Category: Mental Pictures

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Come Along

How to make Amie O: a simple guide.

Step one: Don’t. You can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do and trying to force an orgasm out of me is just going to annoy me. Let’s try another tack.

How to help Amie O: a less simple guide

Step one: don’t worry about it. Let me revel in your touch and let orgasms come naturally. Or not. I am much more likely to enjoy my time with you if I am invited to revel in pleasure rather than demanded to perform.

Step two: slow down. No seriously, let me relax and tune into you. Spend time on my neck and arms and the small of my back, tease around the edges and don’t skip the nips and go straight to hammering my clit.

Step three: don’t hammer my clit. Ever. Don’t suck on my labia like you saw someone do once in porn, don’t lift the hood and drive your tongue or fingers straight onto that pretty little button or it will very quickly melt down and end all our fun. Some ladies have the cast iron clit that demands a hitachi on high but mine is a sleeping kitten, an unfolding flower, delicate layers of thin, fine pastry that beg for gentle tonguing and light, slick, buttery touch.

Step four: use your lips. Tongue is great for teases and for when business really gets rolling but never underestimate the pleasure power of soft, dry, whispery lips across my everywhere. Use them instead of teeth to nibble my earlobe, let them drift baby smooth under the curve of my breast, tickly whiskers and all. And don’t underestimate the tip of the nose as a tongue substitute on dry skin.

Step five: use your ears. If I say more, less, harder, lighter, faster, slower, freaking do it! I don’t fake my orgasms, I am reasonably well in touch with my body and if I am still possessed of the power of speech, there’s more to be done. I’ll try to make it easy for you but if you ignore my requests because you think you know better, you will lose pussy privileges.

Step six: use your eyes. The visible rhythm of my heart in my chest, the breath caught in my belly, where my hands go, the gyrations or lack thereof in my hips, all give valuable information. By the time you have to read my body language, I’m on my way to an orgasm and you’ve probably paid attention, listened, and taken me gently and carefully to the point where you don’t have to be quite so gentle and careful anymore. If I get really quiet, don’t stop doing whatever it is that you’re doing.

Step seven: Enjoy yourself. I love orgasms, no matter who is having them, but they’re a secondary goal. My primary goal for each encounter is that we both enjoy ourselves. Whether that means a few rounds of strip poker or 45 minutes of vigorous fucking until we both collapse sweaty and cum covered in a fit of giggles or you receive a beautiful and joyous massage, it’s all good. I enjoy myself in many ways depending on my mood and you can trust me to let you know if I’m not.

Step eight: trust me. I know my body and myself and you can trust me to let you know what I want. I don’t fake my pleasure for anyone anymore. I won’t lie about orgasms or enjoyment or anything. If I tell you I’m not excited about coming or I’d prefer you to use me for your pleasure today, I hope you’ll trust that I mean it. I know how to be a selfish lover when it’s necessary and I know how to be generous and enthusiastic. I know how to respect the desires of my partner and I hope I can trust you to do the same.

Post Script: I am interested in coming inasmuch as you are interested in me coming. The above is for folks who get off on me getting off and is in no way intended to dissuade a good old fashioned selfish fuck. I really and truly don’t mind a nice client who shows up, soaks in my attention and energy, and leaves refreshed. It gives me a deep sense of satisfaction to recharge someone’s batteries like that, to give them a place where they can, for once, honest to god just enjoy themselves without worrying about whether they’re doing it right. As long as you can respect my ‘no’ when it comes up, you’re as good as gold in my book. And sometimes you’re just the cool drink of water I need.

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Oh Baby!

Some of you already know that I sometimes attend orgies. Sex parties, group humps, whatever. I’ve been to somewhere around six, I think, spread out over a few years and they’ve all been interesting. Until this most recent one, I’ve been the massage girl, showing up with oils and table, providing pleasurable respite from frantic fucking and generally encouraging boners and the like. It’s fun, if sometimes odd to be tethered to a piece of furniture, and each party has its own flavor.

This last time around, I fell in love at least five times.

With the station at the massage table occupied by a well loved colleague, I took the entire night to float free. I watched, I admired, I played with a lot of boobs, and I showed off my sleek curves to an appreciative audience.

In one room, a bearded boy lay back as his face and cock are lavished with attention while on the other bed, a similarly supine attendee enjoyed pussy on his face and cock simultaneously. I caught her eye as she rose and fell, working his shaft with her trim tight twat and we winked slyly at each other. I recognized ‘the look’ as someone’s tongue went into someone else’s ear and the receiver held their own tongue to keep the sexy rolling. I love these people.

