Silken on Sex #78:

It is fair to say that I’m an enthusiastic masturbator and sex toy aficionado. My primary partner calls me his pervy dirty girl, and fortunately is not threatened by my self-pleasuring practices. He knows that my libido is off-the-charts and that it takes a herculean effort on anyone’s part (including my own) to keep me feeling satisfied for more than a few hours at a time. But he does try, and between his efforts and mine, we keep things very interesting.

Which is where my chest full of sex toys comes in.

I am grateful to be a woman, and grateful that so many people have put so much ingenuity and effort into accessorizing women’s pleasures.  Toys to fulfill our every pleasure, fantasy, and sexual need line the shelves of thousands of adult stores all over the world. And fortunately for men, I’ve noticed that the numbers of male-oriented toys out there in the market has increased dramatically in the past decade.

While sex toys are great for self-pleasuring, they are also invaluable tools for spicing things up between couples. Sex can become pretty routine amongst couples, something scheduled for Sunday nights after the kids are in bed and the dog has been walked and the garbage put out. And for those couples who don’t have children, too. I know too many couples for whom sex and intimacy have taken a back-burner to more career-oriented pursuits. The end result of all this is that people grow sexually frustrated and/or bored with their same-ole same-ole sex lives, and start looking for a way to spice things up — often in the form of finding someone else. But as we all know, once that New Relationship Energy (NRE) fades, we fall back into the same boring habits and ways of being, which simply fuels the cycle of serial monogamy. I’m of the opinion that everyone should make fucking like they’re hoping to keep “porn star” as an economic fallback position part of their routine — and there are so many sex toys and accessories to facilitate fun, experimental, and even downright steamy “rock star” sex.

With that thought in mind, I am sharing Silkenvoice’s Top 15 Sex Toys & Aids in three categories: those for women, men, and couples, followed up with recommendations on sex how-to guides and porn. I swing both ways with regards to sex partners, and while my recommendations target the larger heterosexual audience, they are also useful for gays and lesbians.

Women

1. A wand massager like a Hitachi Magic Wand or similar knock off like the Adam & Eve Massager is a must-have for most women, save those with uber-sensitive clits. There are even a variety of attachments to put mind-blowing orgasms within your grasp.
2. A rechargeable Jackrabbit is a joy. Mine has paid for itself man times over in batteries not purchased.  There is also a large selection of battery-operated rabbit vibes to suit every shape of woman and her stimulation needs. If they are out of your price-range, don’t worry–there are a lot of vibrating dildos out there. If you don’t have one, get one. It will make your toes curl.
3. The Voila Massager is thin and flat, and one of my favorite finds. It can be cupped in the fingertips of one hand for those ladies who like to masturbate laying on their bellies, as well as being perfect for clitoral stimulation during sex — it is thin enough not to get in the way — it has 7 levels of vibration and pulsation, and best of all, it is rechargeable!
4. A slender glass dildo, which can be warmed up to body temperature in water, is great for anal  play. I recommend that or the EZ Bend anal vibrator. A lot women are very hesitant about anal play but I’ve got to tell you, try it, and keep trying, until you’ve relaxed enough to enjoy it. Anal orgasms are thrilling and intense.
5. The Sybian, which is an amazing fucking machine that rocks my world, or for 1/10th the cost, The Loveseat. I had one of these until I got my Sybian, and I loved it. It is a saddle of sorts for a massaging wand, and you can purchase a remote to control the wand’s vibration with — for hand’s free pleasure.

Men

1. The Aneros prostate massager. Many men are even more leery of anal pleasure than women are, which is a pity. The Aneros is worth getting past your reservations for — how would you like to experience full-body orgasms like women do? I’ve seen the Aneros make men cum without any stimulation of the penis. Very hot! There is also a unisex version for men and women called Peridise that I haven’t tried yet.
2. The Fleshlight is the ultimate stroker toy for men. It looks like a flashlight on the outside and inside is soft pink flesh-like material that provides suction. I love to use it to jack-off guys I’ve tied up :)
3. Massager Masturbator Sleeve: If you’ve got a Hitachi Magic Wand or similar wand massager in the house, you must get one of these. Slip the sleeve over your cock, fit the head of the massager into the cup, and turn it on. It will make your eyes roll back in your head, your body tighten, and your toes curl. Oh, and you’ll cum, too.
4. The EZ bend anal vibrator is a toy I’ve also recommended for women.  It is great for men because you can bend the tip to the angle you need to stimulate and vibrate your prostate at the same time. This can also produce full-body orgasms for men.
5. The Venus 2000 machine does all the work for men. It has an infinitely adjustable stroke length and speed for hands-free fun. Guys can just lay back and moan and writhe like a woman. I find it very fun to use on men I’ve tied down.

