This erotic story of lesbian love was inspired by a recent trip to Japan.

*  *  *

I bumped into her in my ryokan in Kyoto.

I smelled her exotic scent just milliseconds before my sleep-fogged brain registered the ledge I was supposed to step over in order to leave my suite, too late, of course. I fell to my knees like a penitent worshiper, one hand clutching the hem of her kimono, the other pressing down onto her foot.

“Gomen nasai. Daijoubu desu ka?” I stammered. I’m sorry. Are you alright?

My boyfriend had taught me that phrase early on in the trip, after he tired of apologizing on my behalf to all the people I bumped into. And I bumped into a lot of people as I was constantly staring upwards in astonishment at the cherry blossoms that seemed to adorn all of Japan.

Cool hands cupped my cheeks and tilted my head backward. Dark eyes peered into mine, eyes so dark I could not distinguish the pupils from the iris.

“Are you hurt?” she asked me. Her voice was typically girlish Japanese, but her accent was pure Queen’s English.

I gaped stupidly at her, a slow blush creeping up my torso and flagging my cheeks. Humiliation burned through me, but so did a peculiar excitement. I lifted my hand off her sandaled foot, the foot clad in those white socks with the split toe that had fascinated me since I’d first spotted them. I’d hoped to get a close-up view one day, but this was hardly what I’d had in mind.

I released my hold on her yukata, a simple blue and white yukata similar to the one I was wearing, and with her help, I stood up.

“Are you certain you’re not hurt?” she asked again in her fluent English.

I watched her rosebud mouth shape the words, saw her fine brows knit in that perfect oval face. Her skin was lovely, creamy and golden, like custard. She smelled of flowers and herbs, a concoction that was pungent enough to penetrate my daze. I wanted to gather her up and press my nose to her skin, smelling her everywhere. I was shocked with a fleeting mental image of her splayed on the low table that our kaiseki feasts were served on, and then my stomach rumbled, reminding me of why I’d been stumbling out of my room.

Breakfast.

“I’m fine, really. There is nothing wrong with me that a cup of tea won’t fix. I need some caffeine. Too much sake last night, you know…” I babbled groggily and blushed again.

My voice was so husky that I barely recognized it as my own. Too much sake indeed. The Gion District offered many late night pleasures in addition to the geisha and their maiko, and my lover and I had partaken of them until nearly dawn. Thankfully, our ryokan did not have a curfew.

I smoothed my yukata over my pajamas and tucked a lock of hair back behind my ear, then smiled hesitantly at the woman I’d unintentionally accosted.

“Thank you for your help. I’m Sophie MacRae.” I bowed slightly and withheld my hand, having noticed that the Japanese had thing about hands. They washed them compulsively, especially before meals, and rarely touched hands if it could be avoided.

“Miyuki Futohara,” she said, and bowed to me, her eyes downcast.

I was struck again by her beauty, by the music of her voice, the perfection of her skin and the symmetry of her features. I wanted to photograph her. I wanted to kiss her. But most of all I wanted to pull the decorative clips from her hair and run my fingers through it.

At that moment a young woman shuffled up to us. I recognized her as being the inn-keeper’s daughter. She was homely compared to the other woman, but she looked serene in her traditional Japanese dress, including a pale pink obi that bound her from breasts to hips. She bowed to me and gestured.

“Your breakfast is ready, Miss,” she spoke in halting English.

I blushed, again, horrified. I wanted to groan, but I breathed out slowly instead. I was late, and the Japanese were sticklers about being prompt. Tardiness was considered disrespectful.

I bowed to the beautiful Miyuki. “Arigato gozaimasu.”

She bowed in acknowledgment of my gratitude, her poise enviable.

I bowed to the housegirl. “Gomen nasai.”

As I followed the girl I wondered if it was wishful thinking on my part that Miyuki’s eyes were following me. I stumbled again, feeling unsettled and breathless. My morning had gotten off to a rough start, but it wasn’t anything that breakfast and a long soak in the onsen wouldn’t fix.