Across the hall five lithe forms writhe in sexual straining, pussy on leg on mouth on ass as the feminine figures rocked each other to one giant multispasm-gasm. The nice boy watching with a look of utter longing earned his brownie points by keeping his cock occupied outside this momentary madame mosh.

Girl, boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, girl, all nude, thigh to thigh, discussing the finer points of constitutional law and the first amendment. I walk up leading him by his cock. I’m already looking forward to fucking it. Later. In private.

Her moans fill the small space as six hands butter her buns, knead her knees, and leave long, luxurious trails of coconut oil up her arms. “You’re miserable aren’t you?” we laugh. He looks like he’s in heaven, having watched his girl get satisfied all night and now taking his turn to deliver pleasure through pampering. A touching moment between a talented and enthusiastic provider and one of her ravishing regular clients.

Every time I walk past her she looks as though she’s about to eat me up. Dimples and dark hair, Jesus Christ on a cracker I want to let her but not here. I’d be too vulnerable. I want to worship her through my hands and then let her have her way with me.

His smile warms me. Why is it always the guys with the biggest piercings and the fiercest tattoos who are the teddy bears? Glints of silver enticing the eye down, no, further down, yes there.

She covers her mouth with one hand and the back of his head with the other. I can see her, even from here, showing him when to go harder, faster, slower, deeper. “Let it out!” I yell and the guttural noises, none of this plastic porn trumpeting but the kind of sounds that don’t do words, just sensations. What a champ. His beard is going to smell like her pussy for a week. I think that’s his intention.

Smoke in her eyes, fire in her hair, I finally lose the ‘who is the palest in the room’ contest. I don’t begrudge her the win. Lingerie to match the hair and the look of the predator about her. Whoever pulls her drawers out of the hat is a lucky man, indeed. Time for a trip to the freezing north. Not frigid. Far from it.

Gleefully degraded, he parades around on one end of a leash, the business end in the claws of a teensy brunette in mile high heels. She walks him around the room and commands him: “Ask her if you may spank her ass!” “Please miss, may I spank you?” “That’s not what I said. I said ask her if you may spank her ass!” a tiny crack, more sound than sensation as the crop strikes a pink cheek. “Please miss, may I spank your ass?” Later he lies back in a chair, sucking a giant fake cock as his own is dutifully administered to. He is in heaven.

I know him and I know he’s good. I’m analyzing the situation as I see it: He is fucking her firmly from behind and looking around for a cock for her to suck. Oh girl, I get it. The tip slipping past my lips, luscious silky smoothness across my tongue; there’s something so deeply focusing about sucking a cock that it’s the ultimate turn on. Well, I don’t have one of those, but I lay down under her, face to face, and tell her to kiss me. lips and tits and pretty, firm nipples will have to suffice. “Thank you” she breathes when she’s done.

Stemware in hand we admire the collection of silicone, glass, leather, and steel. Something is vibrating but we can’t tell what. I can’t believe this is my life.

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I’m So Wet

Prelude: I’ve had a few conversations about this post and I’d like to make it clear that it isn’t the woods, it’s the intent behind them. A statement of awe and amazement holds thanks and admiration inherent, no matter the syntax. A statement of possessiveness over my body’s reactions is arrogant, even if it’s got all the right words. I see this again and again with male friends and with clients: the ones who worry the most whether they’re doing things well are the ones who inevitably already are. You guys are the best.

We providers hear a lot of good things about ourselves. We facilitate incredible sensations and provide an easy place to feel them. Our clients get to unburden their shame and sadness, rejoice in their proud erections, experience whole body pleasure, and we manage all this with a smile. Why wouldn’t our clients say nice things about us?

Well, sometimes those nice things don’t quite hit the mark. I had a conversation recently with one of my sweet regular clients about dirty talk. I told him about the difference in my mind between “you’re so wet” and “I love how wet you are.” I told him that it bothered me when someone who I might not even know very well tries to tell me something about my own body, as if I were unaware of it myself, and is sometimes even wrong! He laughed, a big belly laugh, and said “I guarantee I’ve said that to you!” and I, somewhat chagrined, tried to explain what I meant.

Most people wouldn’t make the distinction. Among those who do, the observation is just as sexy as the appreciation. For me, there is a stark distinction between an observation about my body and the implicit claim over it, and a statement of sexual appreciation implying thanks. It sounds arrogant to my ear but I feel it nonetheless: I give out my body’s authentic reactions, not you. I will say when my body’s reactions are your gift to me. I know that the effort and mental energy I put into getting turned on is real and I will let you know when you’ve done it for me. And I will thank you.

