No worries! I haven’t forgotten my readers, my listeners, or my passion for telling naughty stories — I’ve just been side-tracked by life.

This year I’ve buried my father’s brother and watched my youngest sister’s decline from cancer. It has been simultaneously difficult and rewarding, dealing with terminal illness, but more than anything, it is all-consuming. Most of my energy has been dedicated to helping my family (and myself) through this difficult time.

On the good-news side of the spectrum, my short story “Internet Cafe Au Lay” was just published in Violet Blue’s Sweet Confessions: Erotic Fantasies for Couples anthology, which you can find on Amazon. Another story of mine “Cherry Blossom” has been accepted for publication in Rachel Kramer Bussel’s Women in Lust: Erotic Stories anthology. Look for it to come out in October or November — right around the time I’ll be in Bali for a much-needed vacation.

My primary partner and I have also bought a house on the peninsula just south of San Francisco. I love the City, but the chilly wind and fog chased me out of town, so now I’m in a sunny patch near a marina on the Bay. I think I might even get a bit of a tan this year! As always with a new place, unpacking and settling in has been time-consuming, but I got my vocal booth set up recently so I’m hoping to resume regular Silken On Sex podcasts and custom recordings by the end of July.

My thanks to all of you who have contacted me over the past several months and expressed your support upon learning about my situation. And of course, my thanks to all of you who have purchased audios at my Silken on Sex shop! It really does make a difference.

In this episode, Silken tells her lover that she wants to tie him to her bed when they get home. This spurs them to tease each other throughout the afternoon, and she finds herself so hot and bothered that she masturbates in the car on the drive home.

(This is a re-release of episode #32 from July, 9, 2009)

Given the subject matter that I write about, I am continually reminded of how many men out there have submissive sexual tendencies and are looking for a dominant woman. Which is natural, I know. There are various statistics out there, supported by studies of everything from schoolyards and fraternities to dance clubs and tribal societies, which basically state that a very small percentage of humans are leaders, and the rest follow them. I suppose it would be fair to say that humans are pack/herd animals. But what does this have to do with submissive sexuality?

People confuse power and sex all the time, probably because, from an evolutionary standpoint, those who are powerful are the ones who get sex. But in contemporary terms, powerful leaders are inspiring, charismatic. They have an energy that is infectious, that excites people to sign on with whatever the leader is turned on by, regardless of whether or not they understand, and this excitement is often experienced as sexual arousal. Such people are dominants, alphas, whatever word you like — they are natural leaders and people follow them without coercion, and with out the leader needing to be a bully or a bitch.

However, our social hierarchy implies that for male to be a ‘real man’ he must take charge, take control– in the workplace and the home– regardless of whether or not it comes naturally to him. And women have a lot of power. We are the sex-objects, the child-bearers. We are mysterious, enigmatic, encompassing, nurturing. And so, I think, it is inevitable that when a man is in the privacy of his own sexual space, one of three things happens. Most commonly, I think, is that men indulge in masturbatory fantasies that have power-exchange contexts. Some, perhaps those more self-aware, want to give up control and seek to do what comes more naturally to him–they seek to submit, to worship, and to be nurtured by Woman. And then there are those who, knowing themselves outclassed as a dominant ‘out there’, seek to prove to themselves that they can dominate others, usually the wife and children.

I’ve accumulated enough knowledge and experience to comfortably state that most men who think they are Doms are really just men who have issues with women or their own masculinity, and who think being abusive or demeaning others is an expression of their dominance. But in fact, its just a pathetic display of denial. Men who bully or abuse women aren’t dominant, they are submissives in denial. And they think I am a bitch. Which turns them on. And then they suddenly change their tunes, and roll over on their backs and show their bellies and beg me to take control of their pleasure. And in that moment, I am also reminded that so many women out there are incapable of playing a dominant role without being a bitch. Or rather, so many people out there, male and female, think that being bitchy equates to being dominant. And it just isn’t so. A woman who resorts to being a bitch in order to get her way is about as dominant as a man who as to be an asshole to get his way. Anyone who stands in that place does so quite precariously, fearful of losing that foothold, and thus their ‘dominance’ is illusory, existing only so long as those in their lives are in collusion with that bullying behavior, and tolerant of it.

What most people do not understand about dominance and submission is that the submissive is not in any way diminished by submitting, that submission is not a demeaning experience, in general, and that the submissive is really the one who has the power, not the Dom. The Dom gives structure and controls the flow of the power, but without the submissive’s energy and submission, the Dom is merely a man (or woman) with an itch to dominate/be in control. A real Dom doesn’t feel more of a ‘man’ when he is controlling a submissive. A real dominant feels more alive, fulfilled, more sensitized to the eroticism of power exchange, filled with a profound sense of the rightness of the moment. But a true dominant feels no more or less him or herself as a consequence of such encounters, because they are confident in and at peace with themselves, with their status and their sexuality, and D/s encounters are simply another example of the natural order of things, not a power-trip.