Couples

Sex toys can really spice up your sex life, alleviating the routine and adding new repertoire.

1. Adjustable penis extender: I’m not going to lie, some days we wish your cock was bigger, just like some days you wish we were tighter. With this, couples get both. Made of super stretchy rubber, this will add 2″ to your length and a bit of added girth, while at the same time giving your cock a sweet squeeze. It easily fits over the penis and includes ticklers for additional pleasure for your partner. If you find that the sleeve is too long for you, just cut the sheath until you find the desired size.
2. Strap-on vibrating harness: This is a sturdy, adjustable harness that will accommodate most dildos, and even comes with a vibrating bullet. Real women wear strap-ons, and so do men. I have one friend who straps on John Holmes when his women-friends have worn him down to a nub. Enjoy the confidence and power of a cock that won’t stop, regardless of your gender.
3. Sex sling with cuffs: Ever gotten a cramp in your hip or ass trying to hold your leg in that perfect position for more than a few minutes? I have. What a mood-killer. The sex sling is a fun device that makes creative positions possible. I like to put the padded neck portion along my shoulders instead of my neck. Experiment and enjoy.
4. Sex wedge/ramp:  One word — Comfortable. One of my partners picked up this wedge when I pulled a muscle in my back that had me in physical therapy for 4 weeks. Not only did it make sex possible, but it fueled lots of ideas for when my range of motion returned. This particular Libertator brand of wedge comes with a booklet chock full of positions. I’ve tried them all.
5. Restraints/bondage gear: If you don’t have any bondage gear, you’re missing out on one of the best ways to spice up your sex life. If you’re curious, but don’t know where to start, I recommend the Under The Bed Restraint System — especially if you don’t have a headboard or footboard conducive to tying someone up.

Great Sex How-To eBooks

I’ve recommended all these toys and aids, but don’t worry, I’m not going to leave you hanging. In addition to the information available on my site and in my stories, I’m also going to list my Top 5 Great Sex How-to Books — available in eBook formats from Amazon.com:

1. How to Tell a Naked Man What to Do by Candida Royale. This is a primer for women on how to be dominant in the bedroom.
2. She Comes First: The Thinking Man’s Guide to Pleasuring a Woman by Ian Kerner. If your female partner seems to be disinterested in sex, read this book and change everything.
3. Never Have the Same Sex Twice: A Guide for Couples by Alison Tyler. Each new chapter begins with a hot story and follows up with great ideas on how to keep sex from becoming routine.
4. The Ultimate Guide to Strap-on Sex: A Complete Resource for Women and Men by Karlyn Lotney. Buy that strap-on harness I recommended and this book and try something different on.
5. A Tired Woman’s Guide to Passionate Sex by Laurie B. Mintz. You think you’re too tired for sex? Read this book and think again.

Got Porn?

Lastly, if you’re looking for decent porn that isn’t going to install Trojans (and I don’t mean the condoms) on your computer, these are my Top 5 Free Porn Sites:

1. SilkenOnSex.com – Hot erotic stories in both text and audio formats that men, women, and couples enjoy, some of which are free, and some for purchase.
2. Spankwire.com – The best I’ve found yet. Well-organized and carries broad variety of porn in categories from anal to anime and fetish to voyeur.
3. Redtube.com – Free porn. Membership on site allows downloads as well as streaming
4. Youporn.com – Free porn. Membership on site allows downloads as well as streaming
5. BeautifulAgony.com – There is nothing hotter than watching someone masturbate to orgasm.

Related articles

• Toy Story: Your Guide to Erotic Playthings (lifescript.com)
• Houston inventor in sex toy court battle (mysanantonio.com)
• 8 Crazy Facts About Sex Toys (hellobeautiful.com)
• The 5 Most Popular Vibrators (marieclaire.com)

(This is the complete text of the erotic story Dirty Girl: The Preacher’s Kid. If you haven’t listened to my podcasts of this story, Part One is here and Part Two is here.)

