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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My response to him was:

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pathos.

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

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

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

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

And so I remind myself to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eros and Aramis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More tears at his gentleness. I need this.

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

So gloriously fucking alive!

*  *  *

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I 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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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.

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

Silken on Sex #78:

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

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

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

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

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

Women

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

Men

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

Couples

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

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

Great Sex How-To eBooks

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

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

Got Porn?

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

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

Related articles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Regardless, I’ll continue with my hetero amity.

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.

Get audibly erotic audios at SilkenonSex.com. The place to find erotic tales intimately told.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *

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

Silken on Sex #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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Related articles

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

Silken on Sex #74:

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

Other things? You are probably asking yourself.

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

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

I moaned.

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

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

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

And wet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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.

He said he’d tried talking to her, had even asked her what he could do to spice things up, and her response was “I shouldn’t have to tell you what I want.” Which blew my mind. Amy was playing the You should read my mind and if you can’t I’ll punish you until you’ve tried everything game that many women play — a game that one of my lovers played so well that I swore off women for years.

So I invited Amy to meet me for coffee.

We’ve known each other for well over a decade and she’s accustomed to my directness, so I dispensed with the preliminary chit-chat.

“Boriska is worried you’re either having an affair, or that you’re going to leave him.”

Amy’s expression changed. I think she’d been expecting to play the sympathetic listener to my woe-is-me-my-sister-has-cancer tale, so she was completely surprised to find that her marriage was the topic. I sat in silence and watched her run through a series of emotions: surprise, anger, chagrin, and finally, something that looked like pouty resignation.

“I’m bored,” Amy said, looking down into her coffee cup. Definitely pouty.

“Bored?”

I couldn’t help but remember the last time I was bored.  I was 9 and I told my grandmother I wanted to go somewhere because I was bored. “You’re not bored,” Grandmother had said, looking over her glasses at me with her intense blue eyes, “You’re boring.” Something about the way she explained it to me really hit home, and from that day forward I was almost obsessed with being the opposite of boring. Today, one of the highest compliments anyone can pay me is to say that I’m interesting.

“I’m going to take a page out of my grandmother’s book, Amy, and ask you to consider that you’re not bored so much as boring.”

Her mouth fell open with a gasp and her eyebrows drew together in a frown. I raised my hand. I knew I needed to speak up fast or she’d flounce off in a huff. I love her dearly, but Amy’s what most of her friends call “high-strung.”

“Now before you get all upset with me, give me a chance to explain. When you say “I’m bored” you’re speaking as though the world, or in this case, your husband, is somehow failing to entertain you. That is a very passive place to be, Amy.”

She went back to pouting.

“You own your life, and you’re responsible for whether you’re bored or not. It is a choice. You’ve made choices that have led to you feeling bored in your marriage, so you can certainly make choices that make it more exciting!”

“It’s a lot of work!” she exclaimed.

“I know,” I answered.

“How can you? You’ve never been married.”

I looked into her eyes and smiled slowly, meaningfully. “Why do you think I’ve never married?”

She laughed, thankfully.

“Fair enough, Kay. Fair enough.”

We sipped our drinks for a long moment. Amy’s never been good at concealing her emotions. I could see her turmoil all over her face. I could also see that she wanted to talk, but just didn’t seem to know where to start. I decided to give her a nudge.

“So… why are you bored?” I asked.

“We’ve been having the same sex over and over for 8 of the last 10 years!”

“Well whose fault is that?”

“Whuuut?”

“If you’ve been having the same boring sex over and over, why haven’t you told Boris you want to try something different?”

“I shouldn’t have to!”

Oh. My. God. It was my turn to say “Whuuut?”

“He should know me by now…” She sounded both outraged and plaintive, if that is possible. I could almost see her anger and disappointment over her husband’s failure to magically transform into Fabio-the-Mindreader during the course of their marriage.

“Amy, you’ve been reading waaay too many romance novels. Sure there are men who can intuit what you want, but how can they know for certain if you don’t tell them?”

“Not everyone is like you, Kay… I’m not comfortable talking about sex…”

I got what she was saying, and yet I didn’t. Yes, there are few people so comfortable with talking openly about sex, but surely…

“Are you telling me that you and I can talk about how much we want to be bent over the couch for a hard fast fuck — but you aren’t comfortable talking about what you want in the bedroom with the man you’ve been sleeping next to for the past 10 years? Amy!”

She looked miserable and sheepish at the same time.

“Good sex is artful and intuitive. Great sex is artful, intuitive, and informed by communication. If you aren’t communicating your wants and needs to your husband then the only person you have to blame for your boring sex life is yourself, damnit!”

“How do I know he’d even want to try anything else? He’s got his routine down and seems pretty happy with it!”

I gave her my best oh come on, really?! look.

“I’m going to tell you a few things about men, Amy dear. At heart humans are novelty seekers, and we know that monotony in monogamy is almost inevitable… but we still settle down into monogamous relationships. Why? For women, it’s about security. For men it’s about guaranteed pussy. They give up variety in the hopes of increased frequency. So if you tell your man that you want to spice things up by having sex standing on your head in the corner — he’ll make it happen even if he has to build a scaffolding in the bedroom.”