Submissive males approach me. Am I looking for an obedient boy, they ask? They would love to be humiliated and teased and used by me, they say. Females, too, begging to be controlled, objectified, made abject. There are those, male and female, who want to please and be pleased. They want to feel treasured and cared for and more than anything, they want to make a contribution to their dominant. And while I occasionally dabble in D/s, I’m not in the lifestyle and I don’t seek out submissives. But they find me. Oh they find me. And while some of them tempt me and I do engage them, most of them annoy me with their persistence, with their begging and pouting, but I do try to be kind in my firmness, rather than a bitch. Which, a friend of mine assures me, makes me all the more compelling.

I rarely consciously use my innate dominance, because I’ve noticed that if one steps up to shepherd, one is burdened with the sheep. I don’t like the tendency of people to unconsciously develop a dependency on alpha males and females to do their thinking for them. I know that our species is a pack/herd animal and I know that some of us are genetically predisposed to be leaders of the herd. But I also, as a woman, am highly conscious of the social responsibility and personal cost. Outside of the bedroom, I prefer not to use other’s submissive tendencies and energy, because am VERY aware that I then have a responsibility toward them in exchange. I think a lot of people playing at being Dominant miss this very important part–the ethics of power exchange. Which is why I don’t consider bullies and bitches dominants…and why I’m always sad to see a submissive mistaking them for such.

The problem is I’ve become obsessed with the idea of ‘forced orgasm’ and rape and I dont know if I should hate myself for it.  I understand that such fantasies are acceptable in women because they are actually still in control so its not a breach of their consent.  But I wondered if it was ok for men to have these fantasies – given that from a male perspective, consent is imagined to be denied. Is it worse for men to have these fantasies than women? Should I try to focus on more healthy fantasies?

My response to him was:

This is a very controversial and somewhat taboo topic. I’m glad you wrote me, because I welcome the opportunity to put your mind at ease.

Many women despise themselves for their rape fantasies, and many men despise themselves for their rapist fantasies.

Intellectually, we know the reasons why it is morally and ethically “wrong” to desire this, but for all that we try to sublimate it, the fantasy remains.

Why?

Because it is something primal in us. We’re mammals, and in most mammalian species, the male subjugates the female in order to mate.  Most females will only mate with a male who can overpower her no matter how hard she fights him — because she is looking for a candidate who can pass the strength and aggression survival traits on to her offspring.  It is our heritage: Passion. Violence. Sex.

So, no, I don’t think it is worse for men to have these fantasies than women. Should you try to focus on “more healthy” fantasies? Well, some might argue that fantasies in which you are an alpha male aggressor are very healthy. Fantasies are fantasies and they are only problematic when 1) You can only achieve orgasm when you are focused on that fantasy and/or 2) You seriously consider implementing a fantasy which would cause lasting physical or psychological damage to yourself or another.

It is possible, with good communication, to act out such a fantasy with a partner, but of course, there must be trust. I have a thing for forced orgasms, both giving and receiving, and I have explored it countless times.

Bottomline: There is nothing wrong with you. You’re not a bad man because of this fantasy. My best advice is to encourage you to develop a diverse base of masturbatory fantasies so that you don’t develop the sorts of problems that were mentioned in my “When a fetish takes over” podcast.

Lastly, sometimes this type of fantasy has complicated psychological under-currents that point to feeling thwarted or frustrated in your personal or professional life, and if that is the case, I encourage you to explore ways to resolve those issues because prolonged stress isn’t healthy for you.

*  *  *

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From my chair on the balcony I try to extend my senses, to feel something, anything, but what I’m feeling now.

Pathos.

I am doing my best to be present with my body, to understand how this pathos feels, not just emotionally, but physically.

Right now, pathos feels under-oxygenated. My breath is shorter, faster. It no longer fills my center. My muscles are tight. Twitchy. Restless. My shoulders ride higher, up near my ears.  I feel it in my gut, too, the tightness. An ache has settled in my chest, my eyes. It is a long list.

This is what anxiety and anguish feels like in the flesh.

In my head, it feels like being small and afraid in the face of uncertainty. Trapped. Cut-off. Cornered. I feel like I must act, must do something, anything. But what?

And so I remind myself to breathe.

Life is uncertain, and no amount of resistance to that fact is going to change Reality. Reality is mutable, transient, turbulent. Unpredictable. And yet, right now, in this moment, it is what it is.

Accept, my mind says. But my body betrays emotional resistance.

