Why can't I come?

One of my listeners contacted me recently:

I must admit that I'm envious of you, Silken. You express yourself so eloquently and you describe experiences that are beyond my wildest imaginings. Tame as it may be, my greatest fantasy these days is to achieve orgasm during intercourse. Why can't I come? Do you have any advice for me?

I do. And the advice that follows is good for women and their lovers to hear:
For men, orgasm is required for procreation, and so you've evolved to go from limp to ejaculation in 3 minutes. For women all that is necessary is to have an egg in the chute. So if orgasm isn't necessary, why is it possible? Well, part of it is that women have the same or simlar muscles that are involved in male orgasm. But the other part, I think, has to do with keeping men around--so listen up guys. In terms of procreation, if a male has no way of knowing when a female is fertile, then his object is to have intercourse with her as often as possible until she is impregnated -- and what better way to make sure you will be welcomed again and again than to make a woman come?

In my experience, in order for a woman to reach orgasm during intercourse, she must be comfortable with herself and her partner, and highly aroused.

To facilitate your goal of orgasm during intercourse, my first recommendation would be to masturbate frequently--if you can't come solo, it is unlikely that you will be able to come with anyone else. For me, any excuse to masturbate will do, especially when I am feeling frustrated. Most women need a fantasy in their minds, whether it is watching a sexy movie, reading or listening to erotica like mine (shameless plug inserted here) or playing through your own personal sexual fantasy. It is important to begin with this, with getting your mind into the mood, because your body will follow, and your mind and body both have to be aroused in order for orgasm to happen.

If you have difficulty climaxing with masturbation, I would recommend purchasing a Hitachi Magic Wand. It is an amazing vibrator, useful both for sex and for muscle massage. There are different places to press the vibrator--some women put it directly over the clit(with or without padding) while others, like me, press it against the pubic arch between the clit and the vaginal opening, or against the perineum between the vaginal opening and the anus. Experiment. There is no wrong way to do it--however it feels best is what is best for you.

Once you've got masturbating to orgasm down, I recommend that you invite your partner to watch you. He or she can learn a lot from watching where you touch yourself, what tempo you use, and what your body language looks like as your arousal level peaks. From there, the next step would be to let your partner help with your masturbation, whether it is massaging your clit or nipples, or slipping fingers inside you. A woman's capacity for pleasure is immense and women are amazing when they climax -- most partners are only to happy to be a part of the process.

I had difficultly climaxing with partners when I was younger, in fact, for years, the only way I could come during penetrative sex was with a vibrator on my clit and my partner pushed deep inside me with my legs locked around his hips. Once I got coming in that position down, I tried others. Doggie style with a vibrator on my clit was amazing, and in that position, it is possible to do the pre-orgasm muscle-lock without interfering with his pumping action. I also find that sitting astride my partner with the vibrator on my clit is a great way to climax--supposedly the easiest position for most women. In discovering what works for you, you must learn not to be shy about experimenting and asserting what you want, whether it is "Right there. Don't stop", or "Move a little to the left." Also, Don't expect your partner to be a mindreader, especially when you yourself aren't certain about what you want. You might also consider inviting him or her to be a part of the process, lending your their experience and creativity.

I also recommend something many people don't think about: Anal stimulation. There are as many nerve endings around that little spot as there are on your lips. This means that your ass is very sensitive and can be a source of tremendous pleasure. There are little bullet vibes that can be pressed against it -- you don't need penetration to experience incredible sensations. However, I can say that the most consistently amazing orgasms I've had involve anal penetration so I encourage you to go to an online shop like www.BabeLand.com and look at what toys are recommended for anal play.

For most women, vibrators and other toys are an integral part of sexual intercourse, and most partners, male and female alike, understand and accept it. Most people are willing to do whatever it takes to see that our partners get to experience the pinnacle of pleasure.

Ultimately, achieving orgasm, solo or with others, and with or without toys is about you. Being comfortable in your own skin, being comfortable exploring your body, and being comfortable finding erotic material that arouses you. Own your body. Relax into it. Accept the challenge of mastering your own pleasure. Recognize that youy don't have to come to feel very, very good. Build on the erotic energy and you will come.

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.

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.

Who Would I Love

(a love poem in the style of Rumi)

When my sisters ask
Why him?
How do I tell them of the sweet satifaction
of laying in your arms?
They would only feel envious.

When an old lover says
Remember when?
How do I tell him that your scent has driven away
the memory of other men?
He would only feel forgotten.

When a friend sings
of broken hearts
How do I tell her that the lyrical sweep of your voice
healed me completely?
She would only feel injured.

And when the moon wonders
why my bed is empty
How do I tell you that the warmth of my flesh
is reserved for you alone?
You are not here to feel me.

Who would I love
if not you?
Who else can meet my soul when it leaves my body
at the eternal moment of ecstacy?
There is no one else for me.

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.

Certainty Is....

Certainty is an illusion. So is control.

Life happens, and it just so happens that life is taking me where I was certain I would never go again: home.

