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.

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.

Opening the gate to the land of pleasure

In many ways, one could say that a woman's sensual energy is boundless, and that when she readies herself for her lover she opens a gate to her sensual self. This gate is the barrier of restraint, and beyond it lies the Land of Pleasure. We know this land, and we do so love crossing over into it, and yet most women rarely enter. Why? Because we have a near-infinite capacity for pleasure, and men do not. Because arousal for us is not the flipping of a switch, but the unfolding of a flower following the rising sun. Because men aren't as intuitive as they could be. And because the habit of disappointment is difficult to break. How often do women open themselves to full arousal only to find that their lover has finished just as she was getting started? What woman doesn't half-expect her burgeoning arousal to become instant irritation because her boyfriend misread the signals and gave her nipples a hard tweak instead of a suck?

In their defense, men aren't mind-readers -- and neither are women. Each of us has a fair chance of getting our needs met if we communicate them clearly, provided that we understand what those needs are. And this is where it can get tricky for women. We need the long build-up. We need our minds aroused first, and then our bodies follow. We need to feel connected to our bodies, to be fully present to the pleasures of our own flesh before we are ready to grant a lover access. Only, sadly enough, many women don't even know this about themselves. This lack of coherency means we expect our partners to intuit our needs -- or expect them to fail miserably. Thus the habit of disappointment.

My recommendation to men is to begin the seduction of their lovers 5 or 6 hours before they hope for consummation. Send suggestive text messages to her cell phone. Leave an innocent voicemail in your sexiest voice. Tell her you can't get the scent of her off your mind. Remind her of an encounter that you know was pleasurable for you both. Depending on how she responds, build the tension up. Ask her to remove her panties. See if she will meet you at lunch to give them to you. Message her that you have to go into a meeting but your cock is hard from the memory of her taste / smell / skin / sounds. Ask her to take off from work an hour early so she can go for a massage / pedicure, or to find the surprise waiting for her at home. Be creative, appreciative, and if possible, both raunchy and respectful. Women have their raunchy sides and they'd show them more often if not for the fear of seeming 'less' in their lovers eyes.

And my advice to women? Take the time to open the gate to your sensual self -- prepare yourself for your lover. Take a long bath in scented water. Shave yourself slowly, letting your fingers trail over the smooth skin. Imagine your lover's enjoyment of that silken flesh. Rub oil into your skin -- everywhere. Touch yourself. Enjoy the weight of your breasts and the sensitivity of your nipples. Slide your hands down over your hips and dip them between your thighs. Caress your neck and shoulders. Put your hair up in a suggestive bedroom-do. Wear something soft, something that makes you feel sexy. Tease him with naughty messages. Tell him you're not wearing panties. Wear a garter belt and stockings under your skirt on a windy day, and enjoy the knowledge that you've made several men happy when you walked by. Flirt. Exercise. Glow with happiness and sensuality. Be feminine in a way that is natural to you. Tell your lover exactly what you want, in the most explicit language you can use. Do these things and you can walk through the gate to the Land of Pleasure without fear of disappointment. You will be ready for a banquet of sensuality, and he will be your devoted diner.

A week into the new year

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

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

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

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

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

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]

Sensitive nipples

We watched the man practicing the ancient art of burning a canoe from the trunk of a tree. He was wearing the native attire common some 500 years ago -- deerskin leggings and loincover, and over one shoulder he carried a blanket of sorts. He was otherwise bare of torso, and the cold air caused his nut-brown skin to pebble, and his nipples to stand up.

The breeze from the bay picked up, making me shiver. I moved closer to my companion, seeking his warmth, and my nipple brushed his elbow, making me gasp. Normally sensitive, my nipples had attained a whole new level of sensitivity -- one so extreme that the barest touch sent out waves of pleasure-pain signals.

I had not seen him in a long while, but within hours of meeting me at the airport, my companion reminded me of his mastery of nipple play and brought me to orgasm that way. My nipples made an unconditional surrender, standing like flagpoles from the hills of my breasts. They pulsed with an ache I assumed nursing mothers must feel, and I found it most erotic that when his mouth smiled they tightened up.