Outside of the bedroom, what little time we linger there, I have similar feelings about complements. We only truly believe complements that we already truly believe. If someone tells me they like the way my hair looks but I’m dissatisfied with it, it doesn’t read as an authentic complement. I may smile and say thank you, but it doesn’t stay.*

Vague complements also don’t stick. “You’re so sexy” may be true, but it lies right up there with “you’re so wet” on the internal eye-roll scale. You know what feels really good to hear? “The way you look, lounging there, makes me feel sexy. I want to kiss you.” First: you’re giving me information I don’t already have. Second: you’re letting me know that I moved you to a feeling I enjoy within myself and that gives me pride.

And there it is: a complement that moves me, tells me I’m doing a good job at facilitating your experience, makes me smile, makes me want to kiss you back.

Instead of “you’re awesome” I want to hear “you are really good at this.” Instead of “You’re so smart” I want to hear “I love reading your blog.” Instead of “you’re so wet” I want to hear “I love the way you taste.”

Because you’ll never quite know if I really am awesome, or smart, or wet so telling me that… it just doesn’t sit. But you do know, and I want you to tell me, that you feel safe, you feel smart, and you love the way I taste.

*This is the root of street harassment. When a complement doesn’t ring true or when we’re not in the mood to accept it, we don’t want it. When we don’t accept it and the giver gets upset, that is the turn from genuine complement to harassment.

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A Moment

Frizzy grey ponytail, face both aged an vibrant, we chatted for almost an hour before the story came out. I knew how it ended before it even began by the cracks in his calm comportment. I can see grief, its unmistakable in the quivering corners of his mouth, the shaking gestures, the palpable heat going between us.

Humans invariably view others’ experiences through their own sense and I struggled to focus on his grief as images of an empty apartment and cold bed popped into my head. my own projected future grief for the inevitable day I, too, am left alone swelled in response to this man, too young to be this old, living it every moment. I couldn’t look him in the eye and not cry so I threw myself on him and we wrapped each other in comfort.

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How, Though?

I was out running errands the other day and, as one does in Seattle, passed a crazy person. Now, whether she was normal and I just judged her, she had a mental health issue, or was on something, doesn’t matter to the story; my feelings about health options is a whole other post.

What mattered was our brief but lasting interaction.

We were walking the same direction on the sidewalk, me in red modest heels, faded black skinny jeans, and a black peacoat. Not unusual in Seattle but I was feeling fierce in the sensible but striking shoes. I was searching for an unfamiliar branch of my credit union and had to double back so I passed her twice; One walking the same direction, faster once facing her. She seemed to be on the phone the first time around so I gave her the polite freeze and moved on. However, as we passed face-to-face she struck me.

Not physically, I mean, c’mon, it’s Seattle. But with her face. She looked me in the eye, half luaghed to herself, said “You’re a whore”, and kept walking.

Now I’ve been catcalled, and crazy-person-ed before. I used to work downtown at night. I get screaming and crying and panhandling and whatever and I know that the kind of woman who tells strangers their profession while passing on the street is probably not in the best control of their senses but my first reaction was “wait! How did you know!?!”

Because while I’ve been yelled, whispered, creeped, solicited, claimed, ired, and begged at, I have never in my life had anyone, stranger or otherwise, so calmly and surely called me out.

Of course she was either crazy or somehow supernaturally adept at sussing professions so I’m not actually worried or upset, I just couldn’t get it out of my head.

The way she said “You’re a whore” was the same expression and emphasis I show when I say “you’re an asshole” after some new acquaintance demonstrates their despicable nature. It’s a combination of resignation and realization and she fucking nailed it.

It made me giggle a bit, smiling to myself at my shared secret, but part of me wanted to chase her down and ask her. How did you know? Do you have a whordar? Do you cruise the boards and you recognized my shoes? Are you a crazy bitch and said it to hurt me? Or is there some kind of confident, sexually educated stride I take that signals to some that I’m a proud effing whore? I couldn’t help but laugh to myself, despite the mild discomfort.

No matter what I do or where I go, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to leave my scarlet letter behind, haha! I’m sorry boys, I’ll be a sexual champion until the end!