I figured that my sisters and I would grow old together, the three of us. The Three Musketeers. I thought we’d be hard-of-hearing old ladies sitting on the back porch swing, laughing until we had to pee, talking about the good old days with Grandmother, the wagon rides down the hill in our little red wagon, and riding horses on the mesa in Colorado. I thought we’d go on vacations, bicycle rides for three, and scold grandchildren.  Then one sister died in 2008 after a long illness, and I revised that dream to just the two of us. But today, the likelihood of my baby sister surviving to my age  is slim, never mind to old age. And I feel. A lot of things.

I know we all die. And I know it isn’t anything to be afraid of. I got that, really got it, when I was holding my grandfather’s hand as he exhaled the last bits of himself two years ago.  I understand the beauty of the life-cycle, the transitory nature of it, the glory of a life well-lived. You could say that I am at peace with Death.

But to die young, ah. To lose someone in the prime of life. To watch them hunch in on themselves with pain. The pain of living. Of breathing. Of being. I can handle it. Watching someone die from cancer isn’t a new experience for me. But I’m not enjoying it. It is very stressful on everyone. Especially my sister.

Underneath it all, I’m sad for me. And for her kids. And for our parents — who will have to deal with out-living another of their children.

Life is. And quite often these days, life is Pathos.

Eros and Aramis.

Citrus, cinnamon, and sandalwood: the scent of Aramis Cool Blend envelops me as Gabriel’s arms do. I rest my forehead against his shoulder and breathe him into me. He always seems to know when I’m in that place, that overwhelmed, anxious and impatient place. He hugs me hard, his arms forming a tight band that pops my back. A welcome release.

“You’re cold,” he murmurs against my ear. “How can you be cold? It’s over 80 degrees out here.”

“I’ve forgotten warmth,” I mutter back, dispirited and exhausted. And cold. I’ve been sleeping with the electric blanket on. In Summer.

He steps backward, holding me at arms length. He starts to say something, but his eyes are riveted on my breasts. My nipples. Bra-less and cold, my nipples were already hard, but his nearness, the scent of him, have added additional length.

His hand reaches toward my right breast, thumb grazing the nipple. His touch sparks through me, little electric arrows racing along my nerve-endings, dissipating the fog of despair wrapped around me like a comforter. I feel!

Another brush of his thumb and I gasp and sway, my eyes closing. So good. So sweet. Pleasure is so life-affirming.

He steps nearer, his hand never leaving my breast. I can feel the warmth radiating from him. I tilt my face up to his, eyes closed, like a flower following the sun.My mouth trembles with a sad smile and tears well up under my eyelids.

“Make love to me,” I ask him. Implore him. “Make me feel alive.”

He steps around me. Pulls the hair away from my neck and brushes my skin with his shadow.  A sharp, hissing intake of my breath. I feel that! Mmmmm… yes!

His arms encircle me, one around my shoulders, the other, my midriff. He draws me backwards, off the balcony, and guides me down onto the persian carpet. With feather-light kisses and touches he opens my blouse, exposing my breasts.

More tears at his gentleness. I need this.

When his mouth closes over my erect nipple, my entire body vibrates with erotic energy. My pathos subsides beneath a tide of Aramis-scented eros as I surrender to a new feeling: I’m alive!

So gloriously fucking alive!

*  *  *

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I am coming to see Desire — the energy that is Desire, not the act of desiring — I am coming to see it as something sacred. I am shifting from an ego-based identification with desire into a more reflective consciousness that permits an appreciation of what is sacred in the mundane world. In learning to see Desire as sacred, there is a transformation in the way I view and experience a lot of things…

Society teaches us that it is wrong to desire, but I’ve realized that all my life I’ve keep my desires too small. Too limited. There is this division in the world, this belief that we have to conquer desire in order to become better people and better the world, that desire is wrong or bad, that it controls us.

What created this ‘division’? The belief that the seeds of suffering lie in the nature of our endless pursuit of our passions. That there is virtue in disengaging ourselves from desire, because desire can lead to obsession. But that is the wrong tactic! Oh, we can try not to come into contact with our desires, we can push them away, we can deny them. But they will be there, pressing at us ever stronger–and that is how they become unhealthy obsessions. It is not that desire should be controlled… it is that what we desire should not be internalized to the point that we cling to it for fear of losing it, or grasp desperately for it when it comes into range.

And so it is that I believe that the separation of the spiritual from the sensual, of the sacred from the experiential, and the enlightening from the erotic, is a mistake.

And so it is that I believe it is important to understand Desire as something sacred, to accept and explore Desire in a love-relationship. I recognize the importance of experiencing desire as something sacred in a relationship that is intimate emotionally, mentally, spiritually and sexually.