In leaving my life in Portland, I leave behind partners who have sat at the banquet of sensuality with me. Some see this as an ending. Some see this as a hiatus. Some see this as a reason to work harder to keep in touch. Some see this as a source of regret. Some see this as a reason to cling. Some see this as an opportunity -- my partner in California, for one. I am looking forward to seeing him more frequently, and to sharing more of myself and my life with him. I'm uncertain about what will happen next, and I am ok with that. If there is one thing I have learned this year, it is that there is nothing I cannot handle with a little help from my loved ones. I can choose for myself a specific destination in life, and I while I have control over myself and the work I do to achieve my goals, I am achingly aware that I have no control over the curves life throws at me, or over others. Life is uncertain, control is an illusion, and I -- I am adaptable. Besides, its not the destination that matters (which, ultimately, is the certainty of death) -- its what I get up to along the way.

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.

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.

The jewel is in the lotus

High-points from this weekend:

She was a tall woman, perhaps an inch or two shy of six feet, and junoesque. She was bent over at the waist, and she balanced herself by pressing her hands against the wall of mirrors. Her lushness of body and sweetness of spirit were so very inviting, I could not resist. I crawled under her and sat cross-legged with my back against the mirrors. I cradled her breasts in my hands and lifted my face to kiss her, and the man standing behind her raised his arm. The flogging recommenced with a loud thwap. Her breath left her in a rush and she kissed me softly. Another stroke, and another, and in moments we were sucking at each others lips. My fingers pinched her nipples, tweaked them, squeezed and bounced her breasts. She sighed and moaned. It was divine. I wished it would go on forever, but alas, like all good things, must do, it came to an end.

The violet wand sparked over my nipple, making me gasp and twitch. Again he touched the orb to my breast, and an ecstasy of electricity ran through my body. Hands ran over me, two or three others touching me, teasing me. Next, the tinsel flogger and me turned into a conduit, and the hands and flogger sparked whenever they touched my skin, making me grasp and moan and trill and writhe. It was a banquet for my skin.

Parlour games with a twist, the winner on his back in the center of the room, eyes closed and wearing only his briefs, and beaming. Four women touching him, hands running over his body, kissing and pinching and teasing. He was in heaven.

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)

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.

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.

Stages of pleasuring

I have lived an interesting life. Before I reached puberty I witnessed a wider variety of sexual intercourse than most adults see in their lifetimes. As a child, I did not know that other kid's parents only slept with each other. I did not know that the limit was usually two adults to a bed--my parents always seemed to have friends in their bed--nor that sex is usually reserved for the bedroom. I did not know that boys having sex with boys and girls having sex with girls was taboo. I did not know that nudity in the home was uncommon, etc.

Masturbation was something we were very open about. When I was 4 or 5 and my mom found me touching myself in a sunny spot in the living room, she didn't slap my hand. Instead, she told me that if I wanted to do that it was probably best to do it in my room. I understood early on that sex was something grown-ups did, and it was not something I was eager to rush into. It did not have the secrecy, the shame, or the thrill of the forbidden for me that it did for most kids. In this environment, my sexual identity flourished, unfettered by the boundaries most people develop. I am free, uninhibited--my sexual self is fully expressed. But this does not mean I am promiscuous or indiscriminate, an assumption that mainstream, vanilla humanity tends to make when they catch wind of my lifestyle.

I am polyamorous. I date a wide variety of people. I have sex with two of them. Most of the ones who are not my lovers I have been dating for a year and more. I form deep, intense connections rather quickly, but I do not rush into sexual intercourse, or sexual intimacy for that matter. Without a mental connection, sex is just a form of exercise that may or may not result in orgasm, and if I want to cum, no one can do it better for me than I can.

Recently someone asked me what I did do with these people if I did not have sex with them. Heh. It depends. Some get kisses, which may not sound like much, but I have it on good authority that kissing me is better than some sex people have had. Kissing is wonderful, delicious, arousing. It makes me feel sooo good. It is its own journey and destination. Then there is frottage. I love to frot with people I feel connected to. I'm very good with my hands after so many years of practicing massage. I like pleasuring others with my hands and I love the rub of bodies against each other, both languidly and with rising urgency. I haven't dated a woman for a while but there is nothing quite like scissoring with a woman, rubbing together on a dance floor or in bed, lost in the tribadic subset of frottage. Mutual masturbation (to orgasm) and languissement is something I've experienced with two of the men who are not my lovers. Lastly, there is the intercrural form of 'outercourse'. This is very intimate and little different from actual coitus save there is no penetration... just delicious friction and body movements that simulate coitus. I particularly enjoy it from behind, while spooning. There is someone I am dating that I am approaching this stage with. We had a frot session a couple of weeks ago that had my roommate convinced I was having some amazing sex, when in fact he was worshipping my back with his mouth and grinding himself against me in a way that had me moaning deliriously with pleasure. Or maybe it was the nipple-play that had me moaning that way? Its a sensual blur, to be sure.

The point is that there are many ways to enjoy others, many stages of pleasuring without sexual intercourse, depending on the level of mental, emotional, and spiritual intimacy I feel I have with that person. We each define 'sex' differently, and pleasure, particularly pleasure that results in sexual arousal, is so nuanced. So coloured by the experiences of childhood and adolescence. So limited and charged and judged by social mores and conditioning. I've thought about my sexuality, the stages of sexual arousal and pleasure, about intimacy and what it means to love and be with--to really love and be with--others. Have you?

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...

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....