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Rev: Ivy Quill

LOCATION: My place on First Hill
DATE: Yesterday
NAME: Ivy Quill, Née Emily L’Amour
INCALL/OUTCALL: In
AGENCY OR INDY: Indy
ACCURATE PICTURE: Absolutely, and recent
AGE: 13 months younger than me
PERSONALITY: Big, expansive, enthusiastic, authentic
RACE: Garden variety white girl, just like me
BODY TYPE: Petite, slender, short
WEIGHT: Not even gonna guess. Her proportions are the same as mine
HEIGHT: An inch or two shorterr than me. Perfect for some serious heels
BUST: 32D, firm, pierced, sensitive to flicks and nibbles
WAIST: Trim and feminine
HIPS: slightly flared from her slender waist, the perfect stripper booty and she knows how to work it
HAIR: Dark, long on top but shaved close on the sides, very alt/suicide girl
EYES: Bright eyes with hyuuuge lashes
FEET: Clean and petite, painted
SKIN TONE: Perhaps a shade darker than me in the winter, few shades lighter than tan me
TRIMMING: We’re basically bush twins. Carpet in the den, hardwood in the dining room
TATTOOS: several, tasteful, each with a story
SCARS: A few pretty ones on a hip and a forearm.
PIERCINGS: Ears, Nose, Lip, Nipples, and I think that’s it, haha
MOLES/BIRTHMARKS: Nothing I noticed
CLOTHES: A cute black tank, a loose gray skirt, a long cardigan, and the cutes little red panties
GLASSES: Nope
MOANER OR A SCREAMER: LOTS of dirty talk. Quiet pouty moans when she’s getting close.
ENERGY LEVEL DURING THE SESSION: medium for me. We kept each other busy while our boy recuperated and she didn’t flag even after receiving some attentive ministrations from me.
MULTI SHOTS DURING THE HOUR: I have a hunch that she, like me, is willing, depending on where you are.
ACCEPTS FRENCH: Heh hehe heh. Yum.
SMOKES: Yes
DRINKS: Sure
KISSES: Freaking hot. Tongue, lips, breath, all the good stuff
FRENCH: See above 😉
GREEK: Some restrictions apply
RUSSIAN: Probably. It wouldn’t be high on my list given all her other fantastic talents
DO’s or DON’T’s: DO be nice, DO communicate well, DON’T be a jerk
WEB-SITE: http://www.darlingdeviant.com
SCREENING PROCESS: References, not sure of other options
PHONE: She will provide at her discretion
RATES: 400/600/800 for 60/90/120 minutes
RECOMMEND: If you’ve ever been curious about a smaller, louder, alt-version of me, she is it
COMMENTS: I’ve known Ivy for a while off and on and we’ve always been curious to get together and bang each other but our social circles are such that we don’t bump into each other often. Twitter, the marvelous platform for flirting, finally cemented the deal. We only had an hour to work with and if you’re reading this you know how I feel about short appointments but we freaking filled it with fooling around.
It started with her treating us to a little strip tease. She, like me, started as a stripper and she’s still got the moves, even without the heels. As she twirled and twerked around my studio, I struggled with conflicting desires to get up and dance with her and get down with our lovely boy. We took turns showing off our skills with hands, mouths, and words. At least, I was showing off for her, haha!
After a bit, our dear friend needed a break to cool off so I took the chance to wash up a bit, don some gloves (no one likes fingernails where I was planning to go), and lay her back to lavish some attention on her. I always love learning a new body, even under such truncated circumstances. I wish I had had more time but the five or ten minutes we had to work with were enough to watch and feel her clench around my ersatz cock and hear her gasping. I’m never sure when working with a new friend what their orgasms look like but if that wasn’t one, I’d be surprised and regardless, she said she enjoyed it and I choose to take that at face value.
We must have put on a good show because it didn’t take much longer for the three of us to collapse in a sweaty, panting heap.
That was the most surprising thing: me and our friend sat back recovering and Ivy, energy unabated, answered the question “tell me about your tattoos” with a bright and fast overview of each bit of ink. It’s spread out enough that even if you’re not a big fan of tattoos, they don’t detract from her trim little curves or her silky porcelain skin.
After our friend headed home, we chatted a bit before she took off for lunch. She and I share similar values, specifically around our respect for, enjoyment of, and ethical behavior within our industry. We’r both good, giving, and game and we’re both learning to take better care of ourselves and our clients. We’re both excited to meet new people and do new things and while she’s embraced her big voice and boisterous personality, I’ve been trying to slow down, meditate and become quieter. My aversion to pain and permanent marks means I’ve shied from piercings and tattoos and she’s taken the chance to express herself and her love on her skin. Aside from the superficial, we look very, very similar. We have the same body type, she’s just on a slightly smaller scale, we have similar hair color and style, mine is a bit more strawberry blonde and more mainstream, we both prefer the natural, less made up looks for similar reasons and we both have that soft, creamy skin. We even take the same approach to personal grooming, haha!
Ivy is a sweetheart, totally game, a tiny bombshell of a porn star, and a smart fucking chick. I like her, though she’s one of those people I can only keep up with for a few hours at a time, haha. She’s humble but not timid, loud but not brash, pretty without being fake, and overall a really good time.

