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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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.

I have exciting news! One of my stories has been accepted to a Violet Blue erotica anthology, one intended for couples. It is supposed to be out in Spring 2011, and once everything is inked with the publisher, I’ll let you know the specifics.

The last four episodes have been about women dominating men so I thought I’d switch things up a little. It’s been a while since I told a story about women making love, and I know how much you love hearing those kinds of juicy details, so here we go…. [This is the original story, the podcast version was abridged to keep the podcast around 15 minutes]

Leaning up against the headboard, Laura congratulated herself as she watched Abby remove her street clothes. This time she’d gotten lucky and had the whole day to dedicate to an erotic encounter. Something told her that she would be glad of it, for the pretty little stranded motorist she’d picked up at the filling station by virtue of her own considerable cleavage seemed to be the type who would take her time.

Laura’s affairs were usually spontaneous things and she always felt an underlying urgency to do the deed, escape, and above all, avoid being caught. It wouldn’t do for her husband to know that she had a thing for women. He might press for a three-way – a thought that made her shudder. The woman was small and pale-skinned – a stark contrast to her husband, who was swarthy and well over six feet tall – and Laura certainly didn’t want his hard hands, rough whiskers, and testosterone-inflamed urgency interfering with her languid and leisurely lovemaking with other women. Especially not a soft, sweet little peach like Abby.

The younger woman crawled across the bed and slid her hands under Laura’s breasts. She hefted them, apparently reveling in their size and weight. When she gently squeezed them with both hands Laura gasped in delight. Those small gentle hands began to knead her breasts and Laura felt that familiar ache deep inside her, the prelude to wetness. She removed one hand from the bed and ran her thumb along the the fullness of the girl’s bottom lip. Abby’s hands and eyes never left her breasts, and Laura had trouble taking hers off the girl’s face. She had a faraway expression that was wistful and at the same time captivated.

Abby’s hands slid slowly down the slopes of her tits, until the heels of her hands raked across Laura’s sensitive nipples. The crinkled buttons were so sensitized Laura jumped and gasped. Abby settled her palms over Laura’s aching nipples, making tiny pockets in each palm, and when she squeezed this time it felt to Laura like her nipples were being pulled from all sides at once. The younger woman continued to gently squeeze and Laura thought she might come right there. It felt almost as if tiny, satiny mouths were sucking her nipples.

Laura was caught in a whirlwind of competing needs and desires. The long dry spell since her last casual encounter had driven her to the edge and she wanted release, but the girl’s soft hands and gentle touch made her want to take her time. But she couldn’t help herself. She slipped her hand between their bodies and pressed her fingers into the fabric of her panties. As she rubbed her clit, Laura felt the tightening in her belly, the tensing of the muscles in her thighs and ass. She knew she had to stop or she was going to cum. Abby seemed to sense her need and her indecision, and solved the dilemma for the older woman. She craned her neck up and removed her hand from Laura’s left breast. Before Laura could comprehend what she was doing the redhead’s lips captured her aching nipple and scraped it with her teeth.

It was not so much the change in sensation as it was the visual stimulation that sent Laura into her orgasm. The girl’s soft face, pursed lips and the hollowing of her cheeks as she sucked were incredibly erotic and it was too much. Laura sighed through her orgasm, reveling in each delightful contraction in her belly and its accompanying wave of pleasure. She grabbed Abby’s head and forced her face deep into her cleavage. The girl made no protest, nor did she even attempt to move away. Throughout Laura’s orgasm and through the aftershocks that followed she continued to suckle one of Laura’s breasts while massaging the other.

Laura twisted her hand to place it on the crotch of Abby’s panties. She was amazed to find them as soaking and sticky as her own. Abby groaned around the nipple in her mouth. Laura was a little shocked to find her so wet. It took a few moments for her to realize the little vixen was getting off on just playing with her breasts. Laura forced the two middle fingers of her hand into the wet furrow and began to stroke. The girl gasped, but did not let Laura’s nipple escape her mouth.