Songs of Solomon 5:15 His legs are as pillars of marble, set upon sockets of fine gold; his countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars.

She was a preacher’s kid, and like most preacher’s kids, she had a naughty streak, Rebecca did, only her parents didn’t know it. Most people didn’t. To all appearances she was a good Christian girl who did all the right things and never caused her parents a lick of trouble. But underneath the long tresses and proper dresses was the mind and body of a Dirty Girl.

“I’m a Dirty Girl,” she’d sing to herself as she walked down Main Street toward the parsonage, nodding and smiling to all the ladies who said hello, as she helped Mrs. Sunderval up the curb to the beauty parlor and patted the head of the dog sitting outside Lawson’s Feed. The refrain helped her get through the interminable routine that she had lived, day after day, year after year, for all of her 20 years on God’s green Earth.

Three times a week she walked home from the community college at the edge of town in her sensible flats, and three times a week she dropped her books inside the door, then headed up the road that lead past the church to the cemetery. This, too, was part of her routine, and it was the part that added the spring to her step and the color to her cheeks.

The cemetery was her domain, her playground since childhood. People mostly came on weekends, and the graveyard keeper came to mow on Friday mornings, so the rest of the time, it was hers, and hers alone. She’d played leap-frog over the crumbling old headstones with the big round spots of lichen growing on them, played hide and seek with the ghosts around the Pruitt family vault, and sunned herself naked on the cool grass.

Rebecca loved cemeteries the way gay men loved glory holes. Or at least, that’s what she thought. She didn’t know any gay men and she’d never seen a glory hole, but she’d read about them online, oh yes, and she figured she got the same naughty thrill from getting her hole filled in a cemetery as a gay man did getting his mouth filled by anonymous cock.

She cut deeper into the graveyard, toward the oldest section, toward her guardian angel, the larger-that-life sepulchral statue with the muscled torso and legs. He was the epitome of male beauty and in her teens her erotic dreams were filled with him, with images of being swept up into the sky by her guardian angel and feeling the thrust of him inside her with every beat of his wings.

When Rebecca reached the statue, she stripped off her clothes and sat on a sunny patch of grass to wait for her lover. The sun was warm on her skin, and the faint breeze caressed her teasingly. She felt increasingly more languid and eventually stretched out, letting the sun splash her with its heat while the grass cooled her back.

She looked up at the statue towering over her and her fingers crept to her mound, to the hair growing there and the secret pearl nested within. Her fingers slid between the lips of her lightly furred pussy as she spread her legs in the grass. She wanted her lover to find her that way, to come upon her masturbating wantonly, as he had many times before.

Just a few months ago she was rubbing her mound furiously against the angel’s bent knee, her arms wrapped around his neck for balance, when the Professor found her. He must have been surprised to see a naked girl humping a statue, because he made some sort of noise that caused Rebecca to look his way, and she saw him standing there with his hands full of gravestone rubbings and a huge tent in his pants. She recognized him instantly as the dreamy art professor who had recently moved to town, and scrambled down off the statue, using her long hair to cover herself as best she could.

“My my,” he said as he walked toward her with a conspiratorial smile on his face. “Who would have thought the preacher’s kid was such a dirty girl?”

His words pierced her like erotic arrows, making her flesh tingle. The juxtaposition of preacher’s kid and dirty girl were so deliciously shocking they heightened her arousal, and from the moment they registered in her mind, Rebecca was his. His Dirty Girl.

* * *

She’d fallen asleep in a sunny patch of grass, her pale skin glowing like the marble of the monuments around her, a heathen wood nymph turned to stone on the sacred ground of the Christian graveyard.

She looked like a blank canvas to him. He wanted to mold her flesh, her lover did. He wanted to shape her with his own hands, trace the curves, make minute adjustments to the perfection of her flesh for the sake of making her his. Marking her as his.

He pulled from his pocket a thick piece of artist’s charcoal, the soft kind that produced a deep black color, and unwrapped it. Today he didn’t need paper. Today, Rebecca would be his tabla rasa, his blank page.

Kneeling, he kissed her forehead, and whispered for her to lie still.