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Take Care

Sorry this is late. Thank you for your patience!

Jameson was reading when Angela got home. She’d had an easy day, only one client, and she’d made some cookies, tidied the bathroom, and had made significant headway in her latest novel when the lock clicked and her wife followed it.

Immediately she knew something was up. Angela was usually bubbly and chatty when she got home, eager to share stories or commiserate over the day’s events. While Jameson was a homebody, ascribing to the less is more philosophy of working, Angela fostered a vibrant clientele which sometimes got overwhelming. It made for a decent sized and fast growing nest egg for their young marriage but sometimes she overdid it.

“Hey, sweetheart, welcome home. How was your day?”
“Ugh. I feel like shit. I feel like a dump truck ran me over. Why am I so dumb!”
“Why? What happened?”
“Oh the usual, I overbooked myself. I know better than to see Carpal Tunnel Guy and Coke Can Cock on the same day. Then I ate too much at dinner again so I feel gross and bloated. When will I l earn!?!” Angela collapsed on the sofa with a wincing sigh. She met her wife’s concerned eyes and suddenly the walls fell. Fragility replaced irritation and tears spilled over her cheeks.
“My darling love, I’m sorry. It’s ok. It happens sometimes. I know they take it out of you. How about a bath?”

Jameson sometimes did a bath ceremony with her clients but she liked nothing better than to give the healing touch to her soft, tiny wife when she burned out. She’d insisted on the right kind of tub when they were apartment hunting all those years ago and Angela thought her fixation absurd. Until, that is, the first bath.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to do that. It’s my fault. I knew better…”
“Shhhhh. You just chill while I go get stuff ready.”

Jameson’s first stop was the fridge for a glass of white wine. Too much would simply feed Angela’s low mood but one glass would keep her busy while Jameson drew a bath and lit candles.

Fifteen minutes and their bathroom had been transformed from the boring white and blue pit stop to a refuge, full of fragrant steam, flickering soft light, and low music. Jameson went to fetch her tiny wife and the process of covering her in soft, feminine sensation.

First, she sat next to Angela and simply took her hand, caressing it gently all over. Angela’s eyes closed and her breathing started to slow under the hypnotic movement. Jameson took the glass and set it aside, then began slowly, gently undressing Angela, taking time to rub, feather light, over each bit of skin as it was exposed.

“How does this feel?” She asked as she caressed near a nipple. Neither of them ever knew whether they would respond or reject Jameson’s touch after the well intentioned but rough handling by clients. “ok? Maybe later? Not today?”

“Not today. That sweaty, prickly…”

Jameson cut her phrase short with a delicate finger to Angela’s lips. “Shhhh. Only answer, don’t think.” Angela smiled. It was a good reminder. She began again to clear her mind and let Jameson do what she did best.

Jeans and underwear gone, Jameson finished her whispering touch with a brief, firm foot rub and then took Angela’s hand and led her, mute, to the bath.

Lavender and low light continued the process Jameson had begun on the sofa and over the next half hour, Angela soaked and enjoyed as her pale pink life partner slowly, carefully, gently washed every inch of her with special soaps. With Angela’s eyes closed, Jameson felt no self-consciousness just looking at her wife. It never got old.

Angela was short, only a bit over five foot, and hippy for someone so petite but it gave her a lucrative body that was enough mother goddess to inspire lust while staying trim enough to fit today’s body narrative. Her hair was dark and fell to her shoulders and her limbs fit with the rest of her: a bit short but right in the middle between skinny and strong. She had shape that appealed broadly enough that she was in high demand, and her rates reflected that.

But Jameson’s favorite part was her skin. Some mix of olive and orange that made her look like a quiet sun shone from inside. In the dim light she looked dark like chocolate but in the sunshine she glowed gold and the red undertones shone from her hair. Soft, smooth, her few blemishes placed so perfectly you’d have thought she had someone put them there, her skin was a work of sensuous art and it was a shame she had to drown it out and ignore it so often. Clients were always so well-meaning but they’re men and men rarely are as delicate and sensitive as women. Their rough cracked sweaty bodies guzzled from the well of Angela’s bubbling femininity and she loved providing that respite from the sensory desert most men live in. But it took a toll, particularly when they were large, scratchy, or particularly emotionally intense. Today had been all three.