“You like my tits don’t you?” she asked. The girl nodded slightly, but made no sound. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be in some kind of trance.

Laura adjusted her position, drawing her breasts from the girl’s mouth and hand. She quickly drew the girl up against her side and let her large breasts spill onto her face. The redhead’s eyes widened, and an expression of ecstasy was evident on her face. Abby turned her head from side to side, nuzzling against the soft skin.

Laura brought her hands to the girl’s breasts and firmly kneaded them while she occasionally flicked the nipples with a fingernail. Abby shivered and a soft moan escaped her lips, but she gave no indication of wanting to move. Laura realized the girl would be content to just have her breasts on her cheeks, so she took matters into her own hands, bringing a nipple to the girl’s mouth. She felt the girl’s lips close around it, creating a soft seal and then gentle suction that pulled her nipple even farther away from her tit. The girl’s tongue rolled around the sensitive flesh and she began to pull at it, like a child suckling. For a timeless period they stayed like that, Laura working the smaller woman’s tits hard, while Abby gently stroked hers and suckled her nipple.

Laura felt herself getting hot again. She loved having this kind of prolonged attention paid to her breasts, but now her pussy was demanding some attention.

The girl’s soft lips and warm tongue felt exquisite and now she longed for them to be on her dripping sex. She wanted the girl’s face between her thighs. She wanted that amazing mouth sucking on her clit.

Laura was pondering how to accomplish this when Abby partially lifted herself up and pressed her knee between her thighs. Taking the hint, Laura spread her thighs wide, then moaned as the girl’s leg pushed upwards until it was pressing against her mound.

The younger woman’s mouth released Laura’s nipple with an audible popping sound. The girl’s eyes were sparkling as she lifted her head and looked up expectantly. Laura dipped her head to bring their lips together. Abby’s soft lips parted and Laura invaded her mouth with her tongue. She tasted of salt and flesh and a vestige of mint. Laura probed and explored with her tongue, while the smaller woman’s tongue slipped back and forth over her own.

The kissing was lovely but Laura felt that urgency pressing at her again. She wanted her panties off. She struggled up onto one elbow. The motion broke the contact of their lips, but Abby moved her head forward and captured Laura’s lower lip gently between her teeth. A stab of white-hot pleasure shot through her as she felt the girl’s tongue swirl over the captured lip, which she slowly released with a long scraping motion.

Laura wriggled around and shucked off her panties, then helped Abby slip out of hers. She then splayed her thighs, exposing her pussy to the girl’s view. The girl was staring and Laura knew what she was seeing. Her pubic hair was closely trimmed and her outer lips were plump and wet. She knew that by now they were gaping open and that they were a dark pink, almost brown color. She could feel how wet she was and was sure it was evident to the girl’s eye.

Laura spread her arms invitingly and the girl crawled between her thighs and hugged her. Their lips met again in a deep kiss with their tongues doing battle. The girl was obviously very aroused and she forced her tongue into Laura’s mouth and explored it thoroughly. Laura was content to caress the girls back and ass and let her take the lead for a bit.

Abby’s mouth eventually left her own. Her lips left a wet trail from Laura’s ear, down the line of her jaw and across her throat. Abby stopped and kissed her collarbone before continuing down. Laura was thrilled by the girl’s initiative – she released the Abby’s ass and brought her hand to her smoldering pussy. Laura dipped her fingers inside of her entrance, getting them slick with her juices and then brought her hand to Abby’s mouth.

Abby went to work on her fingers, suckling them as she had her nipples, lapping greedily at them until they were clean and then gently sucking them into her mouth. When she finished she pushed Laura’s hand back towards her crotch.

“It looks like you have found something you like,” Laura said.

“Yes, it tastes wonderful,” Abby said breathlessly.

“Well, there is plenty there for you.”

The girl smiled and moved down to lick at Laura’s navel, which caused her to giggle. Her giggle turned into a moan when the girls tongue reached the top of her mound and licked through her pubic hair.