Her eyes fluttered open, hazel green eyes that reminded him of leaves in dappled sunlight, and her drowsy smile was loving. Open. Trusting. She was an innocent, he knew, a very carnal innocent. She took such childlike joy in her body, in the pleasures of the flesh. She knew no shame, no guilt, and she gave of herself with such abandon that it transcended all he’d ever imagined the original Eve to be, before she’d learned the concept of sin.

He took the charcoal between his fingers and drew upon her living flesh. Long sweeps of charcoal for the twining vines and smaller flourishes for leaves and flowers. Symbols, too, from Egypt, from Briton, from Japan, symbols of fertility, of life, of rebirth. Her arms, her breasts, her torso, her belly – all were soon covered in lines that moved hypnotically with each of her breaths.

With the stick he colored her pubis black, and with his fingers he rubbed it in, spreading the fine, velvety softness of the charcoal into the fine, silky softness of her lightly-furred mound, and when her fingers moved to hold herself open he had to grip his cock to keep himself from spending in his pants. Such a contrast, her pale pale fingers holding open the night-black pussy to reveal that pale inner pink that darkened to deeper red.

“Fuck me,” she moaned, her arms opening to him, arms engraved with symbols and spirals, wrists banded in black.

She looked primal and pagan, like a Pictish woman in a fertility rite; and while her face was blurred with lust, her eyes were intent.

“Fuck me,” she said clearly, almost demandingly. “Fuck me, fuck me.”

And then she lay back against the grass and slid her fingers along her pussy, staining them black, smearing the blackness into the pink as she strummed her clitoris.

Hurriedly, he unfastened his pants, shoving down the corduroy and his silk boxers to reveal a raging erection. Already there was precum dripping from the tip. A droplet swung downward to land in the grass on a long, crystalline strand.

She rose then, and pushed him backwards, hands tearing at his pants, and she straddled him, straddled his cock, and thrust herself down on to him, moaning as she did so.

It is impossible to describe the heat of her, the wetness, the suck of her pussy on his cock as she rode him, jockey style, balanced on the balls of her feet, one hand pressed against his chest, the other shoved underneath him, gripping his ass. She heaved and swayed on him like a girl dancing around a May pole, her agile body weaving sinuously when it wasn’t hammering down onto him.

She left charcoal handprints on his shirt, but he didn’t care. His own hands rose to her breasts, tracing the lines he’d drawn there, smudging them, blurring them so that her skin was mottled with gray. He pinched her nipples, those black-tipped points, pinched them hard enough to make her gasp and her legs to fold so that she landed on her knees astride him.

He flipped her then, flipped her onto her back, and shoving her knees up toward her breasts, he penetrated her in one long push. She cried out then, a sound of pain and supplication, and then her rigid body softened and she welcomed him into her.

She cradled her ass in her hands, held it up to him like an offering, and he took it, took what was offered again and again, hungry for her, aching to penetrate the mystery of her, that otherness, that fey-ness that presented itself to him in moments like these, teasing him with the knowledge of her impenetrable spirit.

He would have her, he would make her his this time, truly his dirty girl, his filthy dirty girl laying there, groveling on her back on someone’s grassy grave, begging for him to fuck her, to take her, to make her feel even more alive.

When he came it was with a bellow, a triumphant bellow followed by a series of moans as he emptied into her, his chest pressed against her smudged thighs.

He could tell by her eyes that she had not come, but that she was close, so close, and he knew just the thing to make her come.

“Roll-over,” he commanded, and she did, exposing the pale alabaster curve of her backside interrupted with black smudges that looked like faded bruises.

“Rub your clit,” he instructed, and as she raised her hips to slide her hands into the vee of her thighs, his hand fell hard on her ass.

“Oh!” she cried out, and she began squirming on her fingers, her body rocking as her toes dug into the sod and his hands fell like rain on her ass and thighs.

“That’s it, you dirty girl! Hump your hands!” He watched as her face reddened, watched her luscious mouth open in moaning gasps with each stinging slap of his palm.

“You’re such a dirty girl, Rebecca,” he said, focusing on tormenting her sweet spot. “My filthy dirty little girl.”

He knew she loved being called a dirty girl, knew it was a trigger for her, that it heightened her arousal and so he applied it as liberally. He wanted to watch her come that way, being spanked for being a dirty girl, climaxing because she was being a dirty girl… His Dirty Girl.