There, by the burning tree and standing amidst the tourists, I wanted to peel off my shirt and bra and offer up my breasts for more torment. The look in his eyes said he knew this -- and bade me behave. Which I did -- after one more brush of my nipple against his sleeve.

Pale pink roses

Roses. A dozen of the palest pink, so pale at first glance I thought they were white. But the centers of the buds were blush. It was warm today, and when I got home from work the roses had partially opened. Their subtle scent immediately caught my attention, and when I saw the roses, I grabbed my camera. The above is just one of the many I took. It is a macro shot looking into the bud of the rose from an angle. There is something about it, about the lighting and shadows and the way the faint veins in the petals are visible, that really appeals to me. I thought I would share the beautiful pale pink roses with the rest of the world.

Her cleavage captured my eyes

Her cleavage captured my eyes. Her breasts were full, ripe. I could imagine a child nursing from them, suckling with deep draws, fingers splayed against the pale globe, feeling the beat of heart and the pump of milk. The intimacy of a nursing mother and child always awes me.

And then she moved, leaned over to pick something up off the floor, and my mind sexualized the swing of her breasts. I imagined her over me, her lush body naked and gleaming, feeding me her nipples. I imagined her riding my fingers, my fingers curled deep inside her, pressing against her pubic bone, pressing into her G-spot. I imagined her sounds, her whimpers and grunts and moans, as sensation overwhelmed her, and her animalistic side took over.

And then she spoke, and I set aside the images, and listened to her, and admired her fine mind and her nuanced self-expression.

Women are such complex creatures. And I do so appreciate them.

(podcast: listen here)

My December so far

December:

I awakened to the feel of his whiskers scraping my back and the sound of my own voice, purring.

I had a tremendous series of orgasms and discovered how to squirt.

Comice pears, bleu cheese, and Chateau Montifaud 30-year old XO cognac. Oralgasmic.

My car died.

I wore thick socks and jackets against the cold, but my nipples were hard anyway.

I came so hard and so often that my pelvic and abdominal muscles were sore for days.

My sister's cancer metastasized.

Tantric hugs, inside and out.

I worked several 10 to 12 hour days at the office.

I stood with my face upturned to the rain, and let it fall on me like permission for tears.

She took my blood, and left bruises behind.

He said he wanted to go shopping and would buy me anything I wanted -- and I couldn't think of a thing I wanted. Except him.

He watched me savoring a bite of ribeye, a gleam in his eye.

Word-play, a volley of bad jokes and puns.

Scrabble and chess over tea.

I wound her hair around my hand and shoved her face onto her husband's cock while I painted hot-pink hand-prints on her ass.

A thousand shades of gray, the kiss of moist air, the scent of woodsmoke, and thee.

10 days left to December.

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.

Nipply

He took my elbow. I could feel the warmth of his fingers pressing through the gauzy fabric of my blouse. I thought it would be warm that day, but it was chilly, instead, and my nipples were prominently on display, announcing "I'm cold" or "I'm hot" to those who saw me, depending on their interpretations of my erect status. His breath was warm, too, as it flowed over my neck and ear. "You're trembling," he said. The low, intimate tone sent a convulsive shiver down my spine. The hair all over my body prickled, and warmth glowed in my core. The waves of cold from the air battled the heat radiating from within. I wanted him to take me to bed and warm me up. I wanted to feel the brands of his hands cradling me, coaxing the coals of my passion. He pulled the chair out for me and I sat, and the waitress handed me a menu, and I sighed, knowing it contained nothing that would satisfy my hunger.

What does "sensual immediacy" mean

I've created a yahoo group called the Sensuous Storytellers Society. I'm just getting it started, and I decided I wanted to write some essays and materials for the group. This is the first one:

What does "sensual immediacy" mean?
It means the compelling experience of the senses in the present moment.

There is nothing more immediate than this. Our bodies are our sensory array. Our bodies provide input to our minds and brains (notice I distinguish between the two) via our senses. Humans come equipped with senses of sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, and it is through them that we experience the world, and through them that our mind determines what Reality is.