Laura spread her legs wide and tried to relax. She was so worked up from the attention to her breasts, and she did not want to come at the first contact of the girl’s mouth. Still, she was keenly aroused and knew it wouldn’t take much to send her over the edge. The girl’s fingers were massaging the outsides of her mound, just teasing her labia, and her tongue slipped through Laura’s sparse pubes to rest just above the top of her slit. She started licking then, delicate, gentle swipes of her tongue moving to one side and then the other. Laura felt her back arch involuntarily, trying to bring her swollen pussy into contact with the wonderful tongue, but Abby would not allow it. She pressed Laura’s hips back down and then began to gently tongue her outer lips, working slowly downward, but not slipping between them to caress the inner folds.

Laura groaned in frustration, it felt so good, and she was so close, but it wasn’t enough to get her over the top. When Abby reached the bottom of Laura’s pussy she forced her tongue into the older woman and pursed her lips around the tight entrance. Her tongue seemed very long and flexible once it was inside and began to wiggle around, and she sucked hard, drawing deeply of Laura’s pussy juice.

Laura cried out then, it just felt so good. Her hands shot to her breasts and she rolled her engorged nipples between her fingers, adding jagged jolts of pleasure to her already over-stimulated system.

She was dying now for an orgasm, she had to have it. The feelings were so powerful that she could not even try to hold back. Abby curled her tongue and ran it upward along Laura’s slit, scooping up the thick fluid that had gathered between the older woman’s swollen lips. Laura couldn’t take any more teasing; her hands left her breasts and curled into Abby’s luxurious hair, pulling her mouth tightly against her slit.

“No more teasing, I have to come,” Laura groaned.

Abby went wild at the words. Sucking hard on Laura’s clit she drew it out and then swirled her tongue over the super sensitive bud before she began to lash it with manically fast strokes of her tongue. The shock of it was more than Laura could bear and she felt her bottom swing into motion, jogging and twitching and contracting as her orgasm ripped through her.

Laura screamed then. She wasn’t usually vocal during sex, but the tension inside of her, the unremitting pleasure, demanded nothing less than a scream. Laura rode the younger woman’s face like a surfer on the crest of a giant wave. Abby did not stop and Laura felt like she was being devoured alive. The sensations from the girl’s tongue, lips and fingers merged into one flow of sensation that sent her skyrocketing into another orgasm. This one was more powerful, shocking her body to its core. Abby showed no sign of letting up and Laura found herself pushing the girl’s head away. It was too much. Too much!

She drifted down from her orgasm slowly; Abby had returned to her breasts and was suckling contentedly. The sensation was not powerfully erotic now, it was warm, gentle and comforting. Laura glanced at the clock on the bedside table – it wasn’t even noon yet.

The continued movements of girl’s soft tongue and warm mouth left no doubt in Laura’s mind that they were far from finished. With four more hours until she needed to think about getting home to her family, she knew this was just the beginning.

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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.

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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(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.

*  *  *

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Silken on Sex #76: Midori, sex-educator extraordinaire, has put out a call stating that she wants Women’s Words on their Orgasms. So I sent her mine.

When I become aroused
I start with a feeling of warmth
of increasing languidness
I can feel my skin flushing
feel the flush of heat
inside me
feel the flutter of muscles
inside me
feel the juices beginning to flow from
inside me

As my arousal heightens
my breathing quickens
my skin pebbles
my nipples harden
the skin of my breasts tightens
my clit twitches
my inner muscles clench
which
sends more pleasure signals
waves of gooseflesh
nipples ache
and fluids seep from
inside me

