Category: Mental Pictures

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!

“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.

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.

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.

I find myself for the second week in a row with ideas whirling and distractions aplenty and the desire to write a thoughtful piece present but low on my list of priorities.

Over the last week I have secured a venue for a party, had a fan-fucking-tastic duo with my good friend Claire, had a beloved client gift me a session with a colleague (I got to work on her), made some beautiful new connections over brunch, spent some time with family, driven across the state and back, stayed pleasantly busy with my beloveds, talked through some very complex thoughts, got inspired, got excited, got exhausted, and finally realized that it was Thursday and I haven’t written a post yet!

Alas I won’t get around to writing much more than this. My newsletter will have a bit more detail and a little hello from women’s marcher me but for now, I can only say thank you, until next time.

I’m off to eat some wholesome homemade chicken soup (yes, the noodles are homemade as well) and go out for some quality time with my parter and a single boozy beverage. I didn’t quite make it to my birthday without renewing my relationship with coffee, wine, and beef but I am being very careful and will continue that for the rest of my long long life.

I’m writing an erotica story loosely based off a ‘could have been’ from back in college. My problem with erotica is that I never believe the circumstances leading up to the naughty bits. I might have overcompensated. Here’s an excerpt. What do you think?
The squeaky wheels of a loaded cart warned the girls of an incoming arrival. As if summoned by their naughty chatter, the subject of their interest entered the laboratory following a load of equipment destined for cleaning. While Matt wasn’t especially tall, he was well muscled, the slope of his shoulders visible even through the stained and acid-scarred lab coat. His thick dark hair was in that middle ground between wavy and curly and strong eyebrows framed striking green eyes.

“Good evening, ladies. I won’t be in your way for long.”

“You’re not in the way, don’t worry” Jenny said as she caught Rachel’s eye, winked, and grinned. “Actually, we were just talking about you.”

Rachel nudged her lab partner and gave her a warning glance but the only reply to her warning was mischief.

“Oh?” Matt flushed and busied himself with the autoclave.

“We were just wondering what it might be like to vacation down in Mexico around this time of year. I saw some beach photos on someone’s Facebook page. Looked fun.”

Matt’s blush deepened. He hadn’t realized someone had published the shots of him, bare-chested and grinning in the bright beachside sun, arms around a pair of pretty, richly toned girls. He was pretty sure there weren’t photos of some of his wilder activities while out of the country but these days you never know what’s on the Internet.

“Yeah. It was very… relaxing.”

The conversation lulled and for a moment the only sounds were the click of Petri dishes and the hiss of steam sterilizing equipment in the autoclave.

Jingling keys from down the hall announced the night security guard as he made his rounds, checking rooms and locking doors. “Hey guys, I’m locking up for the night. Are you about done here?” The security guard poked his head in the lab and recognized the occupants. “Oh, Matt, good. You have a key, right?”

“I do for the front door but not this lab.”

“I’ll just lock it and you guys can close it behind you? I’ll lock the front door on my way out so you don’t have to worry about anyone else; you’re the last ones in the building.”

“Sounds good, Steve. Thanks.”

Jenny nudged Rachel. In 10 minutes they would be the only ones in the entire building, sure of their privacy should they need it. As Matt continued his work, the girls had a silent conversation of meaningful looks and nudges. The seed had been planted by some Facebook friend, watered by the security guard’s trust and their isolation, and it was for them to successfully harvest the results.

“I like the idea of vacationing in a warm place. I never really did like wearing clothes but I’d be too cold to run around here in a bikini.” Jenny was obviously talking to Rachel as if Matt couldn’t hear but just as obviously loud enough that he could.

“Plus there’s the bonus of being in a place where you can do anything without worrying about what people think. If we ran around naked here we’d have to deal with what other people think” Rachel added. Though less forward with boys than Jenny was, the idea of snaring both her best friend and this handsome young man was too tempting to pass up. Her imagination was firing, her pussy starting to notice.

Jenny loved the chase as much as the catch and having her best friend as both wing woman and participant energized and emboldened her. “No kidding. How about you, Matt? Did you get to go a little wild when you didn’t have to worry about the cold or other people’s opinions?”

Matt had been on his toes since Jenny’s greeting. He was conservative in who and how he pursued but he knew enough of women’s flirting to pick up on the cues they were giving him. To say that he had never imagined what the two of them might get up to in the dorms late at night would be both unreasonable and untrue but his status as their teacher and his professional ethics prevented him from pursuing those daydreams. His moral compass was enough to keep him from pursuing but he wasn’t beyond being chased. “I did meet a few really wonderful people who I think shared your opinion on clothing. It was a nice change from the snowpants and parkas I see around here.”

“Oh I know. I’m looking forward to spring when we can see you in that t-shirt again.” Jenny had teased him about a t-shirt he had leftover from his high school days that still fit, but didn’t hide much. He had worn it under his lab coat during class once and after, she got a good look.

“What were you, the Tigers?” Inquired Rachel. “What a sleek mascot. Do you still think of yourself as a tiger?”