As she carefully sloshed soapy water up to Angela’s chin, she saw with satisfaction the near-sleep expression on her face and smiled. “Ok, sleepyhead,” she whispered, “time to rinse off.” She started the water draining and stepped away long enough to set up their massage table in the living room. By the time Angela was toweling herself off, Jameson had the living room similarly transformed. “It’s the deluxe treatment for you today, my darling.”

Angela’s dreamy expression never left her face as she moved, pleasantly sluggish, from place to place as directed. It was so easy to serve such a willing, passive client. They’d been sex workers long before they met, Jameson working with a massage table and steep restrictions, Angela working too hard, and they simply clicked. Their shared desire to please served them well as they took turns taking the client/provider roles and adapting the work they usually performed on men to their life together.
Jameson finished the evening with a long, slow body rub. Beginning at her shoulders, she kneaded and stretched muscle until she felt the tension start to leave.

“Draw your attention to my hands. Feel the tension leave you. Feel my focus on you and soak it in. Allow your body to open to the sensation of my fingertips, my palms.” Jameson kept up a low monologue to remind Angela to stay present, keep her mind from drifting to the next day, allow deep relaxation to occur.

All down her back, kneading her butt and thigh and calf, then the other side, all while reminding her to breathe, be. The work was familiar but the sensation was so different with such perfect skin under her hands. She worked lotion over every inch of her beloved wife and soaked in the love that filled the room, fragrant as the steam from the bath.

“How do you feel?”
“Mmph.”
“Haha, that sounds about right. Ready for bed?”
“Mmph.”

The two women climbed into bed together, unclad, and cuddled as close as they could.

“Thank you. You are incredible, you know that right?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight”

And they fell asleep, breathing each other in, preparing for another day.

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Sticky Sweet Sweat

“Gross. I hate getting sweaty during sex.”

Oh girl. You don’t even know…

When we start, we’re both clean and dry. My studio might be a bit warm but a cool shower brings our temperature down and some cold water or iced tea serves to quench the heat as we reacquaint ourselves.

Words turn to kisses, kisses turn to caresses, and sooner than we imagined we’re skin to skin and a flush has come to our cheeks. Every now and again I’m lazy and relax into your touch but I am no passive lover and before long I add dripping, cooling sweat to the sensations you bring me.

My thighs gripping your hips are slick and I move across you quickly and easily. We move effortlessly against each other, shiny where my breath gathers as I moan and swear and heave. I can feel the cool ripple of your sighs across my back as our bodies fuse in a hot, wet, slippery lake. And icy drop falls from your forehead onto my back. You watch the color and sheen rise on my chest, neck, face, I oblivious to my tells. You’re salty with fresh sweat, the sweet healthy kind you get from a heavy workout. I’ll lick my lips after we’re done, cooling in the afterglow, and smile at the visceral reminder of our flesh together.

The smell of sex and hot skin drifts around the room and eventually out the window. We catch our breath and start to mumble sweet reminders. We drink more, now warmed by the room and time. We start to feel sticky. A simple, cool shower rinses away the salt but not the glow.

Tomorrow you’ll break a sweat for some reason. The weather, a long flight of stairs, a nerve wracking meeting… Doesn’t matter. Maybe it’ll feel good, workout sweat, a flush of heat, a sensation that mimics what we shared the day before. Maybe it’ll be terrible, sticky and inappropriate, and you’ll long for the unabashed nakedness and the cool shower of yesterday.

Sweat, among other things often seen as gross byproducts of a pleasurable but shameful act, is one of the sexiest, most rewarding, literally hottest signals. When your knees wobble and your face flushes with cooling heat, when you drip on me and stick to me and then wash it away leaving only beautiful memories behind, I am rewarded. I, with my authentic sexual power, have done this to you. Oh man, that feels good.

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Well in hand

I had some spare time the other day and thought it might be time for some nice one-handed reading. My consumption of pornographic material is eclectic and intermittent so I’m still learning what is and isn’t out there. The problem isn’t so much finding it as it is wading through it to find what I’m looking for.

There are two problems with written porn: either it’s awful but it works or it’s really good but doesn’t work. Meaning it’s badly written but explicit and packed tightly enough with graphic sex that it gets and keeps me aroused even while rolling my eyes at run on sentences and broken phrasing or it’s beautiful writing, full of rich characterization and elegant syntax but the sexy bits are either too euphemistic, too few and far between, or too brief to actually get me off.

Even my own has these problems: I want it to be good writing and consent is important so I spend so much time outlining the story that when I go back and read it when I’m horny, it’s useless.