When I am ready to orgasm
my body tightens
every muscle hums
like the string of a bow pulled back
pulled back farther
my nerves scream with built-up orgasmic energy
my nipples and clit pulse with every beat of my heart
my thighs tighten like a trap
my inner muscles clamp
clamp hard
on something or nothing
it does not matter

it
is the clamping down
again
and again
that
does
it

And I am flung

into orgasm
breath halted
mouth opened
my body lengthening
legs straightening
toes curling
muscles clenching
releasing
milking
nerves humming with excruciating pleasure
and then I hit

that

target

galvanized into motion
Yes! Yes!
breath released explosively
followed by a deep inhalation
released slowly in a long
sometimes loud
moan
that becomes gasps
as the after-shocks
rock me
inside
and
out
rocking me like a boat
languidly
and with an occasional jolt
of slowly ebbing orgasmic energy
mmmmmmmmmmm

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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strains of a jazz trio soft and subliminal
slow disrobing
musical swaying hips
searching fingers tangled by round things pushed
through slotted cloth what–
oh yes buttons
pop pop oops
who cares don’t stop don’t stop
storm rises from within
rushing winds of breath on heated skin
hands like brands
cupping breasts
gliding up along that neck graceful and arched
thumbs teasing bobbing throat
swallowing the flood of
mouth-water
do you feel it–
yes oh yes i want you want you
pulse-beat keeps time with plucked strings
of the bass
senses swirling
scented flesh touched by tongue
ahhh heavens
the miracle of a crescent moan
slowly rising
over passion fallen to earth

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Words have power

and language is mightier than time

intoxicating as wine

second only to the moment

which can be captured in words

and relived

like the memory of sex.

I have power over words

the music of them flows from me

creating symphonies of sensual immediacy

entrancing you

conquering you

enflaming your imagination

stopping the flow of time

doling it out

word

by

word.

Words cleave your mind

my voice driving a wedge

between the higher-functioning halves

penetrating deep into the limbic brain

calling forth that aroused tingle

in your pelvis.

You want my words

you swallow them as they drip from my lips

thirsting for the power of my voice

for the bounce of verbs and adjectives

across the playground of your mind.

Yes words have power

the power to create language

and language the power to create problems

and the problem you have now

is the world of fire in your loins

and what must be done to conquer it.

She’d thought that the period of sexual exploration that followed was a phase, but in fact, it was a prelude. Five years later she was happily single and loving her life — and she was hitting her sexual prime. Her lovers said she was insatiable, so constant was her state of arousal and need, but it wasn’t that she couldn’t be satisfied. It was simply that she couldn’t be satisfied for long.

Her bedside dresser had drawers filled with every sex toy imaginable, and while they served their purposes of helping her to achieve orgasm, none of them accomplished the job so well that she wasn’t horny again 30 minutes later. For 5 years she’d been questing for some one or some thing that could wring her of sexual energy so thoroughly that she could sleep through a night without being disturbed by erotic dreams. And she’d found it.

At a play-party a man and a woman tag-teamed her on a machine that made her come so many times she’d eventually half-fallen, half-slid off it in a stupor, her body trembling and twitching, and for the rest of the night and much of the next day, she’d had no interest in sex. She’d felt, as she’d put it “Done.”

It was such an incredible feeling to her, both the release of multiple orgasms and the feeling of satiety the resulted, that she searched for the machine online and ordered it immediately, not even hesitating over the cost.

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

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

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

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

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

A sybian. Her very own sybian. The ultimate girl toy.

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

—

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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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Today I am sharing a preview of my erotic audio story “Attention Please I”. The complete text of this highly-rated story is available at Literotica.com

Summary:
This is the first of a two-part tale about the consequences to one woman for her attention-seeking behavior. This woman wants her lover’s attention now–even though he is on the phone. He’s made it clear that he doesn’t want to be disturbed, so she sits on the edge of his desk and teases him by masturbating herself. When he finishes his call, he gives her what she so richly deserves–bent over his desk. Attention Please I has a short, but well-described build up, a very hot seduction, and a steamy finale.
This is a story that men, women, and couples will enjoy. For adult listeners only.
Length (11:56)

If you like what you hear, you can purchase the full version at Payloadz.com

via Paypal.

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.