A very, very special friend wrote this for me. It is deeply meaningful and quite, quite accurate. It is perhaps the most beautiful thing anyone has ever written to me.

My Darling Whore

Slut. A slut to the gray-green wilderness that hovers over her home, the misted mistress of the environment she loves so deeply, that covers her, disguises her, renders her safely anonymous and—at the same time—places her at the center of the universe, demanding her full attention with senses, camera, and pen, embracing her with the quiet inevitability of adiabatic currents that rise from river, creek, and marshlands, gentle powers that blend air and water, seamless, the water breathes the air, the air inhales the water. Slut.

Whore. A whore to self-discovery, prostrating herself to the truth of where she comes from, selling her past to understanding, spreading herself open to redeem her future and celebrate the day in which her heart beats, now. Today. Here. Whore.

Harlot. A harlot to hedonism, to the exultant complexity of unabashed awareness–of the body, its senses, their frenetic, joyful dialog, the dance between body and soul, mind and heart, brain and genitals. Harlot.

Bitch. A bitch to her own unique principles, snapping at any bastion, shibboleth, or vestigial, arcane supposition that dares to hint at impinging on the freedom that she carves from the dense environment of ponderous, bible-bound past (not her own), a reactionary society, and a bankrupt, dumbed-down culture that would surround her with tawdry stereotypes and diminishing contempt. Bitch.

Concubine. A concubine to knowledge, knowing its power, a courtesan devoted to the nurturing of of the millennial growth of understanding, at once a geisha and a canny perpetrator of the struggle that all artists and thinkers have undergone to leave a deeper imprint of human experience for others to share. Concubine.

Goddam! What a fuckin’ whore this woman is…

Thank you, love. I may be Simone de Beauvoir to your Sartre, but you are Henry Miller to my Anais Nin.

A friend of mine is a Pro-Dom. She’s one of those tiny women with command presence. She could be surrounded by giants and she’d still dwarf them somehow, just by the power of her personality. She told me about her wild & kinky adventures while vacationing in Waikiki recently, and I asked if I could fictionalize some of them. She loved these two particular vignettes, and is very excited to know that I’m using them for today’s podcast:

I.

He watched me from the table nearby, a sinewy Japanese man accompanying two boys in their late teens.

I’m not sure why he picked me to watch. I wasn’t the only woman in the hotel’s restaurant wearing a just bikini and a sarong, and certainly there were women there who were far lovelier than me. My dinner partner was very attentive, but not unusually so, certainly not with the slavish and attention-grabbing intensity of a submissive. I’m not a leggy blonde, a type of gaijin that Japanese men are notoriously susceptible to. My height and hair and eye color  are that of a Japanese woman. Except I’m better padded. Perhaps that was it. My breasts.

I’ve been practicing belly-dancing for three years. I know how to shimmy, how to move my body to accentuate my breasts. I gave a little shimmy, almost a shiver, that made my breasts bounce.  He looked my way for a long moment. So did a few others. I smiled at my dinner companion and told him what was going on.  He grinned at me, reached out and tugged on a lock of hair dangling over my collarbone.  He dropped his hand and and trailed his fingers along the line of my bikini top.

I observed the Japanese man from under my lashes. He was most intent.

As a provider of  ‘adult entertainment’ I know about most kinks and fetishes, and I know what voyeurs Japanese men tend to be.  Which works great for me, because I have a bit of an exhibitionist streak, and seeing as we were in Waikiki, some 3,000 miles from home, my lover seemed unconcerned about my exhibitionism and proclivity for three-ways and cuckoldry getting him ‘caught’ in an awkward position that might affect him professionally.

“Do you want to make someone’s year?” I asked my lover.

“What do you have in mind?” He asked, pursing his lips a little. His eyes, dark as my own, sparkled with mischief. I wanted to grab him by the chin and kiss his mouth, hard.

“If you manage to catch our friend over there away from his boys, perhaps you could invite him to join us tonite–as an observer.”

At this, my lover grinned. I saw his face change a bit as he mulled over how he would put it to the gentleman in question.  His Japanese, though much better than mine, is far from fluent.

We finished our meal of seared ahi and macadamia encrusted mahi mahi and were sipping a nice wine when the boys at the nearby table stood up and walked away. I watched them head down the stairs toward the outdoors.  The older Japanese man stood, too, and headed out of the restaurant, back toward the hotel.

I nodded at my lover, and he stood and followed the Japanese man. I slowly finished my glass of wine and paid the bill, then headed toward the elevators.  A tingle ran down my spine, making my skin feel like an electric current was running over it. I do so love being a cocktease, an exhibitionist, and a domme, and I was every excited by the prospect of being all three at once — at my pleasure, not someone elses.

Provided the two of them were awaiting me in my hotel room, of course.

II.