Amy choked on her coffee, then gasped with laughter at that mental image.

“I’m serious. And another thing — In the absence of clear communication, men do their best to read us. They try anything and everything, and each time they are slapped away, or get an annoyed look, or a hurt yelp, they eliminate whatever they were doing from their repertoire. Forever. Most of them won’t try it again. Most of them don’t get that what irritated the fuck out of you last night might make you moist today. They just don’t want to feel rejected, Amy. People feel vulnerable when they are making love.”

She looked very pensive. I gave her hand a squeeze. “Think about it. You said he’s got his routine down — did it ever occur to you that he’s narrowed it down to those things you’ve never objected to? How many times was Boris doing something and you pushed him away and he never tried that again? Face it, Amy. You’ve insisted that he read your mind all these years and punished him for failing to do so. You’ve created your own boring, monotonous marriage, my friend.”

She made a face. A cross between a wince and a grimace.

“Sometimes you scare me, Kay.”

That brought me up short.

“Why?”

“Because you’re so insightful.  And because you manage to say shit no one else can say without sounding like a complete bitch.”

“You’re welcome.” I laughed.

“Does Boriska really think I’m going to leave him?”

“He’s worried about it. He loves you, Amy. He wants you to be happy, and if he can’t make you happy, why wouldn’t you look for someone who can?”

“Oh god,” she groaned. I could see it on her face, the realization that with her stubborn silence she really had made a mess of things. “What am I going to do?”

I grinned at her. “Well, I just happen to know that he’s got this fantasy about sex in the shower….”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh reaaallly?”

“Yes, really. How about we stop by an adult toy store to pick up a waterproof rabbit? And while you’re at it, send Boris a text saying you’re working on a naughty surprise for him and you want him to send a text when he leaves the office?”

Amy blushed and squirmed in her chair. She looked like an excited child.

“And then what you do is, leave him a note he’ll find when he gets home, telling him to strip down and meet you in the shower, and then make sure you’re in there and playing with your rabbit when he gets home. I guarantee he’ll break his routine.”

She laughed. “Yeah, I suppose he would.”

“Oh, and Amy… afterward… Talk to your husband. Share your fantasies. And be more communicative. I know women think men don’t listen to them, but if there is one place they’re eager to listen, it’s in bed. You’re responsible for your pleasure, so tell him what you want.”

Silken on Sex #66:
Celibacy has been in the news lately, and I don’t just mean the pious form of celibacy. I’m talking grown women and men choosing celibacy as a form of their sexual self-expression. Yes, that’s right: Celibacy is a form of sexual self-expression — it is possible to be celibate without being chaste. (Can you say masturbation boys and girls?)

I am an advocate of the practice of libidinous celibacy. At first the juxtaposition of those two words would appear to be paradoxical, but I know from personal experience that such is not the case. A libidinous person may be someone who has lustful thoughts or is otherwise preoccupied with the drives of the libido…without necessarily acting upon them with a partner.

Few adults can abstain from sexual intercourse (ie, be celibate) and not experience rising frustration at the sublimation of such a primitive and instinctual biological drive. As time passes, this biological drive manifests as a psychological one as well, and the mind becomes preoccupied with libidinous thoughts. Thus, the term libidinous celibacy is not an oxymoron, but an apothegm.

About 5 years ago I found myself newly single. Newly single, and with more than a few people interested in filling the position vacated by my unlamented lover. So many, in fact, that I was a bit overwhelmed. Given that it had been over a decade since I’d been without a partner or a few, I decided to explore my new singleton status by boldly choosing to remain celibate for 6 months.

I think some of my friends had bets on how long I’d last, and I know every one of them bet I’d give up and go boink someone long before my time was up. What no one expected though, was that I’d extend it by 3 more months — which is what I did. I found that, after 6 months of carrying on a torrid love-affair with myself, I wasn’t ready to share. I wanted to keep me all to myself :)

I dated actively, mind you, and had some incredibly hot make-out / frottage sessions, but the only person I had actual sex with was myself. And my toys.  Mustn’t forget them! I had my hitachi magic wand system (the frugal girl’s sybian at 10% the cost), my waterproof rabbit (the perfect bath-time companion), my ben wa balls (always put a smile on my face at the gym), and I can’t forget my Chocolate Dream dildo, which made me come so hard I pulled a muscle in my back the first time I used it. Whee! With those, and a micro-fleece electric throw, I needed neither man, nor woman, nor a cat (which my ex took with her) to put a smile on my face every night.

Looking back, I know it was good for me to be unattached and celibate for a change, good for me to take all that energy that had been tied up in sex and relationships and put it to more productive use elsewhere. I was very happy. My health was great. Without someone at home to distract me, I took the time to develop some of my other talents, and with sex off the table, I learned what intimacy and connection really were. I learned that, as a woman, I didn’t need to be with someone in order to be someone.  And I also learned that having a love-affair with myself meant that one doesn’t have to be a lonely number. Practicing libidinous celibacy thrilled me to the bone!

