The Forfeit, part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Forfeit

We met at Sutro Heights Park.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck!" I gasped against his mouth.

He pulled back and smiled.

"My place or yours?" he asked.

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

"Here?" His eyes widened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Never again," he panted into my ear.

"Never again what?"

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

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

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

"I won, by the way."

"Oh?" he asked.

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

He growled and made a clumsy swipe for me.

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

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

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

He groaned. "Insatiable wench!"

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

"We'll see."

Angry Sex

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

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

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

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

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

"Owwww!"

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

"No panties, hmm?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big Wally

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

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

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

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

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

A sybian. Her very own sybian.

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

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.

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!

Making connections

Its too easy to make a 'lesson' of the past, to take what happens and turn it into a decision about myself, the world, and others. A decision that is carried forward into the future, affecting how I participate in my life, frozen in time, like the water droplets in the photo above whose ripples eternally ruffle the surface of the tidepool.

In the work I have undertaken for myself in my personal life (encouraging sensual immediacy and connection) I have encountered all sorts of people. I thought that I have been operating from a place that was open and genuine in my dealings with people who have contacted me regardless of venue (my blog, Literotica, Yahoo, HypnoFantasy, etc) but the truth is that, while I have been genuine with people, I've used the experience with CD earlier this year as an excuse to shut down a bit, to be less open, to be wary of new people.

And thus I've been less connected.

But really, Life is about Connection. We live for ourselves, but who we are for ourselves is lived through our connection with others. And a life of self-limited connection and self-limited expression, well, its... unsatisfactory at best.

So fuck it. I'm not going to let the lesson I take away from what happened with CD be that I'm going to close myself off from others lest I get hurt again. Because of course I'm going to get hurt again. That is rather inevitable if one is living life. Really living life. And by that I mean... living life with gusto, experiencing every vivid moment of it, participating fully in it. And I like living life that way--it beats that shadow realm that so many people seem to dwell in, feeling disconnected from themselves and others, feeling like imposters in their own lives. I prefer to be connected. I'm jacking back in, 100%.


And speaking of new people and new connections...

I was contacted by Alicia Night Orchid last week. She asked if she could feature me and my writing on her site. I was very flattered and looked through her site. I enjoyed it immensely. She is a talented writer. So, I consented and she put my story "Jack" up on her site, here. Please do pay her a visit... reading her stuff has given me the impetus to get back to work on some of my story sketches... particularly a very hot little sketch taken out of my portfolio of personal experiences. We all know how it will end, but its the journey there that makes it so very erotic.

"Jack" posted to Literotica

The text of the erotic story "Jack" has been posted to Literotica.
The audio version is available at HypnoFantasyFriends.com under KR Silkenvoice. I now have 9 .mp3 files there.

I've also just recorded my first hypnosis file, called "Laugh". It is a G-rated introduction to hypnosis, intended to make you want to laugh whenever you smile. Its a short (15 minute file) which I am making available here. It should be available on HypnoFantasy shortly. The script was written by Bob Brown. Please give it a listen and let me know what you think.

A true story

The book lies open. It has been open all year, open at the same page she left it on New Year's Day, page 147. It has usurped the place once reserved for the Caged Gifts, resting as it does on the gold brocade chair near the foot of her bed. She doesn't touch it, though her feather duster does tickle the pages once a month or so, and when it does, she looks away, eyes blinking tears. From the dust. Yes, dust. Some days when she awakens her eyes fall upon the book, where it glows whitely in the morning light. She asks herself why she doesn't put it away somewhere, or send it back to the author. It means something, she knows, It means something that it is still there. And yet, nothing has meaning in and of itself, she reminds herself. There is what happened, and then there is the meaning we give it when we try to interpret what happened. What happened. Yes. What happened? I don't know. I really don't know. She looks over at the book. She knows the author's pride in his opus, and she wants to know what happened in the story, even though she knows how it ends. She knows how it ends because she helped the author craft that ending. She told him she wanted to know what the protagonist was thinking and feeling, there, at the ending, which was also the beginning, where things came full circle and the reader knew only the 'what happened' and not the meaning the character ascribed to it. What does it mean? she asks herself. Sighing heavily, torn, she reaches a hand toward the book. And stops. It means whatever I choose for it. And today, because she feels like it, the meaning of the book is a reminder of a promise made. I promised I'd never abandon you, she sends out into the universe, to the author's inner child, but I never noticed you didn't make the same promise, until too late. She glances at it again. The book remains open for lack of closure. She supposes that she will never know what happened in the middle, that perhaps it is enough to know the ending. The only certainty in life is death, and the only certainty with books is that the pages turn until there are no more, and that is The End, whatever the state of the story. What does it mean, then, that a book lies open, abandoned, unread, unclosed? Nothing. It means nothing. Perhaps it never meant anything. And with that thought she rises, gathers the book in both hands, and slams it closed. The End.

New erotic story posted

I added a new story with audio to Literotica.

I've gotten some interesting feedback on it, some enthusiastic, saying its my best so far, both highly erotic and soothing, while a couple have sent feedback saying it is prosaic and prurient, the audio sounding contrived.

I am enjoying both sorts of feedback.

This story, "All Five Coins" was a bit of an experiment. Over the past few months I'd gotten feedback asking for more stories and recordings, so I decied to put another one out there. I re-read a lot of the feedback I'd gotten on my various stories, and based on input, based on my knowledge of my 'audience', I wrote and recorded this one. It was a challenge to pare it down to bare essentials, to strip it of everything except what was needed to create an arousing vignette that captured a brief moment in time. There is very little plot, almost no character development. It is all action. The kind of smutty action people read naughty stories for.

It was an interesting experiment, and for the most part, I am pleased with the result. Putting in the beach sounds was an interesting effect to attempt, but I'm getting a handle on the mixing recording software I picked up. And as for the rest of the audio, well, it was fun, but I am definitely not a porn voice-over artist :) I'm a bit embarrassed acting out the sounds of pleasure, etc, and because of that, of course, and because I am reading a story after all, it does sound a bit contrived to me, I will admit. But for all that, it seems to have hit the target I was aiming for.

I will write the next one for a slightly different audience, I think... we'll see.