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.

This is another explicit erotic audio story in the FemDom genre. Which means it isn’t for everyone, so do be warned. It involves a woman dominating a male submissive whose kinks are body-worship, cuckoldry, and strap-ons. In this case, he’s been a very bad boy, cheating on his wife and chasing tail all over the country, and he’s come to the Dominatrix to get the punishment he craves.

Visit SilkenOnSex.com for more erotic tales intimately told.

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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The music featured in this episode is by Secret Alien Audio.

Silken On Sex #77:

The following audio story contains explicit FemDom material intended for adults only. If you are under-age in your area, or if you are one of those people who find erotic humiliation and feminization offensive, please stop listening. Now.

Earlier this summer we had the Bay to Breakers Marathon, and I had friends visiting the Bay Area to participate in the run with me. One of them was an old lover from college, whom I will call Dominic. This old friend is East Coast Italian. He is lean, dark, and dangerous-looking. In fact, he’s got the broody good-looks of an Anne Rice vampire. He oozes the kind of sensuality that men and woman alike swoon over, which is fun to watch in San Francisco. He also has a submissive streak that rarely ever surfaces, but always around me.  Which is probably why I rarely see him anymore–his Italian machismo finds it too unnerving :)

I’ve always encouraged my lovers, male and female, to talk about their fantasies, encouraging them to share even the deep, dark ones that they don’t really want to experience, but which have a powerful hold on them anyway. Years ago, back when we were in college, Dominic shared his.

We were having a post orgasmic nap one afternoon when he woke up with a jolt. Which of course woke me up. He was shivering and had a panicky expression on his face, but his cock was rock hard. It was obvious he’d had a dream and I asked him what it was.

He said it was a recurring dream that he didn’t want to talk about, so I snuggled up behind him. I tried to doze off, but he continued to shiver, which made sleeping impossible. So I told him if it was a recurring dream, maybe it would help him to talk about it–that maybe talking about it in the light of day would lessen the dream’s disturbing power. He said no, and I left it at that, returning to my position spooned up behind him.

I was just starting to doze back off when he started talking. In his dreams, he said, there was a woman who had him in her power, and forced him to do things.

He was quiet for a long moment, apparently struggling for words. I knew that asking questions too soon might derail him, so I kept quiet, and waited. Eventually, he found the courage to continue. He said that this dream-woman who had him in her control forced him to have breast implants and then turned him into a she-male cum slut.

He shook as he told me this. I knew it must be very difficult for him to admit to such a dream, him, the macho cock-sure Italian Stallion. But it was there, that dream, and had been there for a long time. I asked him leading questions, and he answered, telling me about the things this dominant woman made him do in his dreams:

It always started with him getting caught jerking off into her panties, so she made him put them on. And then the made him wear pantyhose and a silk nightie and bent him over the edge of the bed and spanked him with an old-fashioned silver-backed hair-brush until he came in the panties. From there the dream morphed to her making him wear lingerie and be her fluffer while she had sex with another man — often he was forced to suck cock and even swallow cum.

He felt powerless to resist her demands, he said. Her desires became his desires. He wanted only to please her, and when she told him she wanted him to prove his devotion to his Mistress by having breast implants, he agreed. And the next thing he knew, he was an insatiable she-male cum slut, begging his Mistress to share her men with him.

As I listened I eventually noticed that he was touching himself as he spoke. I dipped a hand between my own legs and collected our juices on my fingers, then ran them along the cleft of his ass. I asked him more questions and he talked about this fantasy-dream in a reluctant whisper, and as he did so, he stroked his cock faster and I pressed my finger inside him. He opened up fairly easily as I’d fingered him many times before, only this time I whispered naughty, humiliating things into his ear and held him tightly with my other arm. He ate it up, my dirty little Nicky did, and with my fingers deep inside him, massaging his prostate, he came harder and louder than I’d ever heard him cum before.

Our relationship changed after that, mainly in that he let me use my strap-on during sex — something he’d flatly refused to allow me near him with.  I had a lot of fun with him over the next few months, and then Spring Term ended and we went our separate ways for the summer. Well most of it.  His dreams came back and he begged me to meet him at his parent’s cabin in Vermont. Which I did. And what happened that weekend both cured him of his recurring dream and cemented his submission to me — so much so that years later, he still gets a slight tremor when he’s around me. Which amused me terribly when he was in town for the marathon, and sparked this little jog down memory lane.