Don’t miss a single naughty bit — subscribe now and get the Silken On Sex Ezine by Email.

Related articles:

• Lady GaGa Is Celibate – And She Wants The Same For You! (perezhilton.com)
• The Celibacy Cleanse: Sex Avoidance for Better Health (blisstree.com)
• No more sex in the city (darkerme.com)
• Celibacy: a curse or a blessing – Dr. Shriniwas Kashalikar (slideshare.net)
• Is priestly celibacy healthy? (osv.com)

“You’re such a Cougar,” said my old high school-era friend after my partner, a man a decade younger than me, excused himself and left us to our wine-sipping on the patio.

I was still tingling from the feel of his warm palms on my shoulders, and from the way his fingertips had brushed the skin of my collarbones when he’d bent to kiss my temple, so her comment didn’t fully register in my mind.

“How do you do it?” she then asked, her upper body inclined toward me and an avid expression on her face.

Mina is recently divorced after 20 years of marriage, and at 40 is finding herself struggling with a suddenly rampant libido. Her ex-husband Paul is a dozen years older than her, and she’d finally grown tired of his philandering ways after their kids caught Dad at the movies with a woman half his age.

“Do what?”

“You know…” she lowered her voice to a loud whisper,  “snag a young stud…”

I laughed. “I don’t know, Mina. Its not like I try to attract younger men, certainly not ones as young as Gabe.”

Mmmm Gabe. Smart, sweet, funny, sexy. I’ve known him since he was in college, and he’d been patiently wearing me down over the course of a decade.

“I’ve thought about trying out a younger man…” She paused, then said, “Does the age difference bother you?”

I thought about it. Thought about how to answer that one.

“It used to. It’s why I turned him away all those years. You know me, I can be a romantic, sure, but bottom line I’m also a pragmatist, and well… Gabe is the kind of guy who wants to get married and start a family, and that is so NOT me.”

Mina giggled. She sat back in her chair and re-crossed her legs. She’s a good-looking woman. Definitely MILF category, and no one would guess she’s the mother of three teenagers.

We sipped our wine for a couple of minutes, enjoying the glorious afternoon with it’s blue-blue sky and budding trees. Mina put down her glass and reached her hand out to cover mine.

“Aren’t you afraid he’s going to leave you?”

I sighed. A simple question, really, one with a complex answer.

“Not any more,” was my response.

“Why not?”

“Because he says I am the one for him. And while I believe him, I also know that is for right now. Tomorrow, five years from now, it might change. But for right now, we love each other, and it is enough. Fear of getting my heart broken was what kept me from giving him a chance all those years he pursued me, and one day I woke up to the fact I was letting that fear run my life. So no, I’m not afraid he’ll leave me. I accept that it’s a very real possibility and move on with my life. When or if that day comes, well, I’ll deal with it. But it doesn’t make sense to let it overshadow today.”

Mina smiled at me. “You’re so brave, Kay. Where do you find the courage?”

“One day someone told me that the only difference between me and people who do great things is that people who do great things don’t let being afraid stop them. They acknowledge their fears and act anyway.”

She looked thoughtful for a long moment. Staring into her glass of Chardonnay she asked, “What do you think attracts younger men to older women?”

It was my turn to lean forward in my seat.

“The same thing that attracted us to older men,” I answered, remembering that we’d both had relationships with men considerably older than ourselves straight out of high school.

“Oh? Hmmm. I hadn’t thought of that,” she said thoughtfully.

“Think about it,” I said, and then leaned back in my chair and explored my own memories.

What I liked about older men was that they knew what they were doing, sexually and otherwise. There was no fumbling around in the dark, no disappointing premature ejaculations, no deflated “that’s it?” feeling in marked contrast to what I’d read in romance novels. Older men impressed my 20-year-old self with their confidence, with the apparent ease and certainty with which they navigated life, and yes, with their sexual prowess. They also had more refined tastes, tastes that extended beyond a date consisting of swiped beer and burgers in the bed of a truck parked at the beach.

No, I preferred men who were older, and usually, foreign. Not because of their charming accents, but because of their minds. They had a different perspective of the world, different educations. They knew things. And they were only too happy to share their thoughts and experiences with an adoring younger woman who hung on their every word.

When I asked Gabe what distinguished me from the women he had dated previous to me, he said three things: I know who I am, I know what I want, and I don’t play the mind games that women his age do. And then he blushed. Even squirmed a little.

I smiled knowingly, which made him blush even more deeply. I, too, know things. And while he loves that I can converse on chaos theory, cloud computing, and coding, he loves that I know my way around the human body. He loves that I know my own body and what works for me, and that I know things about his body that he never would have discovered otherwise.

It pulsed there between us, electric and aching. All that carnal knowledge.

Yes… He was hooked long before we’d had carnal knowledge of each other, but I’ve no doubt that my no-holds-barred pursuit of pleasure and pleasuring will keep him around for quite a while.

Mina might call me a Cougar but Gabe… he calls me a real woman. His woman. And regardless of age and experience differences, mutual appreciation and love are what matters for this Cougar woman and her younger man.

—

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