My traditional breakfast was a filling mixture of a half-dozen small dishes that in many ways were indistinguishable from any other Japanese meal: boiled rice, steamed fish, miso soup and nori. The difference was mostly in the presentation, I think, with the ceramic dishes being more simple and rustic in appearance. When I finished, I walked across the tatami mats, slipped into my sandals, and did my best to glide gracefully down the cobbled walkway to the bathhouse. I desperately needed a soak, and the o-furo tub in my room was a bit small for what I had in mind.

I entered the ante-room to the women’s onsen and stripped down, placing my clothing in a basket. There was a woman there with her child, but I scarcely noticed them. In Japan, there is no such thing as body-modesty, or at least, not in a form that Westerners would recognize. Entire families bathe together, and businessmen often soak together, enjoying the naked communion, the sense of sharing that comes when there is no possibility of concealment. But as casual as they are about nudity, the Japanese are sticklers about cleanliness, and those using the communal baths must follow a strict code of hygiene. A Japanese friend of mine made sure to educate me on the bathing customs, so that I would not embarrass the attendants with the need to explain to the gaikokujin why she had to leave the sento.

There is something meditative to the bathing ritual, something as deeply sensuous as it is cleansing. I stepped under a showerhead and soaked myself, then sat on a little stool and slowly scrubbed from head to toe with a brush and soapy fingers. When every inch of me was pink and gleaming I rinsed off, making sure there was no soap or shampoo residue. My skin tingled from the bristles of the brush, a tingle that bordered on pain but was a precursor of tingling to come. The water in the onsen would be very, very hot.

Yukata wrapped back around me, I stepped into a pair of wooden sandals used exclusively by bath house patrons and passed through the doorway to the open-air onsen, or hot-spring pool. It was bordered by a high bamboo fence, tightly woven together, and surrounded with plants and stones that formed a garden I had meticulously cataloged in my mind for possible reproduction back home. I stepped out of my wooden sandals, then removed my yukata and folded it neatly, placing it atop the sandals. I stood for a long moment with my face upturned to the sky, enjoying the feel of the sun and the air on my skin. And then I stepped into the onsen.

I was prepared for the heat and still I gasped. It seemed to sear my skin. A wave of goose flesh washed over me, making my nipples impossibly hard. Slowly, ever so slowly, I worked my way down into the pool, until water lapped at my collarbones and the bubbles of air trapped around my hair follicles danced toward the surface like hundreds of tiny, teasing fingers. I fantasized about sharing the bath with Miyuki, my mind filled with images of small breasts bobbing in the water and tendrils of damp hair clinging to her slender neck. I wanted to touch myself, wanted to slide my fingers into the slippery wetness of my pussy, and would have, if I hadn’t known how it would have defiled the water in the eyes of its Japanese patrons.

I had the pool to myself and I enjoyed it fully, letting the images and sensations play over me and through me, allowing my imagination free rein with my impossible girl crush. Eventually the hot water sapped my desire from me, and I floated on my back for a long while, staring blankly up into the blue sky. The sounds of Kyoto wafted in, but it was pleasant, non-invasive, almost surreal. It wasn’t until I felt light-headed that I moved to leave, and I had to do it by inches. I was so thoroughly relaxed, so limp and languid, that I felt like seaweed struggling to crawl up out of the primordial sea.

A brisk shower under cold water soon cleared my head and firmed up my muscles. I put my pajamas back on and the yukata over them and was in the ante-room slipping into my sandals when a door opened. The sign on it had kanji symbols and the English word “massage”. A Japaneses woman stepped out, bowed to someone inside, and then left. The door swung completely open and there was Miyuki. Seeing her standing there, my heart tripped over itself and landed at my feet. I had to walk past her in order to leave the bath house, and I wasn’t sure my legs were steady enough.

“Would you like a massage, Miss MacRae?” she asked me in that girlish voice that plucked some invisible strings inside me, making me quiver.