His hands were hot and tingly, and his wrists had begun to ache, but he did not stop. He renewed his efforts, his fingers occasionally landing on her slick pussy lips, spanking her tenderest parts. More swats from him, more squirming and gasps from her. Her ass and thighs were painted with pink handprints and black fingerprints. She looked like a crime of passion, writhing there on the grass in her prelude to the Little Death.

“Who would have guessed that the preacher’s daughter was such a dirty girl?” he said knowingly, reproducing with those words what she’d felt the day they’d first met.

When he said those words, Rebecca’s body convulsed. She cried out, her chest raising up off the grass as she wailed her pleasure. It was an intense, encompassing, delirious orgasm witnessed only by cedar trees and stone angels — and the man who had caught her humping a statue and captured her heart by calling her a Dirty Girl.

*  *  *

For more erotica by Kayar Silkenvoice visit shop.SilkenOnSex.com

Silken on Sex #74:

Most of what I write and record is based on personal experiences. Deliciously intense erotic experiences. As I’m writing this now, I’m intoxicated. By wine and other things.

Other things? You are probably asking yourself.

Yes, other things. Like the fragrance of ‘us’ wafting up from between my thighs.

I was puttering around in my vocal booth (for recording audios) when my lover surprised me there. I was on tip-tip toes, my arms spread wide above my head, when his hands closed around my wrists, pressing them down onto a shelf. He pressed himself against me, scraping his shadow along the back of my neck.

I moaned.

How could I not? There is something about that burning scrape that is so pleasurable that my skin pebbles and I gasp. And moan. And I ground myself back against him, arching my back, wriggling my hips and ass in a belly-dancer’s figure-eight until he was hard enough for me to feel the heat of him. He released one of my wrists long enough to open his pants and free his cock, then he pressed it against the thin silk of my pajama bottoms, searing me with his heat.

I tried to turn around. I wanted to taste his lips. Wanted to thread my fingers through his hair and pull him toward me. But his hands held my wrists firmly in place. Words weren’t necessary. The band of his fingers around my wrists communicated everything I needed to know. I drew my legs together and arched my back so my ass flared into him and I let my head drop between my arms. Staring at my toes, I sighed. A sigh of longing. A sigh of surrender. He knew what that sigh meant, of course, and with a squeeze, he released my wrists.

I held my position. Held it even as his hands slid down my arms and around to fondle my breasts. He teased my nipples until they were long, hard points of longing, until my breath was coming in tormented gasps, until I was dizzy and writhing.

And wet.

I could feel that wetness as he pushed the silky pants down over my ass. Felt the hot smear of it on my thigh. He swilled his fingers in it, teasing my labia, pretending to have difficulty finding my clit. I started begging and bucking, trying to force that slippery electric contact. But his fingers eluded me, frustrated me. Slipped deep inside me and out again, arrhythmic. It was maddening. Ratcheting up my arousal level without building up orgasmic tension. I wanted to grab his hand and put his fingers on my clit and rub them there — there — There!

But I didn’t. I held my position stretched out in the closet, fingers clinging to the top shelf, body arched and swaying, and let him do whatever he wanted. It felt too good to stop.

When I felt the head of his cock nudging between my lips I thought I would scream with relief. I was trembling with the tension, aching for that moment of penetration. And it was upon me.

He was upon me. Up in me. Pushing slowly, wedging himself into me, his hands gripping my hips.

I took him into me, into the warm and slippery heart of me, and when he could go no further, I clamped down on him, trying to enclose the length of him, to prevent the inevitable prelude to aching emptiness: his withdrawal.

We remained that way for a long moment, his chest pressed against my back, his breath stirring the hair near my ear. And we breathed together, and as we did the two of us became as one. Breathe in… Clench and hold… Release. Breathe in… Clench and hold… Release. A dozen times, perhaps more, and then we began rocking together, eventually breaking that rhythm to collide against each other, our bodies thudding, thudding, thudding. Faster and faster.

Breathing sexual fire, trembling on the verge of orgasm, I sank my teeth into my forearm and screamed my release. He hastened to meet me there, jabbing upwards into me, his fingers biting hard into my flesh. I felt that pulsing, heard that sound he makes, that balls-deep groan that signifies an intense orgasm.