We have been bombarded since birth by sensory input. Infants sleep so much partly because they need sensory down-time. They need to learn how to sort out the meaning of what their senses are telling them. As we grow older, we learn to filter out sensory 'noise'. Our minds are constantly disregarding signals from the brain. We don't notice the hair touching our ears. We don't hear the pervasive hum of electrical appliances. We don't notice everything in our field of vision. We no longer smell the shampoo in our hair or the cologne we applied this morning, even though others can. But even though our minds become accommodated to certain sensory threshholds, our senses still send those signals to the brain.

In this modern, Western civilization, we live more and more in our heads. We live more and more in a state in which our minds are filtering-out what our senses are telling us. We live in environments we have created to insulate us from noises, from brightness and darkness, scents, and physical discomfort. We sit for hours in front of televisions and computers, experiencing 'reality' through the two senses of sight and hearing, letting our minds simulate the rest. We are growing disconnected from our bodies, from our world.

And with that disconnection from our bodies, we are disconnected from others--there is very little opportunity or interest in genuine intimacy. We come into contact with others, but do we really touch them? Do they really touch us?

I want to re-awaken people to the sensual immediacy of life, to the human expericience of the world. I want to encourage people to bite into a piece of fruit and experience it with all of their senses, and take their time about it. I want to see more people laying in the grass, experiencing the dappled sunlight, the cool, moist air, and the prickle of the blades. I want to encourage couples to lay together face to face, arms and legs entwined, looking into each other's eyes, breathing each other in, knowing what it is to just be with another, and truly experience them.

Sensual immediacy is about the information our senses provide Right Now, and about truly experiencing what our senses tell us, rather than letting our minds filter it out. Being open to the sensual immediacy of life puts us in touch with our bodies and our environment, awakens us to the intimacy of sensual experience, and enhances the quality of our lives. So, knowing what sensual immediacy is, and being able to communicate it somewhat effectively, how can I not try to encourage others to try it for themselves?

Lunch hour on my back

The sky aches with blue. Golden light shimmers. A cool breeze pushes through curtains of heat. I'm stretched out under the shelter of a shade tree. The leaves are speaking to each other: it sounds like rain. The grass feels almost cold. They prickle my calves and arms, all those sharp little freshly-cut blades. I want to move, but I don't, I settle into the blades. They bend, forming a green-scented cushion. I cradle the back of my head in my hands and drift along...

And then the men go back to work on the water main.

I can hear them talking just before the machines fire up. Rumbling, and then the earth starts pulsing under me. Thump and scrape as the Caterpillar scoops up the earth. A moment of almost silence and then the clatter of soil into the back of a truck. A brief peace and then the thump and scrape again. Its an interesting rhythm, pounding up through the grass, vibrating me here, where I lay on my back, under the shade of the tree.

I could be upset. I could take it personally. I could consider my lunch break ruined. But I choose to I savor it instead, delving into the earth with my senses, body-surfing the shock-waves. Man can make an awful racket. But he can also make a symphony. It is my listening of it that determines my experience of it.

It is good to be alive.

Nectarine oralgasm

When he called, he thought I was having sex.

"I am I interrupting something?" he asked.

"No, no. I've just found the most orgasmic nectarine."

"Pardon me?"

"I'm at the fruit stand and I found this perfectly ripe orgasmic-smelling nectarine."

"An orgasmic nectarine, hunh?" He sounded dubious.

"You've never bitten into a nectarine and had an oralgasm?"

"A what?"

"Nevermind. I'll save this one for when I see you tomorrow."


Sunday afternoon I produced The Nectarine. I cradled the smooth-skinned fruit in my hand. It was room temperature and the flesh had just enough give to it. I held it to my nose and inhaled, letting out a low moan. "Mmmmmm," I sighed.

He quirked an eyebrow.

"I'll share, but I'm going to teach you how to eat it my way."

"Your way?"

"Yes. I promise this nectarine will be oralgasmic if you eat it my way."

He nodded and I held the nectarine up to his nose. "Smell it."

He inhaled deeply.

"Does it smell good?"

"Yes, very good."

"Now, rub your lips against it."

"What?"

"Just close your eyes, and rub your lips against it."

He did as he was told.

"Smooth, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Smooth like a baby's bottom? Smooth like my pussy?"