He said he wanted me. He said he’d do anything for a chance at me. When I asked him to be more specific about what he wanted, he blushed a bit, then said he wanted to be naked in bed with me.

“And you said you’d do anything?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he said in a rushed explosion of air from his lungs. “Anything.”

I smiled at him. A soft smile that hinted at intimacy to come. If he’d been looking into my eyes he would have seen the glint there. And he would have known that he was in trouble.  Would have run the other way, even. Silly man, alcohol had made him brave enough to forget his reservations. And his gloves. When you play with fire, you really ought to wear gloves.

So I took him to my room. A luxury suite high up above Waikiki.

When I let the beaming man into my room, he looked like a child, radiant with joy, and eager, oh so eager, to please. Part of me pitied him, but part of me looked pitilessly upon him.  He had some lessons to learn, this man-boy. Three, in fact. One, be careful what you wish for, it might come true. Two, beware offering anything for something. And three, what drew him so strongly to me was my dominance–so it was time to learn about submission.

I stood before him, hands on hips and told him that his wish “to be naked in bed with me” was granted.

I made him strip naked. Utterly naked, save for the ribbons I placed around his little cock and balls and tied into pretty bows.

And I was in bed with him alright, crop in hand. After a few cuts of my crop he begged for me to let him go, and yet he was unbound. He was free to leave, I told him. He could pick up his clothes and step outside to dress whenever he wished.

But he stayed, as I knew he would. His little cock was hard, all tied up in its frilly bondage, and he ridiculously held out hope that he’d get to be with me. Be inside me. Ewww! Like I’d grant a pathetic small-dicked loser like him access to my body in that way!

My body is a temple and he was fit only to worship at it. And so that is what I taught him. How to worship my body, how to be my throne, how to serve me.

He said he’d do anything to be naked in bed with me, and, well, he nearly did everything.

There are some things I didn’t do. Like let him cum. He was intoxicated, afterall.

***

I hope you enjoyed these tales! I’ll pass any feedback along to my friend, and perhaps she’ll allow me to tell more of her FemDom stories.

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So, in addition to purchasing erotic stories from my SilkenOnSex Shop, you can also donate via Paypal and help me purchase my dream microphone, the Lawson L47 MKII!

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Thank you!
Kayar Silkenvoice

Summer’s end. Time for the grape, both sipping and harvesting. I’ve got this huge extended family here in California–we were here prior to the Gold Rush–and there are miles of vines in one appellation named after a great-great auntie of mine.

Everyone gathers at the winery for The Press and for futures tasting, and during one of the gatherings some friends of my cousins caught me in an odd moment. I’d just gotten off the phone with my lover, who was on his way out of the country and was pouty (though he denied it) over the fact that I was not accompanying him this time.

Jim and Bev were on the deck sipping chardonnay when I stepped outside. I was tucking my phone away in my cleavage when he looked directly at me and said “That gives a whole new meaning to ‘you’re talking to my breasts’,” and then laughed at his own joke.

I smiled politely at him, remembering that he and his wife owned a local B&B that my cousins had cross-promotion arrangements with. Be nice, I told myself.

Bev held out her hand. “You’re Kay aren’t you? I’m–”

“Bev,” I interrupted her.  She seemed pleased that I remembered her name.

We chatted a bit about wine and traveling. I mentioned my recent trip to Japan, which spurred an avalanche of questions, particularly about my experiences of the Japanese equivalent to B&Bs, which they call ryokans. I did my best to re-direct the conversation toward them, asking after their children. Most people love talking about themselves, but for some reason, Jim and Bev were fascinated with me and would not be deterred.

“So what is it that you do?” Jim asked me. Like most people, especially men, Jim operated under the the assumption that you are what you do.

I laughed behind the rim of my wine glass. “Oh wouldn’t you like to know!”

“Of course,” said Bev, giving me her full attention.

“Oh, I don’t do much of anything,” I said airily, prevaricating. For some reason the small amount of wine I’d taken in interfered with my ability to pull whatever seemed suitable in the moment out of my bag of talents and skills.

Since I’d moved back to California I usually said I was a perpetual student, or was taking a sabbatical from corporate America, or confessed with mock shame to living off of my younger lover.  All true, in their own way, but not the whole truth — and for good reason. While I am  known as the sexually deviant sinner of the family, I have been careful to be discreet so as not to be a source of discomfort for the more prominent members of my family.

“Now that I find difficult to believe,” boomed Jim. “You’ve got too much energy to be the laze-about type.”

Bev touched my arm. “There’s no need to be shy with us.”

The ridiculousness of anyone considering me shy made me laugh again. I imagined them both kneeling naked at my feet presenting the implements they’d chosen to be punished with. I banished the image from my mind as inappropriate and focused my attention on Jim and Bev, reminding myself that they were business associates of my cousin.