A massage? Dear god. I nearly swooned at the thought of her hands on my bare flesh. My knees forgot to support me for a split second, and I grabbed for the wall.
“Here, let me help you,” she said, and wrapped an arm around my waist. My skin tingled where she touched. “Did you stay too long in the pool?”

I nodded, grateful for the proffered excuse for my weak knees. Her scent wove around me again, that potent herbal and floral scent, and I found it more intoxicating than sake. She guided me through the door and into the room, stopping before a shoji screen.

“Would you like an invigorating massage to give you energy?” she asked.

I struggled to find an excuse that would release me from the exquisite torture I knew I would experience under her hands, but the words did not rise to my lips. “Uhm… sure, I guess. Yes.”

Uncertain as to what I should do, I began undressing while she slid the shoji screen aside. Beyond lay a massage table and a window overlooking a lovely little pocket garden. She slipped off her yukata, revealing a plain cotton tunic and long bare legs. I nearly choked on the sudden flood of mouth water. Miyuki waited patiently by the table until I approached, naked as the day I was born, and then she guided me to lay on my front.

Warm hands spread even warmer oil over my skin. Wave after wave of goose flesh followed in the wake of her fingertips. As her hands slid over my shoulder I smelled that tantalizing scent and realized it was the oil. Mmmm. I definitely wanted some of that to take back home.

Large quantities of oil were poured onto my skin and she spread it around with long broad strokes of her hands. It felt like she was an artist and the oil was paint and I was her canvas, longing for the brushes of her imagination.

“You have beautiful skin,” she said. “So white, like milk.”

As she leaned into me, pressing her palms along my spine, her upper thigh brushed rhythmically against my fingers, making them tingle. I found that I was holding my breath, wondering if it was intentional or not. Soon her hands glided down my back to my hips, to the largest erogenous zone on my body. She kneaded me there, making me delirious with the pleasure of her fingers sliding along my pelvis, her thumbs pressing deep into the muscles of my ass.

A long, low moan escaped me as her hands lifted and separated my buttocks. Cool air touched my secret parts, making me aware of how aroused I was. I felt a blush creep up my neck, burning my cheeks. I moaned again as she worked my thighs, her fingertips occasionally brushing my outer labia with fleeting touches. I was spared further mortification as her hands worked down my legs, squeezing and pumping my calves.

“Roll over please,” she said, and I did so.

She placed a scented cloth over my eyes and draped another over my hips, and then she began working my feet. It felt wonderful. My poor feet had been pounding the pavement all over Kyoto as I made my way from one shrine to the next, and the feel of her fingers on the pressure points had me moaning and sighing within moments. Eventually her hands slipped up over my ankles, and with a few soothing strokes she soon passed my shins. When her fingers touched my thighs I was torn between spreading my thighs wide and fleeing the room. To my embarrassment I was so aroused I could smell myself, even over the potent herbal oil that she dribbled on my skin from her cupped hands. It was exquisite, the hot droplets of oil hitting my skin, as erotic as wax-play, and I heard myself moaning involuntarily.

Her hands glided up my quadriceps to my hip, then curved down over my inner and outer thigh on the down-stroke. As her fingers fluttered against my outer labia I gasped and jolted and moaned shamelessly. I opened my eyes to see Miyuki looking down at me, a slight smile on her face. Her dark eyes seemed particularly intent. As she met and held my gaze, she slid her fingers deliberately along my labia until she was cupping my mound.

“Do you want G-spot massage?” she asked me in her perfect Queen’s English.

It took a moment for what she was saying to sink in, and then I realized what she was asking. I blushed. The tell-tale redness started at my breasts and crept up my neck to my cheeks. I suddenly felt funny inside, all fluttery and tense. I’d heard about “happy ending” massages, but I’d never gotten one, and it certainly wouldn’t have occurred to me to ask her for one. But since she was offering… Oh no, I couldn’t… Well, maybe…

My thoughts vacillated wildly, and then it occurred to me that I would always wonder what it would have been like to have this exquisite woman bring me to orgasm in this setting. I knew that I would kick myself for the rest of my life if I said no. So I nodded.