And then his scruff on my skin again. Making me hiss and twitch as I hung by my fingertips from the shelf, unwilling to trust my wobbly legs to bear my weight.

Love is a noun and a verb. Something I am, and something I do. It fills me even now, brimming between my thighs. And it smells wonderful. Yes, love has a scent. A potent, unmistakable fragrance.

—

This podcast is sponsored by AdamAnd Eve.com — enter “SILKEN” into the offer code field and save 50% on any item and get free shipping too!

For more erotic stories intimately told — visit the shop at SilkenOnSex.com

If I’d had the time, I would have hiked up into that huge cleft. There is something awe-inspiring about it, for me anyway. I cannot help but think that it is a holy place, seeing as it so directly resembles the ‘sacred feminine’, the entrance into the chalice, that holy grail of womanhood (ok, so I’ve read the Da Vinci Code).

Seriously though, I get goosebumps whenever I see this photo, because seeing it sends me back into sensory recall, remembering the crisp May air, how its chill breeze made my nipples so hard. I can just catch the scent of pine, the way the sun broke through the clouds and set the sandstone aglow, and then, the stunning and unexpected sight of a shaved pussy rendered by the forces of wind and rain. In Mormon Territory, no less.

It was definitely one of the highlights of my trip.

A: Paul, I don’t think there is anything wrong with you. If you ever listen to Dan Savage, he cautions against what he calls the “death grip” during masturbation. He speaks to the vanilla community for the most part, but his words are applicable to practitioners of kinky/fetish sexuality as well. What does be mean by “death grip” masturbation? Finding what works and never deviating from it. Males discover at rather young ages that if they touch themselves in a certain way, it feels really, really good and then they cum. And having found that path to the ultimate superfeeling, they rarely try anything else. Do that for decades and it becomes more and more likely that you’ll “need” that specific stimulation to cum. Women also fall into the same trap.  We find a certain way of touching ourselves or a specific kind of vibrator or dildo that finally makes it possible for us to climax and then we stick to it, repeating as necessary, ad nauseum.

You say you are a fetishist, which means that some inanimate object (a shoe, a hairbrush, panties, etc) is sexually charged for you in ways that it is not for others. Often, this is tied to a childhood experience — like you were sitting under the kitchen table touching yourself and your mother walked in wearing a certain kind of shoe that was forever cemented in your memory. Maybe she even caught you touching yourself and shamed you. Turned you over her knee and pulled your pants down and spanked you with her hairbrush — which felt good because her soft skirt rubbed up against your naughty bits. These sorts of occurrences are usually the genesis of fetishes. This doesn’t mean that there is anything wrong with you, either. It was simply your first naughty “zing” experience and you’ve built more and more elaborate fantasies over it in order to keep that “naughty zing” feeling going.

So, assuming that you are healthy, ie that you aren’t a diabetic with neuropathy or taking medication that interferes with arousal or blood-flow, there isn’t anything wrong with you.  When, as you’ve said in your case, you can only achieve orgasm if the circumstances are just-so, and that bothers you or your partner, well, then I would say that you have a problem rather than that there is something wrong. If, for example, you can’t cum unless you are on your knees masturbating imagining a woman in a black latex catsuit whipping your cock with a crop, well, likely this is because you’ve spent years fine-tuning this fantasy. I would be surprised if it wasn’t getting harder and harder for you to climax or that you are having to imagine more and more extreme things in order to get off. If this is indeed the case, change is in order.

First, I’d like to remind you that sex isn’t necessarily about climaxing. Most women get this, because many of us cannot achieve orgasm during intercourse. If most women don’t cum during sex (or even masturbation), you might be thinking “why bother?” The answer is simple: we do it because it feels good.

Second, let go of your death grip and get back in touch with your body. Empty your mind — don’t entertain your normal fantasies, don’t look at your usual porn. If you absolutely must engage your mind, locate erotic stories in text or audio formats in a completely different genre than your usual. Change hands. Close your eyes. Explore your body. Touch those places you never touch. Tease your nipples. Twiddle with the shaft-skin, especially the frenulum just underneath the head of your cock. On many men it can be as sensitive as a woman’s clit but most never know they’ve got such an amazing pleasure point there. Play with your balls — roll them around, tug on the skin. Press behind and underneath your balls until you feel it deep inside, where your prostate is.  Try toys for men, like the Aneros or the Fleshlight. I recommend them often and none of the men I know who’ve tried them have any regrets, except perhaps that they didn’t try them sooner.