“Are you the one who is a scientist?” Jim asked.

Without thinking, I answered, “I was,” and then kicked myself. I could have bored them with talk of genome mapping and PCR and they wouldn’t have been any the wiser.

“And now?” Bev asked. She leaned into me, brushing her hip against mine.  I knew that move and what it signified.

I gave her a big grin. “You might want to get that idea out of your head,” I said to her.

“What idea?” she asked, her eyebrows raised  high over wide eyes.

“The one where you and your husband take me home and have your way with me,” I laughed. “I’d top you both in a heartbeat.”

When the look on their faces registered, I rewound what I’d said in my mind and then gave myself another kick. The heated discussion with my lover had me a bit more flustered than I’d realized, if I was slipping up so badly.

The change in their energy was like the difference between a light bulb and a solar flare.

“You’re in the lifestyle?” Jim asked, with incredulous hope.

Ah well, no sense trying to close the barn door now.  I chose the simplest, most straightforward word I knew.

“FemDom.”

It hung there between us.

“Come home with us….” Bev suggested softly, her longing perfuming the night air.  I could smell her arousal.

I thought about my lover, who was boarding his international flight right about then. I hadn’t seen him in days and my sexual frustration was acute. It would be another week before I saw him, and it was unthinkable what might happen when we did end up in bed if I didn’t get some of my frustration worked out beforehand.

I made up my mind. “Ok. Lets go.” I said, setting my glass down on the railing.

I glanced from one to the other, looking forward to some serious queening. One of them was going to learn to breathe pussy juice tonight, and I was leaning rather heavily toward Bev. Just like no one sucks cock like a man – no one eats pussy like a woman.

“Well?”  I asked them, my eyebrows arched imperiously.

They looked at each other.

“I’ll get the car,” was Jim’s answer.

Bev and I linked our arms and followed behind at a leisurely pace…

* * *

I wish I could say what went on that night, but if I did, my podcast would probably be pulled off iTunes so… lets just say this…

Around dawn we fell asleep in a heap.  They’d both been paddled and thoroughly sucked and fucked. And me, well, I rode face for much of the night just like I’d wanted. Bev and Jim even had a dildo on a head harness which I had never tried before, but found a couple of interesting uses for… when I wasn’t wearing a strap-on that is…

- – -

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Some of the essays I relate to, some of them I don’t. I mean, women writing about how they miss the boys their husbands once were, or how their children’s demands cut into their “me time” doesn’t really affect me… I don’t have a husband, don’t have children, and don’t have any angst about the lack of either, as some of the single writers do in the book. Still, its a great glimpse into the female psyche, from some very well-spoken and educated women.

Next on my list is “The Bastard on the Couch” edited by Daniel Jones and subtitled: 27 Men Try Really Hard to Explain Their Feelings About Love, Loss, Fatherhood and Freedom. This is the partner book to Bitch in the House, and the editor is married to Cathi. I’ve heard that this is an interesting and entertaining collection of well-written essays, and I’m looking forward to reading it.

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)

Friendship is a source of love and acceptance and communion. And yet, women are encouraged to see other women as mere competitors, and men as potential providers and mates. And men, they are encouraged to develop the same mindset. Their male friends are buddies with whom they jokingly compete, and women are objects to be desired.

So it seems that friendships between men and women, even in this post-sexual revolution era, are awkward and easily discouraged. This, despite the fact that friendships between men and women provide amazing benefits. Men can express to women the thoughts and feelings that they would never express to other men, the thoughts and feelings that society considers weak and unmanly, and have them validated. And women, knowing economic independence and reproductive choice, can go to men with their thoughts and ideas, not as beggars and dependents, not merely tolerated as objects of sexual gratification, but appreciated as intellectual equals.

Today, when a man and a woman meet in friendship, it is possible for us to meet as people, to touch the humanity in each other, to enjoy the exchange between different-yet-same that results in us receiving from each other something that could not have come from within us.

And yet, conventional wisdom states that men and women cannot be friends, that sex gets in the way. What a sad thing that is. In my experience, the sexual tension only gets in the way if it goes unacknowledged.

I am female, you are male, we are hetero. We could form a sexual union. Or not. But sex is not the root of our affinity. Or is it?

Ah, the power of a question that does not require an answer. It is enough simply for us to be aware, awake, open, perceptive, inquisitive. The answers, like the questions, come in their own time.

One day, I hope the answer to the question “why can’t men and women be friends?” will be moot.

Regardless, I’ll continue with my hetero amity.

(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

The more stressed I am, the more I want sex. Want it to the point where I can find repeated statements in my journal to the effect that I felt I needed sex. Not comfort, not conversation, not food, not sleep. Sex. Which many people I know consider rather strange. “How can you want sex at a time like this?” is a question I was asked recently, and not for the first time.

