Speechless, Pt. 2

All I could see in the air were words.

Well, no.

Obviously, I couldn’t see the words exactly, but I knew one thing: my assistant was trying to grasp my attention…and I was hearing not a word. She could've been screaming at the top of her lungs, for all I knew.

I felt a trickle of sweat creeping down the side of my face. My head lolled back and I gasped. I was aware of a persistent knocking but I was oblivious...blocking out everything but the sensations coursing through me...

creeping up my thighs...

warming my middle.

I ran my hands through my hair and put my finger in my mouth. Sucked it like it was a Charms Blow Pop and I was trying to get to the gum center. Muffled groans with the palm of my hand. Rich cream dripping down my thighs was lapped up like ice cream as I could barely control the sounds that came from my body. I tried to move down in my chair to give him better access and to perhaps get to the orgasm that he was artfully keeping me from, but he stopped me with one touch of his hand.

Knock.

I held onto my chair for dear life and bit my lip. Tried desperately to suppress the desire creeping out of me. Thought that I might have hid my nana’s last slice of chocolate caramel cake down there. This boy was eating me like the sweetest meal he ever laid hands on. Up and up and up I pushed my hips. I couldn’t take it anymore.

Knock.

The softest of moans rose from within me and bounced off of the walls of my office. The slightest of trembles snuck up my leg as waves of pleasure crashed over me. He brought me to the peak again and again. Another moan came from me, this one louder than the first. His ‘shh’ reminded me of where I was and made me come all over again.

The loud, insistent knocks at my door and someone jiggling the frame were my rude awakening. Realizing that the door was locked, I jumped up, aggravated. Fixing my shirt and tucking in my blouse, I unlocked and yanked open the door. “What?” I barked. My assistant jumped back, startled. “Uh…well, I just wanted you to know that the package from…” “Just leave it outside the door. I’ll get it”, I said, and practically slammed the door in her face. I traipsed back to my desk and plopped in my chair. He crept out from underneath the desk. “I’m going to be the talk of the office for the next week”, I said, and sighed.

He took my leg and massaged it gently, starting at the balls of my feet and creeping his way gently up my calf. I rested my head on the back of my chair and sighed again. “We shouldn’t be doing this here”, I said unconvincingly. “You said this was your fantasy”, he responded, and went to rub my other leg. “Yeah, I know,” I said softly, “but its different when something of this nature actually comes true…you never actually think these types of things through”. “If you want me to go, I’ll go,” he said, letting go of my foot gently and standing up. “Yeah, it might be best”, I responded tenderly and stood as well. My eyes told a different story, one of desire and passion, but my mouth forced out the words “I’ll see you later”.

And so he left, the only reminder of him a voicemail message, my personal scent, and his Fahrenheit cologne. I stayed in the office for the remainder of the day, a bit embarrassed to come out, intimidated by my own staff and their wayward mouths. I was the last out of the building later; my assistant came to wish me a good evening and I offered her an apology, citing pent up frustrations as the cause. “I understand, gyrl”, she whispered as her head darted around slightly for any sign of other powers that be. In the the corporate world, one tended to make it their business to leave the ‘sistergirl’ in us at home: the uninhibited, ‘I-don’t-give-a-damn’, neck snapping, and high five-ing. This time, she winked at me, an "I get it" wink, and walked away, the ‘sistergirl’ in her walk a bit more accentuated, the tailored cut of her Ann Taylor suit no longer hiding her curves.

Heading home, it began to drizzle, so I put the top up on my luxury car and closed my window. So much for a nice breeze, I thought. I got home pretty quickly and immediately headed for the shower. I knew that the Mister was at work, so I quickly decided that my night was best spent with me, my television, and my hand, since there would be no chocolate sweat on my sheets and batteries were just too overpriced these days. I threw on a comfy baby tee and some gray and turquoise pajama bottoms and settled down on the couch for some r and r. I was channel surfing when I came across this well endowed by way of surgery 'nurse' and her male 'patient' getting it on in the soft porn flicks you catch on the premium cable channels after 10 pm.