"Yes," he grunted that a bit.

"Touch it with your tongue. Slide your tongue over it, like you would if you were tasting me."

"Oooo-kay...." he said, but he did it.

"Now take a bite of it. Sink your teeth into it and suck the juices as you bite it."

He took a bite. It was a smallish bite.

"How does it taste?"

"Mmmm... very good."

"Now, run your tongue along the bite you made.... Feel that? Smooth and juicy?"

He nodded.

"Suck it."

He did. He made an appreciative noise.

"Not bad," I said, and smiled at him. "My turn."

I rubbed the nectarine against my lips. I smelled it. I opened my mouth and sank my teeth in and moaned as the juices filled my mouth. I sucked as I bit away the flesh and had a noisy oralgasm, moaning and sighing over how good it was. The best nectarine so far this season.

"Again," I told him, and held the fruit to his mouth.

I watched as his white teeth bit into the rosy skin, watched his lips purse as he sucked up some of the juices.

"Mmmmm..." I made the pleasure noises for him, my mouth watering, knowing what he was experiencing.

I watched as he flattened his tongue against the wound he had made, sliding it over the golden flesh. I pulled the nectarine away and kissed him, sucking at his tongue, licking at his lips, enjoying the combined flavor of man and fruit.

My turn again. I closed my eyes and slowly sank my teeth into it, savouring the feel of it on my tongue, loving the way my teeth sank into the flesh. I sucked at the juices that welled up around the holes my teeth were making. I bit away the piece and pressed my tongue to the wound, sliding it over the slippery smoothness, savoring the taste and texture. I moaned and sucked and sighed and chewed, and when I had finished my bite of the fruit he spoke.

"God, you're amazing," he said, his voice all throaty.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll never eat a nectarine the same way again."

"Good!" I said, and put the nectarine aside. I had something else for him to taste.


He must have been very appreciative of the lesson, because he sent me roses today. The photo above is one of them.

Conquered and conquering

One of the people I see is a natural alpha male. He is dominant--and he wants to possess me. He thinks he prefers a quiet, respectful woman. He thinks he wants the woman to be womanly and yielding and submissive, but really, he wants an equal, someone to challenge him, to make him work for it.

I am contrary and defiant, I tease him, deny him, push him, until his patience and endurance are exhausted and then he takes from me what I will not give him. He takes what he wants--what we both want--and gives me what I want. His passion. All that emotion normally so controlled. I push at him until he drops the veneer of the civilized man and gives me the primal man underneath. I have challenged him, beyond the veneers of civilized man, making him reach for the primal, carnal, pre-historic man who is non-verbal and devoid of restraint... engaged his mind, his conscious self, with rational things, while pushing the buttons of the wild man inside. I make him submit, not to me, but to himself, to that man deep within himself. I call him forth by frustrating his civilized self beyond reason. And then, in that moment, I possess him as surely as he thinks he is possessing me. Every mark he makes on me marks his soul, every mark I leave on him marks my soul, makes him mine, makes me his. We conquer each other, vying for dominance. And it is deeply, intensely satisfying...

Pleasure-centric (another story start)

"You are so pleasure-centric," he said.

It was a complaint. One I have heard from others over the years.

"What is wrong with being pleasure-centric?" I asked, genuinely puzzled. I ran my hand lightly down his forearm and threaded my fingers through his. He is intelligent and articulate, this one. Perhaps he can help me to understand.

"Nothing, so long as I don't have to be, too."

Ah, I thought, finally, someone who is accepting of my hedonistic nature.

But my joy faded when he added, "The whole concept of being pleasure-oriented... it upsets me."

"Why?" I asked.

"That is a very complex question to answer," he replied.

"That is not an answer, Gabriel, its a cop-out. Please explain?" I asked again. Surely he, of all people, must be self-aware enough about his discomfort to explain it to me.

I released his hand and ran my fingers through my hair before massaging the back of my neck. It felt good, making me tingle. I pressed two fingers into a small knot and sighed deliriously as I leaned my head back to deepen the pressure. After about thirty seconds, I straightened my neck and tucked my thumbs in my belt loops, assuming a patient stance.

Silence.