I’ve noticed a correlation between my drive for sex and my exposure to stress, especially that very un-sexy form of stress relating to death and dying. Given that in the past three years there have been five cancer diagnoses, two non-cancer related catastrophic illnesses, two deaths, and one impending death in my family, as well as my tendency to write down my thoughts and experiences, I’ve got a wealth of anecdotal material chronicling my responses to this sort of stress. And my response is usually: “Let’s fuck!”

When I examine it from psychological perspective it makes a lot of sense: sex is the exercise of the procreative urge and thus the antithesis of death. It is an affirmation of life. From a biological standpoint, sex stimulates the release of four important molecules responsible for feelings of bliss: dopamine, anandamide, endorphins, and oxytocin. Now, when you’re sad, stressed, and anxious, doctors are always eager to offer anti-depressants, mood-elevators, and anti-anxiety meds, but I’ve found that none of them work so well as that hormonal cocktail my body releases when I’ve had a really good session in the bedroom  (or the bathroom, or the kitchen, or the beach, or… or…).

In some ways, I’m an orgasm-junkie. When I’m mad at my partner and my adrenaline is flowing, I want to fuck. Lets get some of that oxytocin and serotonin and vasopressin flowing as well. Frustrated at work? I take a break in my car or the ladies room for a quick release and almost instantaneous attitude adjustment. Sad? There’s nothing like a lover’s hands and eyes and voice to raise my spirits, make me feel loved and desired. Generally stressed? I want to lose myself in a world of pleasure and sensation and I seek it out as soon as I am able.

Now, as I’ve been researching the issue of Sex and Stress (see related articles below), I’ve noticed a lot of articles, reports, and blog posts stating that stress suppresses sex drive in men and women alike — which struck me as very odd. While I know I’m different in my own subtle ways, I am not a mutant freak of nature. So why is it that I turn to masturbation, intercourse, etc — self-soothing as my therapist used to call it — when everyone else seems to dry up to the point that sex seems to be the furthest thing on their minds?

The answer, I think, is that for most people, sex itself is stressful. Which totally sucks. The best stress-reliever in the world, the best source of bliss, well-being, and contentment drugs in the world — the act of making love with someone — is stressful for most people. Which makes me sad, and is a primary motivator for the erotic work I do: trying to make sex something positive in a society for which sexual self-expression has so many negative connotations.

There is a lot of material out there about how to deal with stress interfering with your sex life, but not so much out there about how to deal with feeling stressed about sex itself. Other than popping viagra or cialis, of course. Perhaps it is because there is a unspoken agreement that people should feel stressed about sex?  I don’t know.

What I do know is that sex is natural, desire is natural, and the desire for sex is natural. Sex produces a wide range of positive biochemical effects in people. And it is a great stress-reliever in and of itself. So the next time someone asks you “You want sex now? At a time like this?” say “Hell yeah!” and head for the nearest bed.

Related articles

• Sex, Stress, and Neurogenesis (scienceblogs.com)
• Sex or a Good Night’s Sleep? (lifescript.com)
• Sex Does a Body Good (lifescript.com)
• Well-laid and laid-back (psychology today)
• When it Comes to Sex and Dating, We Suck (chicagonow.com)
• Is It Still “Good Sex” If You Don’t Have an Orgasm? (marieclaire.com)
• 7 ways to beat stress for better sex (idiva.com)
• This just in: Sex relieves stress (salon.com)
• Stress: Sex is the first casualty (london times)
• The science of love (youramazingbrain.org)
• Sex and Death, Connection of (deathreference.com)

Silken On Sex #75

“…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…”

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

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

I recently did a phone interview on the Libidacoria Late Night Talk Show. You can find it on her Libidacoria.com website under the talkshow category, or you can search for Silkenvoice in iTunes and you’ll find it listed in the podcast section under Libidacoria. It was a lot of fun – she’s got an interesting crew, and I hope to talk to her again sometime soon.

I’ve got an iPhone/iPad app out there for my podcast now. With the Silken on Sex app you’re always connected to the latest release – instant access, just touch and play! You’ll find all my podcasts there, plus bonus materials like the 20-minute Meet My Maker erotic audio story (a $5 value) free when you purchase the app for $2.99.

In addition to my own erotic audio stories at SilkenOnSex.com, I’m also doing some recording for HotTalking.com, so if you like your audio stories short, hot, and a little nasty, stop by and give the girls there a listen.

I’m a fan of Secret Alien Audio‘s atmospheric beats and rhythms, so you can expect to hear some of that group’s work in my audios going forward. In fact, if you listen to the Tantric Caress track on the website, you’ll hear some of my voice tracks that were mixed in.