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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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This podcast is about conquering, about the distinctions between submitting and being conquered, about the contest of wills between a strong-willed woman and her  equally strong-willed match. This podcast is hot, rough, and more than a little spanked.

The music featured in this podcast is Melissa Ferrick’s song Drive.
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For this 69th episode of Silken on Sex I’m doing a special podcast to feature the work of Kitty Thomas, who recently released her eBook Comfort Food, a disturbingly erotic story about the effects of social isolation and monotony on one woman who learns to endure the unendurable (captivity) by finding pleasure in it.

Humans are social animals, and of the species, females are the most social, the ones most in need of communication and companionship. So what happens to a social animal when it is captured, isolated from contact with the outside world — from anyone at all — except for a large, inscrutable, and completely silent man who seems to know everything about her, down to her favorite comfort food? The range of thoughts and emotions that Emily Vargas experiences throughout her captivity are powerfully and believably rendered in Kitty Thomas’ Comfort Food.

Intensely psychological, we follow the rationalizations of a woman desperate for verbal communication who is reduced to objectified animalistic status by her captor’s apparent unwillingness to speak to her. He appears to be gentle and indifferent, and yet, he touches her, at first exchanging bites of food for increasingly intimate contact, and which later leads to intensely painful BDSM scenes that she consents to for fear of him withdrawing from her and leaving her even more isolated.

I admit, somewhat reluctantly, that the Dominant in me enjoyed the mind-fuck aspects of this book, admired the antagonist’s ingenious approach at breaking her, which he admits was his intention all along. “Today I found something beautiful and decided to break it. I wanted to see it shatter in my hand and crumble at my feet. Her name is Emily Vargas. She’s bright and educated and stunning. Articulate.  She’ll want someone to talk to her.”

Ultimately, the man and the woman in this story form a darkly twisted, erotic, and deep bond that resembles love but is more about the chains of obsession and purpose which cannot be denied, even in freedom.

Follow me down the rabbit hole and listen as I read Chapter Three from Comfort Food, by Kitty Thomas.

In recent months I’ve had the pleasure of making the online acquaintance of some remarkably sensual, hedonistic, and outright kinky women. One of these smart and sexy women, who goes by Hedone, seems to have chosen erotic spanking as her unofficial theme for May. She blogs about pleasure and submission in a way that resonates with me — as a Femdom. Here on the internet she waves her words at us like a flower’s scent on the breeze and I just want to pick that flower and caress the petals and peel them away, one-by-one, until she is naked, stripped to the core, and begging for more.

I have her permission to read some recent entries from her Pleasure Principle blog, and as well I will give my response to her very provocative material.

Hedone May 12, 2010: Fantasy Spanking

I’ve been itching for a spanking. A bare hand spanking.
I want it standing up.
Pants dropped to the ankles. Panties pushed to mid-thigh.

Stand next to me. Speak softly, lovingly in my ear.
Tell me firmly the why and the what of that which you are about to do.

Caress my bottom, lull me into security.
Take your time rubbing, squeezing, and massaging my undisciplined bottom.

Your touch, your breath, your voice
sends my mind reeling; makes my pussy moisten.

Hedone May 14, 2010: Smack My Kitty

Over Caesar salad, french onion soup, and fish ‘n’ chips SirDom asked me, “Why do you like your pussy slapped?”

I thought:
Hmm. How to answer, how to answer. Be thorough. Elucidate to uncover the mystery that SirDom so boldly seeks to understand.

My reply:
It feels soooooooooooo GOOD!

Yup that’s all I came up with. He just looked at me, he had no reaction really. But you could see the wheels turning, his eyes staring in wonderment and his eyebrows set quizzically.

What I should have said:

I like the feeling.
I like to hear the soft toned smack,
I like the spicy tingling sensation that force leaves on my pussy lips.
I love the more concentrated blows to my clit; the ones that make my pussy twitch and my body jerk.