I waited some more.

He did not answer.

He struggled, but he could not put into words the reasons for his discomfort with my shameless enjoyment of the sensuous immediacy of every waking moment. I think it has to do with the Mennonite values his mother passed on to him, even though she married and raised her children outside her 'faith.' Puritanism prevails in North America, and with it, the concept that life must be wrung dry of all that is pleasurable in it in order to be worthy of the rewards of the after-life. I was reminded of what Nietzsche had said: "The Christian resolution to find the world ugly and bad has made the world ugly and bad." And I remembered my conviction that if there is a God, there could be no greater insult to a deity than to shun and revile Creation. I was born into this world, I was given this life, this body, these senses, and it is only fitting that I live it to the fullest of my meager abilities.

Into the silence I said, "We all act out of our own self-interest, Gabe. The fundamental drive of the unconscious is the Pleasure Principle. Read up on your Freud. I'm just more aware of it than the masses, and certainly at lot less hung-up on doing what makes me feel good. It is a hedonistic, pleasure-centric approach to life, and I'm unapologetic about it--and probably happier than most people as a result."

"It just doesn't seem ethical, or moral, or something like that," he complained, oddly inarticulate. He held out his hand and started ticking things off on his fingers. "You masturbate more than anyone I know, Kay, male or female. You eat a pear like you are having an orgasm, and when you give me a taste, its just a pear. You use real whipping cream in your coffee--its just too decadent--and besides, aren't you worried about your cholesterol? And then, there is the fact that you act like a child. You stop in the middle of the sidewalk to watch leaves fall or a caterpillar cross. You spend hours down by the river doing nothing when you could be furthering your career." He threw his hands up in the air and gave me a frustrated look. "And what the hell is meditation anyway?"

I took Gabriel's hand, held it between both of mine. I could feel the coolness of his skin, the smoothness of his palm, the long, tapered fingers with their blunt nails. A lovely, well-cared for, expressive hand. It and its pair wreak such divine havoc on my senses sometimes.

"Close your eyes," I told him, and he did.

I held his hand for a moment, took a centering breath, then lifted it to my mouth. I kept my eyes on his face as I breathed on his hand, a warm, moist breath just millimeters from his skin. He sighed, started to open his eyes. I made an irritated noise in my throat and he closed them again, tightly. I rotated his hand and touched the prominent wrist bone lightly with my tongue, then pursed my lips and inhaled. Cool air washed over his skin and his unique scent flooded my senses. He gasped at the temperature contrast and shivered. I watched the hairs rise, and gooseflesh pebble his skin. I moved again, and this time I kissed that fleshy spot between thumb and forefinger, a nice, moist kiss with full lips, slightly parted. He moaned. I lowered his hand. My eyes picked out the bulge that had sprung up in his pants, and I smiled inwardly.

"Open your eyes," I said softly. "How did that feel?"

"Great," he answered with a smile, his eyes glowing.

"And this?" I asked, repeating my earlier actions, but without the attentiveness and languid timing. "How did that feel?"

His brows drew together and he gave a little shrug. "Ok. Nice, I guess."

"What made the difference between 'great' and 'nice', Gabe?"

"Great was... slower," he said thoughtfully.

"And what else?"

"It was..." he closed his eyes, trying to remember. "It was... more..."

"More what, Gabriel?"

"More intense."

"I eat my pears the first way, sweetie," I gave his fingers a squeeze. "You eat yours the second way."

He pulled his hand away from mine and frowned. "I don't get it."

I sighed in frustration and raised a hand to rub the back of my neck. The world needs more sensualists, I thought to myself, instead of self-absorbed moralists.

Questions poured out of me in a torrential, impassioned speech. "What is so wrong with being aware of the world, with savoring it? What is wrong with being sensitive to shades of colour and texture, to the subtlety of sounds, to the brush of someone's hand on my skin? What is wrong with swooning over my first bite into a ripe pear? Why is it wrong that I enjoy the scents that others don't bother to smell?"

I looked at him, and I could feel my frustration and bafflement welling up. I took a deep breath, noticed my shoulders were raised and consciously dropped them. Took another deep, calming breath.