Miyuki’s smile deepened and then she turned away from me, only to return a moment later with cupped hands full of oil. Again, she dribbled oil over my skin, this time over my lower belly, mound, and labia. It was a delicious sensation, and the slow slide of the oil droplets down my skin were maddening.

Slowly, almost languidly, she spread the oil along my skin, and when she reached my bare mound her fingers probed gently, curling into me. I moaned, and to my embarrassment my hips bounced. She smiled at me and put a hand over my mouth, and then with a deft move, slipped her fingers into me.

I do not know what she felt when she slid between the folds and into my aching pussy, but what I felt was so intense, I wanted to scream. And I did. I lifted my hands and pressed hers across my mouth and screamed into it as she worked her other hand into me.

Those deft little fingers wiggled and massaged until she worked them into me far enough to find my G-spot. When she curled those fingers up against that place and started rocking against it, I released her hand and grabbed the sides of the massage table instead.

Fuck! It felt so good! She knew what she was doing, jabbing her fingers up against my G-spot in a compelling rhythm that had me bucking and rocking. I felt the orgasm building, felt my pelvic muscles contracting, and she must have known I was close because her free hand tangled in my hair and my eyes opened to see her face lowering toward me.

When her lips touched mine I came, came hard, ejaculating my breath into her, my body undulating like sea kelp in a stormy sea.

When the kiss ended she looked into my eyes and smiled, and then took her hands away. I made a disappointed noise that was followed shortly by a gasp as she pulled her tunic over her head and shucked off her white panties.

I only had time to notice that her pubic hair was straight before she was climbing onto the table with me and fitting herself between my thighs. And then she began the most insidious movements of her body, rubbing her hairy mound against my bare one, pricking my clit. She lay fully on top of me and used the oil on my skin to slide herself back and forth, capturing my mouth for a kiss each time her incredibly pleasurable upward glide ended.

Her tongue probed at my lips and they seemed to part of their own accord. Her tongue thrust into my mouth and her arm curled under my head, trapping me in a kiss that seemed to go on forever as our bodies rubbed together more and more frantically.

Seared by her kisses, I panted to catch my breath as she reared over me and started bucking her hips against mine. Jagged bolts of pleasure pierced me with each thrust of her mound. I grabbed her hips, digging my fingernails into her as my mind flew apart like paper cranes in a breeze.Every thought, every sensation focused on the pleasure pulsing through me as Miyuki jogged her hips against mine in a frenzy.

Her hair came free and fell around us like a curtain of black silk. It tickled and teased my face and chest as she pounded herself into me, and it was the feel of her hair flogging my nipples that pushed me over.

Every muscle in my body tightened. A massive orgasm roared through me. In a burst of euphoria my fingers dug into her ass and pulled her up into me. I wrapped my legs around her thighs and bucked upwards, grinding myself against her. She whimpered and cried out, her dark eyes wide and her mouth opened in a perfect “o” as she, too climaxed with a staccato wail.

Sharp spikes of pleasure continued to jolt me as we lay tangled together on the massage table. I explored her body with my fingers, gently, as if she was the most delicate of cherry blossoms. Sliding my fingers through her hair, silken and heavy and impossibly thick, felt even better than I’d imagined. I cupped one of her breasts in my hand and played with the tiny nipple, making her gasp and rock against me. Which sent even more jolts through me. I wanted more. I wanted a taste of her. I wanted to oil her up and explore her body as she’d explored mine. I wanted to… My euphoric thoughts were interrupted by a chiming sound.

Miyuki swung herself off the table. She grabbed a hand towel and started rubbing the oil off her skin. I sat up and looked at her.

“I have a massage in 10 minutes,” she said. “You will need to leave soon.”

I felt her words like a blow to my stomach.

I must have made some pained noise because she stopped what she was doing and took my hand.

“This was not normal massage hour. This was special,” Miyuki said, giving my hand a slippery squeeze.

I smiled tremulously at her, aching for her, aching for the chance to make love with her again.