Wop!
zing!
swat!
Pat…pat…pat, smack!!

Ooooh yea. More, more, more. I love it.

I like the anticipation…the not knowing when the next strike will fall or how hard it will be or where it will land.
I get off on the power you wield creating and controlling this sensual experience–my pleasure.

~~@~~

In six months I’ve come a long way from “I don’t like pain”, “I’m not interested in impact play” to purring “smack my pussy…please” and cumming profusely from the marvelous encounter.

After reading her “Spank My Kitty” post, I responded to it with: I love spanking pussies. I love the way the eyes of you pain sluts open wide with the impact, the way your luscious mouths drop open. I love the gasps and hisses and moans. I love the way you pump your hips up to meet the strap or the hand. I love watching the labia change color, watching them flood with blood, getting puffy and lewd-looking. I love it when the sound of the strap against your pussy changes when the wetness comes. I love it when you beg to cum, when you beg for more slaps to your clit. Being on the receiving end of a good pussy spanking has never really interested me but being on the giving end — ah, now that makes me wet ;)

I followed the trail of erotic spanking breadcrumbs back to Hedone’s March 28th post called “Spanked! A metamorphosis.” I’m excerpting a hot little section from it that I am sure will get everyone’s attention, and hopefully, do a fine job of illustrating why you shouldn’t knock erotic spanking until you’ve tried it.

No sooner had I lowered my pants was I pushed forward, face down onto the workbench.  SirDom pushed his warm digits into my wetness from behind, and began his phenomenal fingering of my pussy. I didn’t know what hit me. The rhythm was firm, fast, and calculated. I went from oblivious, to highly aroused to ecstasy in what seems like seconds. Because all of a sudden, the fantastic finger fuck ended and SirDom was swatting my ass.

“Oh!” the first one startled me but made me quiver. The next smack of my ass stung but definitely blurred the line between pain and pleasure. And the next hard, stinging swat on my firm, round, soft-to-the-touch ass was nothing but pleasure. His hand landed heavily on my skin, and my pulsating pussy dripped. SirDom kept spanking me…smack, smack, smack, smack…thwack! I don’t know how many swats my ass endured, I only know I was gone. My mind–the consciousness, left on a plane called ecstasy.

My spanking, and being sexually—but willingly—molested in His sanctuary were the prelude to an afternoon of surprises and new sexual activities I was to enjoy with SirDom. It was a splendid afternoon, which left me floating far out in ‘sub-space’. Only it is the delicious spanking that has crept into my thoughts again and again throughout the week.

I am a changed woman. A woman who needs to be spanked.

I’ve really enjoyed following Hedone’s sensual evolution, enjoyed how she’s come around to understanding the pleasure her body can witness when it is seasoned with little pops of pain, when the shock of the sting wakes her up from her sensuous oxytocin lethargy into an edgy adrenaline alertness that is followed by the sweet seduction of endorphins singing in her veins. I can feel the delirium and the longing in her words, I can see it in my mind’s eye, having seen it so many times before as a consequence of my own ministrations. I’ve seen women sway and swing, gasp and sing, their bodies convulsing, gasping, begging for me to give them just one more, and then for another, faster, harder — it is intense, electric, and incredibly fucking hot.

For more on erotic spanking, please stop by my SilkenOnSex.com website and click on the Spanking tag, which will link to 4 erotic audio stories that feature erotic spankings of both men and women.

Lastly, I’ve got a special second podcast release this week to feature the work of Kitty Thomas, who recently released her eBook Comfort Food, a disturbingly erotic story about the effects of social isolation and monotony on one woman who learns to endure the unendurable by finding pleasure in it. Look for Silken on Sex episode #69 and listen in as I tell a lengthy excerpt of her tale.

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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Visit her new website www.SilkenOnSex.com and save 25% on any erotic audio purchases between St Patrick’s Day and April Fool’s Day 2010. Just use the coupon code 0467515R when you make any purchase over $5.00.

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One of the people I see is a natural alpha male. He is dominant–and he wants to possess me. He thinks he prefers a quiet, respectful woman. He thinks he wants the woman to be womanly and yielding and submissive, but really, he wants an equal, someone to challenge him, to make him work for it.