"Am I too indulgent in the sensual, at the expense of something more important, Gabe? I work, I pay my bills, I contribute to causes I believe in. I take time to contemplate the meaning of life. I rarely say unkind words, think unkind thoughts, do unkind things. Yes, with a little more ambition, I could further my career. Yes, if I played less, I would 'have' more. But what for? I don't want like most people do. I don't feel the need to go shopping in order to assuage that restlessness that so many people seem to feel. I rarely feel trapped, unhappy, unworthy. I like my life. I like who I am. I am, for the most part, comfortable in my own skin."

He pulled me close to him, his hands sliding down over my hips until they cupped my ass. He kissed the side of my neck, running his lips along my flesh.

"I'm comfortable in your skin, too," he murmured, making me shiver as his breath puffed near my ear.

Son of a bitch! I grumbled to myself. I tilted my head back, exposing more of my neck to his mouth. He complains about me being too pleasure-centric, but he's not above using it to distract me from an argument.

His lips traced the muscle extending from behind my ear down to the hollow of my throat. He pressed his tongue there, then nibbled along my collarbone as far as the neckline of my blouse would permit. The nip of his teeth made me suck in my breath, made my nipples hard. His hand came up, brushing the underside of my breast, and then he ran this thumbnail over the hardened point. The pleasure haze rose in my mind like mist from my flesh, clouding coherent thought. I leaned forward and sank my teeth into that place where the neck and shoulder meet, and he made a sibilant hissing noise that turned my arousal-level up another notch.

He twisted one of my arms behind me, making me arch against him. I could feel his sex pressing against my belly, hard and thick, and I wanted him then, I wanted him so much that my breath starting coming in those tell-tale shallow puffs, the precursors to panting and dizziness. I ground myself against him and whimpered, knowing he would make me suffer for my pleasure-seeking ways. And wanting it.

When it comes to pleasure, men get the short end of the stick, I think. I've queried most of my friends, and I've decided that, as a general rule, men are results-oriented pleasure-seekers and women are process-oriented pleasure seekers. Most men get aroused and orgasm, all very quickly. They want the big-bang, the ultimate superfeeling, and they want it now. Theirs is results-oriented pleasure. Whatever it takes to "get 'er done." Women get aroused, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, and orgasm usually takes time, but orgasm itself is not the ultimate goal. The pleasure is in the arousal itself, in the slow build of orgasmic tension and its slow decline. During sex a woman may not orgasm or she may, or she may do so many times, but the emphasis for her is actually on intimacy and the arousal process--on feeling good for as long as possible--not on achieving climax.

And then there is me.

I do so love to suffer pleasure, though most people do not seem to understand what I mean by that. In the Buddhist sense I am very attached to pleasure, and attachment is a source of suffering, but that is far too psychological a reasoning behind my use of that expression. No, I suffer because my senses are very acute. One side-effect of this acuity is that I am multi-orgasmic. I come readily and often. The other side-effect is that I am hyper-sensitive and thus easily over-stimulated, and there are times when I have gone from urgently aroused to rampantly irritable in a split second. It usually happens when I have not been allowed to come, when I have been kept on the edge of orgasm for too long. The frustration builds, the frisson of sexual tension stretching out like an elastic band until my nerves are quivering and something in me finally snaps. When that happens, I am done. So very done, and there is no reclaiming my arousal. And so it is that I seek and suffer pleasure, riding the tides of my sexual energy, enjoying the teasing and slow buildup to frequent and intense orgasms, savouring each one, knowing that at any moment my lover may commit the fatal error that sinks both our ships.

And Gabe knew this, he knew this because he was my friend as well as my lover, and we had talked for many an hour about sensuality and sexuality and the perversion of both in our culture. When we became lovers he delighted in making me come quickly and urgently until I plateaued, and then he would keep me on edge for forty-five minutes, an hour, sometimes longer, until he pushed the erotic button that sent me toppling over the side into a shockingly intense orgasm that robbed me of all sensibility and left me limp as a slumbering kitten.

Gabriel liked to push the pleasure-envelope with me. And on this particular evening, my demonstration of sensual attentiveness as the key to my hedonism goaded him to new heights...