Third, when you find a new method of stimulation that you can come from, repeat it a couple of times to make sure you’ve got it down, and move on. Keep trying to discover new ways to make yourself come. Think of it as a scavenger hunt with your body as the map and each new way of coming as buried treasure just waiting to be discovered.

And four, invite your partner to participate. Men are used to doing a lot of work to make a woman cum, what with all the finger and tongue action, the toys, the positions, the faster, the slower, the right-there-don’t-stop etc. Ask your wife for the same courtesy. Invite her to help you explore your body and discover new erogenous zones that will give you the same zing you felt when you first discovered what sexual pleasure was.

If none of the above works for you, try finding a sex therapist or sex coach — a sexological bodyworker, for example  — or a local group focused on exploring tantric sex. The important thing is to recognize that your habitual way of masturbating now has control of your sexuality and to commit to doing whatever it takes to reclaim that control.

And lastly, Paul, thank you for the compliment on my voice. I do, indeed, record custom audio stories, guided masturbation sessions, and more. Email me if you want more information.

—

Bored with your sex life?  Looking for a way to spice things up? Silkenvoice spins hot erotic stories for your listening pleasure. Visit the shop at SilkenOnSex.com for audibly erotic tales that are intimately told.

Arising from my bed. The world is still asleep. Silence. Its almost tangible. It lays over my ears like an amplifier. Every creak, every squirrel chitter, every bird twitter, is audible, even from inside.

Coffee. Micro-roasted, the ‘Fat Albert’ blend. The scent is amazing, the taste as amazing as the scent, its flavor moderated with a dollop of heavy cream. Real cream.

It is moist outside. The air caresses my skin, masking my face in cool mist. So refreshing and invigorating. Green. So many shades of green. The guest from England said we have more shades of green here even than in the British Isles. The daffodils and tulips are blooming. The bamboo is dangling diamond droplets from its leaves. The primroses are showing their colours, and my winter daphne is still blooming, sharing its scent with the breeze.

Life. “Every day you wake up and then there’s a new day,” says a very dear friend. Ambivalence or Acceptance? Striving to enjoy the sensual immediacy of the moment–of every moment–even with the concerns of the day pressing, pressing, always pressing. Pressure in my pelvis. An easy pressure to release.

Deep breath. Scanning my body. Holding tension in my shoulders, my abdomen, my low back. Exhaling. Shoulders drop, hips shift. Better.

Back inside. Altar. Lighting incense. Sitting zazen. A nod to Buddha, so sanguine and magnanimous. Om. A timeless moment of blankness, of purity. Better. Much better.

Breath. Breathing. Drawing energy upwards from my pelvis. Hips rolling forward as I inhale, rolling back as I exhale. Gentle pressure along my perineum and the entrance to my vagina. Arousal rises with the gentle rocking, and with it, heat.

More rocking breaths, more heat, more energy to draw up, up, up through the top of my head. As the energy flows, so does the wetness. I can feel my labia part as I breathe and rock, breathe and rock, feeling the power of my arousal, so pure, so languid. There is no urgency, only pleasure radiating through me, orange-gold and potent.

The brush of my fingers against my labia sends a thrill up my spine. Nipples harden, sending the thrill back down my belly, racing toward my clitoris. Breath. Breathe. Breathing. Rocking. Rolling. Pressing. Pressing the button, reversing the flow of energy, flooding my pelvis.

Orgasm. Bliss. Hiccuping breath. More rocking. More breathing. Another caress of my mound. Fingers pressing. Orgasm and bliss. Endless cycle until breathing is ragged and I find myself laying on my back, staring at the ceiling.

No-thought. No tension. Just bliss.

Good morning, world.

—

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

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

“Make love to me,” I asked of him.

And he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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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.

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.

In this episode, Silken responds to feedback from a female listener by talking about the various ways of pleasuring our partners without penetration. She covers everything from kissing and frottage to mutual masturbation and languissement, and how non-penetrative love-making is an important part of her sexual repertoire. A very conversational and informal episode recorded during her summer travels.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

The audio version of this erotic vignette is available  on the AudioSensual Erotic Shorts CD available on iTunes or Amazon.com