She must have read my mind, because she looked me in the eye and said words that made my heart soar, “I’ll come to your room tonight, please.”

I nodded through the tears that floated in my eyes like the petals of cherry blossoms drifting in a pond.

I wanted to get back to my room and ready it. There would be no need to venture out into Kyoto today. I was going to have my own personal cherry blossom viewing in my bed that night.

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Dawn touches the sky again,
bestowing numinous silence
upon lips kissed
by illuminating sensation.
Intuitions clear as morning
trembling wisdom,
revealed life,
simple being,
I Am.

I Am
this tender kiss,
sun-spawned, rippled,
eternal moments of bliss
suspended mindfulness,
self-awareness gone,
nothing remaining.
Not here, but there,
where sky aspires
to blue breathlessness
and breathes again,
I Am.

I Am
love’s golden sun-kiss,
reclaimed and whole,
bathed in scented pools
dripping naked, exposed,
dreamy and dreamless.
Sudden clarion insight,
infinite motionless moment
of undeniable knowing:
I am reborn.

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Authenticity is the key to that elusive “something” that most of us call quality erotic material. Authenticity opens the door to intimacy and connection — the two things people want most, I think. In a lot of ways porn is easier than erotica. People who pick porn want to get off watching other people having sex.

Simple enough. But what happens when I want something a little more nuanced? Something that will facilitate fantasy fulfillment, even if only vicariously? When I want something that feels intimate, something I can imagine myself being a part of, I have a really difficult time finding it. Sure, I’m picky — but quite a lot of people are, so I’m not alone. And a lot of those people are out there trying to create erotic material that fills that void, that niche. But we’re still difficult to find, because the content we’re producing ourselves is not out there in The Mainstream — not even in the mainstream of the adult business. It’s not that we’re not commercial enough, its mostly a matter of not having the exposure and funding to reach commercial critical mass. Many of us are fundamentally at odds with the Big Box porn companies out there because we go for quality over quantity every time.

One of the things I really enjoy about what I’m doing these days is getting to know other writers and sex educators, as well as people in the adult entertainment field, trying to make those connections with other people who also make the distinctions between those who are working in the adult-content industry because they love it, and those who are doing it for the money they think is there.

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stormfallen
upon silken sheets
arms and legs atremble
passion spent

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I have almost always used the sensual as the entrance to the spiritual: for there are ways that the sensual and the erotic experiences can be transcendent, just as spiritual experiences can be erotic.

I know this: the Tibetan Buddhist model for the awakened mind is — orgasm.

Ideally, the sexual is an expression of the sacred, it is an act of worship of the divine spark in my partner.

There are those out there who remain unconvinced of the spiritual dimensions of sexual pleasure, who are in doubt that the heights of which I have spoken are actually possible. Indeed, most advocate a temperate, low-key “it feels good bodily function” status for sex — I know and understand this perspective because much of my own sexual expression has been a rational exercise in the mechanics of arousal and orgasm — and yet I have also experienced the magical, spiritual aspects of sex.

Today I have a lover who is my match, and together we experience the transcendent consciousness I also experience with my most intimate friends. Together we will traverse those peaks and valleys, and it will happen because I Desire it.

Why do I desire it? Because I am wired for it. Because I am a sensual creature, like many others in the world, and there are multiple points of access to spiritual transcendence, and the path of the Sensualist also has a Gate which opens upon that spiritual level… it is just a far more pleasantly distracting, winding, and branching path than most who seek enlightenment would choose to walk.

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

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

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

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

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

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Preview this audio.

Silkenvoice also does custom erotic hypnosis sessions.

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So here it is. Four minutes of pure, ear-thilling, auralgasmic audio.

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

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

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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.

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

My response to him was:

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

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

*  *  *

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

Pathos.

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

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

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

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

And so I remind myself to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eros and Aramis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More tears at his gentleness. I need this.

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

So gloriously fucking alive!

*  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Darling Whore

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

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

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

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

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

Goddam! What a fuckin’ whore this woman is…

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

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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.

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

I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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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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