New story, started this morning

The throats of the orange-red flowers seemed to swell as they drank greedily of the sunlight's golden sweetness. My eyes tracked a couple of bees flirting from flower to flower, slipping deep down the flowers throats to gather the sweetness for themselves, only emerge seconds later, launching back into the air in search of the next source of nectar.

Glorious day, I thought, as I closed my eyes and let my head loll against the back of the chaise. I could feel the breeze tickling my skin, teasing the sun-kissed flesh, making my nipples harden. Sighing, I shifted a little and licked my lips. The sun was making me hot and the wind was making me hotter. I found myself wondering how I could entice my lover into the shadowy interior of the beach house for an afternoon of lazy love-making.

"Are you ready for some food?" Kurt asked from somewhere above me.

I opened a lazy eye and spotted him.

"Mmmm. Lunch. What a good idea," I said, thinking how providential it was that his stomach decided it was empty in the same moment I'd decided I needed filling.

I lifted my hand and he took it, pulling me upwards, out of my chair. I leaned into him and slipped my arms around his waist. I pressed my lips to the skin exposed by the vee of his shirt and inhaled sharply. His unique scent co-mingled enticingly with the salt-tang of the air, flooding my senses. I slid my hand down his arm and taking his hand in mine, stepped toward the house.

"Life's uncertain. Lets have each other for dessert, first."

"Oh no you don't," he said, and tugged back. "I said 'food', not 'fuck', you insatiable wench."

I pouted at him, then smiled, realizing we'd be going inside to eat, and once there I could use my hands and mouth to convince him to feed me what I wanted--bent over the kitchen table. My clit twitched at that mental image and a small shiver ran through me. But he knows how my mind works, Kurt does. He smiled down at me, and there was a slightly cruel edge to his voice when he spoke.

"We're going to Seabiscuits," he said, naming a busy little place that was a combined internet cafe and lunch stop. He knew I liked their finger sandwiches, unsweetened iced tea, and free wifi.

A bead of sweat formed between my breasts and hung there, trembling with each beat of my heart, each breath, making me extremely aware of my skin, my breathing, my pulse.

My need.

Just as I was preparing a protest, my tummy grumbled. I rolled my eyes and capitulated. He crooked his arm at me and I looped mine through his, and off we strolled toward the main street of the little beach town....

***

Time to get ready for a date.
Sushi for lunch, and I get to hear about the Naked Art in the Dark party I missed last week. Whee!

He is sleeping

He is sleeping. I can hear his breathing change when he stirs in his bed. If I close my eyes I can see his dark lashes against his pale skin, his heavy shadow, the smoothness of his face, the faint smile on his mouth. He needs twice as much sleep as I do, so I slid out of bed and moved to where I am now, sitting in the sunlight. I wanted to wake him with my mouth and hands, bring that wonderful expression to his face, call forth that pleased purr from him. But I did that yesterday, and he looked a bit tired most of the day, so I've resolved to let him wake himself up. It is difficult, though, because as the sun warms me, his scent is rising from my skin. Our combined scents are rising from my skin, tantalizing me. I want him again. Yesterday he made me keep going. He wanted me completely satisfied, he said. I rode him until my muscles were trembling, until I bled from the wild, heedless slamming of my body down onto him. And then, when I was wrung out, laying face down, he used another entrance, and urged me through two more orgasms before he emptied into me. He let me nap and then we went to dinner. The scent of 'us' was very strong. I could feel the salt of my sweat and his tightening my skin. I ate my sushi and cold soba noodles with unsteady hands. I squirmed a bit in my seat. I kept dropping things. And he smiled. He smiled that self-satisfied smile that a man gets when he knows he has pushed a woman beyond her normal limits, used her well. When we got into bed he asked if I wanted anything else and I answered "snuggle." I put my arm around his chest and tangled my legs with his and slept deeply for my usual five and a half hours. But now I am awake and my body sings with tension and I want to taste the sleep on his skin and breathe in his scent and work my mouth slowly down his body. I want to paint love on his skin with my fingertips, watch it sink into him, see him glow, see the urgency tighten his body, until he reaches for me. Just a little while longer. I can wait. Really....