But I have a couple hours and I’m bored so I try anyway.

So I’m poking around the Internet for erotica and the first place I go is literotica. As I said, my consumption is low so I go to what I know is out there. I’m perusing the lists and I think maybe I should try the best stories, as voted on by the audience. Well, most of them are ‘sex people: chapter 13’ or ‘other sex people: part 35’ and of course they’re not in order so I can’t find one I like. So I restrict myself to standalone stories, hoping I’ll find something sex-packed, and the very first one I come across falls into category two: beautiful, lovely, totally useless as a masturbatory aid.

But it’s a good story so by the time I realize it’s not very sexy, I’m invested, and it’s short, so I read it all the way through.

It was a beautiful love story of two high school sweethearts growing up, raising children, and dying together. I ended up crying. I came here to get my labia wet, not my lashes!

Sigh.

Thus ends the saga of my failed attempt at some afternoon delight. A crying girl isn’t even sexy to herself so, mood broken, I did laundry instead. First world provider problems indeed.

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SpaScapades

Ever since Claire took me to Olympic Day Spa for my birthday, I’ve been regularly soaking, sweating, and steaming with other nude goddesses as often as I can make excuses for it. Just recently I managed to get several professional compatriots alone together at a private spa gathering. The range of female forms lounging about a gently steaming pool, chatting quietly captured my imagination.

But I’m here to tell you about another, less recent but more memorable spa visit.

A kind benefactor gifted me a botanical mud wrap and Shea butter rub and so this story, a factionalized, exaggerated version of his gift, is dedicated to him. Names have been changed, obviously, and this only happened in my head so unfortunately I can’t actually recommend ‘Chris’ to anyone searching, but I hope you’ll enjoy the images my imagination inspires.

My treatment was scheduled for one fifteen so when I arrived at noon I had plenty of time to begin my softening. By circulating between the hot tub, dry sauna, and steam bath I raised my core temperature and glistened with a sheen of eucalyptus and sweat by the time the attendant called my name.

“Hi, my name is Chris and I’ll be your aesthetician today.”

Chris was not much taller than me, his only notable feature beside his warm smile. He led me through a doorway and past a curtain where stood a massage table covered in layers of muslin. He explained that I would lie first face down, then face up on the thin fabric while he rubbed layer after layer of gooey mud, full of skin healing minerals and softly scented botanicals, over every inch of me. He would then wrap the muslin around me and let it set for twenty to thirty minutes while he applied a facial treatment and a foot scrub.

As I settled face down onto the table, I immediately began to relax. Chris returned and began his work, warm, ultra slippery mud sloshing gently onto my back, his firm touch spreading it over and into my skin. Across my shoulders, down my hips, just to the borders of the teeny towel covering my bottom, his hands skimming my inner thigh and sloshing mud all the way down to my ankles. Like Alice, his long continuous strokes nearly hypnotized me and every time he kneaded a buttock I felt a tiny stir, slight stimulus that put my mind in a very interesting place.

I’m a vocal receiver and my moans must have encouraged him because he kept adding layer after layer of frictionless goo all across my back.

“It’s time to turn over. I have a breast drape for you if you’d like.”
“Is it required?” I queried.
“No.”
“Would it bother you if I didn’t?” I smiled.
He paused a moment, then smiled back. “No. No it would not.”

I turned over onto my back and relaxed into the heat of the lamp overhead as he first lay a cloth over my eyes to protect them from the light and then began his routine on my chest, belly, thighs, and again down to my feet. I couldn’t see him but I could feel him watching my face as one thumb flicked over a nipple.

“Sorry” he said softly, gauging my reaction.

I smiled a small, parted-lip smile and said “It’s ok. Actually it’s quite nice. I’m very sensitive there.”

Again his fingertips, slick with mud and gentle with practice, flicked over a nipple. My nipples are terribly sensitive, hot wired to my clit so every little movement generated a corresponding surge under the hand towel covering my pubic area. His hands ranged all across my body, relaxing and stimulating as I lay, quietly sighing and moaning. He returned to my nipples several times, each pass sending electrical surges to my warming tender parts.

Eventually he finished his application and wrapped me in cloth, then turned his attention to my face. By turns he rubbed honey, cocoa butter, and a light astringent on my face with gentle, firm motions. Once, he leaned down to kiss me, a soft, slow kiss, upside down. Wrapped up as I was with a cloth covering me, I was deliciously helpless and was glad he moved slowly, inviting my response. I wondered how often this happened; how many glistening women had experienced this erotic and relaxing treatment.

