised.

"Ok," I said, and moved back to the couch. I raised the hem of my skirt and straddled his legs, then moved forward until my hands dug into the cushion on either side of his chest. Looking down at him, I could not help but see the love and concern on his face. He was worried about me, he wanted me to take some time off and stay with him, get some rest. I lowered myself to kiss him and my hips moved forward, rubbing my mound against his hardness.

It was my undoing.

I moaned as we kissed, nipping and nibbling and sucking at each others lips and tongues. Grinding. He pushed up with his hips as mine moved against him. I could feel the inevitable wetness building inside me. God, he makes me so juicy.

"You've got time," he said, his hands working at my skirt.

I stood up and dropped my coat off my shoulders, then hooked my fingers under my skirt and dropped my panties too. He watched me, unbottoning his fly and opening his pants. I reached in and freed his balls, then let my hand glide upwards along his shaft. Thick. I gave him a squeeze. So thick.

I straddled him again, one hand bracing against the couch, the other reaching between my thighs. I wanted him inside me, the urgency pressed at me, and he, he was worried about lubrication. I have to be wet to take him, or I bleed.

He gasped when he slid into me, when that hot moistness enveloped him. His eyes closed and this blissed-out expression settled on his face. It was only when he opened his eyes that I started my descent. We gazed into each other, eyes wide and filled with wonder. So much joy and pleasure in something so simple as joining. I wanted to savor that moment, but I was concerned about the time, and so I rode him hard and fast.

I rode him through three orgasms in twenty minutes. He showed every sign of enjoying himself immensely, but no sign of coming, himself. So I got unsteadily to my feet, dropped to my knees, and put my mouth on him. With my lips, tongue and fingers I coaxed from him the gift of his seed, and I swallowed it with a smile.

I stepped into my panties, put on my shoes and coat, and grabbed my bag. The scent of him was on my hands and face, and my center glowed from the warm friction of him moving inside me. My panties were already drenched. I was covered in a fine layer of perspiration. I was short on time and anxious about it. But for all that, I was flooded with endorphines and grinning like a fool.

The skirt had not been wasted.

Enlightenment and erotic submission

Control is an illusion--surrender it to me.

Some say "all life is suffering" but for what purpose?

If your life seems without purpose, let me give you purpose--suffer for me.

Suffer for me and I will lead you toward enlightenment.

The Tantric model for the enlightened mind is orgasm.

The moment of enlightenment is like the moment of climax--that moment of blissful non-thinking being, of pure consciousness.

At the end of the path of suffering is enlightenment.

If enlightenment is like unto orgasm, let me enlighten you.

Surrender control to me.

Suffer for me.

And perhaps, if you are very good, I will let you cum for me.

Playing

Six hands, three mouths, numerous arms and legs entangled.
Lips meeting, parting. Meeting lips, meeting flesh, meeting sex.
Nipples, three sets. Three colours and sizes.
Flirting fingertips. Squeezing. Pinching. Teasing.
Irregular breathing. Gasping. Sighing. Panting.
Contentment cooling on the skin, bodies spooned.