I’m also working on a deal to add my podcast to the Radio DenTaTa adult internet radio station lineup sometime in August. I’ll keep you informed.

Lastly, today’s podcast is running a bit behind schedule. I know I usually have it released in the wee hours of the morning, but it is more likely going to be later tonight. It will be worth the wait, though, as it is a continuation of the Dirty Girl: The Preacher’s Kid story I podcasted in April.

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.

—

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A: Deena, first I’d like to acknowledge your reasonableness about your husband using porn and phone sex when he’s away from home. A lot of women tend to feel threatened by this, and use anger over the expense of such outlets to hide from their true feelings. So good for you.

Secondly, I think you’re onto something. It is actually what got me started doing erotic audios in the first place — I had a lover who traveled three time-zones away quite a lot. The time-difference made connecting on the phone rather difficult and he said he missed the sound of my voice, so I recorded some naughty messages for him to listen to on his iPod. This had a tremendous impact on our relationship — it really heightened the intimacy. He liked having me as a focus for his masturbation fantasies, and I got aroused knowing he was stroking off to the sound of my voice whispering into his ears.

Now, to answer your question about my ideas for where to begin. There are two things to consider. The first is what you want to say, and the second is, how you are going to save it.

Choosing what you want to say can be difficult for most people. There are three things you can do:  talk dirty, tell a fantasy, or record yourself masturbating.

Many women aren’t practiced at “dirty talk” as we c0uld be. A lot of what we conceive of as dirty talk we get from pornos, and a lot of it sounds really cheesy from the outsider’s viewpoint. However, in the moment, when passions are up and you’re humping like mad, what flows from your lips is appropriate, no matter how slutty it sounds. In fact, the sluttier the better. Guys love it.

When it comes to making this audio for your husband, if you’re too self-conscious about talking dirty, you could always talk about a fantasy you have, perhaps one you’ve never felt comfortable sharing in person, but feel emboldened about when recording it for him (or her,  for that matter). Or talk about a mutual fantasy: the two of you in a three-way, or tying him up and doing naughty things to him. If even that idea leaves you tongue-tied, consider reliving one of  your favorite encounters with him:  the blowjob in the car, or that day you hiked up into the middle of nowhere, stripped naked, and screwed like mad, for example. And lastly, most men love to hear the sounds women make when we’re touching ourselves. I get many, many requests from listeners to please do more recordings of me masturbating. The nice thing about this is you don’t have to say anything at all — all you have to do is moan. And sigh. And gasp ;)

Once you’ve decided on what you’re going to say, choosing how to record and save it is your next step.  If you’ve got a laptop computer, you’ve probably got a built-in mic, and it is easy enough to fire up GarageBand or Audacity, follow the prompts, and start recording. When you’re done, you can save the file, usually to an .aif which is easy to export to your iPod. But if you’re intimidated by that idea, there is something simpler. Most smart phones today have a built-in app for recording voice memos. All you have to do is push the icon, speak into the phone like you normally would for a phone call, record your voice message, and email it off.

What follows is a 3 minute guided masturbation message I recorded using my iPhone’s Voice Memo app. When I finished recording, I listened to it and then emailed it directly to the gentleman I had in mind when I was speaking it.  You will notice that the quality of the audio produced by the phone is very different from the quality of my podcast. This has everything to do with the quality of the microphone. For podcast recording I use a $300 condenser microphone in a space designed to keep ambient noise to a minimum. Phones have low-quality directional mics. So don’t be discouraged if your end-result isn’t crystal-clear. It only takes a couple of seconds for one’s hearing to adjust to filter-out the white noise in the background, so your intended audience won’t even notice it.

[3 minute example recording inserted here]

So there you have it. A nice sexy little bit of home-made erotic audio designed to give idle hands something to do :)

I hope this how-to gives you the help you needed. Feel free to contact me with any questions, or even share your results. You can send an email to info@silkenonsex.com or leave a voicemail message at 415.935.4102.

If you enjoyed hearing the Meet My Maker episodes I told in June you can download the entire story without the podcast information at www.SilkenOnSex.com for $5.
Or buy the Silken On Sex iPhone app for $2.99 and get Meet My Maker free!

This podcast is sponsored by AdamAnd Eve.com — enter “SILKEN” into the offer code field and save 50% on any item!
For longer, steamier, CD-quality erotic audio stories visit the shop at SilkenOnSex.com

Related articles:

• Masturbation: a singularly human pursuit (kottke.org)
• One reason why humans are special and unique: We masturbate. A lot. (scientificamerican.com)
• Dealing with Mismatched Libidos (lifescript.com)
• 5 Steps to Mastering Pillow Talk (lifescript.com)