He rubbed my feet with oil and sugar as I savored the memory of his kiss and wondered what else he had in store for me.

“I’m going to take off the muslin now. It might tickle a bit.”

As he peeled off the strips, starting with my calves and moving up, it did tickle. Where the mud had dried and stuck to the tiny hairs on my thighs, belly, and breasts it tickled with minuscule pains. The sensation of the mud peeling off and the air again whisking across my skin made my nipples immediately hard and as he poured buckets of warm water over me, rinsing off the mud and sluicing it away with his hands, he paid very close attention to them. At some point the water washed away my tiny pubic towel and neither of us bothered to replace it.

“I have to clean off the table before we can do your moisturizing treatment.” He offered me a hand sitting up, disoriented by relaxation. My wet, naked body leaned on him for support as I slid off the table and stood out of his way. He didn’t let his rising cock distract him as he rinsed off the last traces of mud, laid down a clean towel, and helped me lay down again on my belly.

This time, I didn’t bother with any covering and I let my knees fall a bit apart, silently inviting his hands. Instead of mud this time, it was Shea butter and vanilla, so sweet you could eat it and it filled our little curtained room with the aromas of custard. With every stroke he kneaded my muscles from shoulder to hip to heel. As he passed my rounded bottom, he caressed the curve and tickled my thighs, letting one lone curious finger trace what showed of my lips from behind. My back arched involuntarily and I stifled a moan. I could hear the others splashing in the spa and couldn’t let them know my pleasure or they would stop it.

His exploring hand slipped further between my thighs, gently playing with the sensitive lips. It had been a few weeks since my last waxing so the small fine, soft hairs picked up his touch and amplified it, sending arousing, tickling sensations deep into my skin. A little more pressure behind his touch and his fingertips slipped past my clean, smooth labia to caress my clit and the first half inch of my slippery pussy. I arched my back so he could reach further forward and add pressure and variety to his touch. One of his hands was still on my back, caressing and massaging by turns, while the other slipped back and forth across my clit, my slippery pussy, and the delicate sensitive skin in between. My hips were rocking rhythmically by this point and all my focus was on that tiny core of ecstasy that takes over your entire body when you’re aroused.

“It’s time for you to turn over onto your back now” He said decisively.

It took me no more than a moment to collect myself, reposition, and notice his own response to my naked, lust filled self. “May I?” I asked him with a point look and he smiled “yes.” I reached out and unzipped him, reaching in to retrieve my prize. As I held his cock in my hand, slowly learning its peculiarities, he spread more butter over my breasts and down my thighs. He was generous and dextrous; even with my distracting hand he stroked, flicked, and gently pinched my nipples, moving back and forth between the two and giving them a break now and then, as his other hand cupped my clit and rocked back and forth, his fingertips fucking me just a bit as his palm rubbed my clit over and over.

I gathered a bit of the Shea butter from my own skin and used it on his exposed cock. It was a slightly awkward angle, him standing by the side of the table, me lying down on it distracted by his touch, but I’m very good with my hands, as you well know. Feeling him stiffen and begin to drip as I slid my thumb gently over the tip of his cock, that sensitive spot right under the head, I imagined what it might feel like to have that head press gently where his fingertips were. The vivid image of that cock entering me spurred on my sensitivity and as I worked him closer to his own orgasm I began to feel mine coming. In my mind I saw his cock, any cock, throbbing and coming, thick slippery cum spurting and dripping and spreading all over my breasts, belly, and pussy. I imagined that the frictionless pressure of his hand wasn’t because I was so wet with my cum but because I was covered in his.

I could feel the buildup, could feel myself climbing the cliff, rocking my hips back and forth, back and forth as his hands continued their full firm fucking and his hips shuddering uncontrollably. I felt a hot surge from my pussy, could feel my muscles clenching and the towel beneath me soaking through. My whole body spasmed and I had to hold my breath to keep from swearing in ecstasy.

As my orgasm subsided I gave his throbbing cock a few more practiced strokes and felt him stiffen, hold his breath, and his sticky warmth splashed across my breasts, my perfect compromise between where I want it and where it’s safe to put it. We stood like that for a moment, both enjoying the after orgasm let down, holding firm, still pressure on each other’s most intimate places.

With a dreamy smile, I let him clean us up and complete his Shea butter rub down. Limbs askew, basking in the glory of nudity and sexual release, I let him sluice me down once more with warm water and rub me off with a rough towel to help the moisturizer soak in.

“I have a robe waiting for you whenever you’re ready to get up. We have a few minutes still.”
“Kiss me goodbye?”

He smiled.