As I watched the contrite scene, I let my mind wander. I just never understood the attraction with these types of shows. To me, the chick, 9 times out of 10, is plastic, the sex is fake, and the plot is so predictable that you know how the segment ends before it begins. Watching the madness for a minute, I couldn’t take it anymore and went in search of something better. The Movie Channel was showing, surprisingly, Cappuccino, a movie I rather enjoyed, so I cuddled up with my pillow, pushed all erotic and erotic related thoughts from my head, and tried to enjoy the movie.

It didn’t work.

To be continued...

Ocean Lust, Pt. 1

The sound of the waves hitting the shore lulled her; relaxed her as she lay in her living room, sated. Always felt that the sound of the ocean was Mother Nature’s orgasm; it crested softly when calm and gently roared at its peak. Moreover, it was in complete control of itself. It didn’t rely on another variable to bring it to its pleasure. She enjoyed laying and listening to it, reflecting on her own self induced cries of ecstasy as they bounced off the four walls of her ocean side villa. Her cried were her blanket, her ultimate proof of total independence. She didn’t need a man…or a woman, for that matter. Not to make her come. Not to bring her…there.

But she was lonely.

The blanket of whispers and self induced moans weren’t enough sometimes, enough to squelch a deeper desire for something more substantial. She realized that at some point, she would need to forget about her self imposed exile from everything and everyone and make a decision. She sat up, the scent of her musk still lingering in the air and glanced around. Her place was lightly adorned; it reflected her sensuality and some of her best work. Then again, her sensuality was, indeed, her best work. In the center of the wall across from a glass sliding door leading to the beach was a huge framed black-and-white. The contrast in colors was stark: a woman, dark chocolate in color, lithely kneeled; her thighs splayed suggestively open, back arched. A plain white satin sheet lay artfully between her thighs and wrapped around to her wrist. Her hair was a mass of curls that shone mahogany red from the black and white portrait; her white teeth seemed to grasp someone’s name in midair.

A solitary hand, much lighter in comparison, snaked across the gentle rise and fall of her breasts. Lithe tapered fingers spread over the mound; her nail making the slightest indentation; a dimple in a soft rock. The man’s hands seemed to have no color; yet they shone pecan brown despite the black and white on her hips, hoisting her. She seemed resplendent. The pleasure in her echoed and shook without a motion or sound.

The house in and of itself contained very little furniture. You could say that her loneliness was her bed, her sexuality her pillow, her fingers, the blanket that covered her every night. She spent most of her time in an adjacent studio, further up on the mainland, and thus had no need for accessorizing. Her home seemed more of a gallery to her work and to the work of others whom she admired. Stretching her legs, she went in search of a cold beer and some sweats. She had work to do.

* * *

The studio was covered in tubes of tempera and palettes with mixed colors. Tarps and canvases, both blank and half finished, lay every where. In the corner, by the factory window stood a tripod with a digital video/still camera. Rolls of film littered the floor in the corner. Her eyes scanned the room; this was her second love. She had a presentation to make to a local gallery, and she wanted to bring a plethora of work with her. Setting up a canvas with a palm tree painted on it; she set out to complete some of her work.

Her footsteps were familiar…the tick clock of her step caught her attention. She paused in mid stroke, slightly frustrated. Anaya knew not to interrupt her when she was in the studio; it broke her concentration and creative flow. Still, she said nothing. Anaya spoke. “You didn’t return my call”. “I didn’t know I needed to”. She resumed her strokes. The response was softer, that of an apologetic lover: “You worried me when you left that night”. “Go figure…couldn’t tell you cared”. Stroke. The tide was coming in; she could hear the rush of water, lapping against the shore. Anaya’s footsteps came closer still. “Why’d you run away?” “You got too close. I told you that I need my space. You were in it. So I left.” The answer seemed simple to her: she never allowed anyone to enter her personal space, moreover her heart. It complicated things for her. She had always been a drifter, ready to relocate at a moment’s notice. She felt Anaya’s hand on the small of her back. The hand from the picture. She froze in mid stroke. This girl was breaking all her rules.

“You don’t have to run anymore”.

Anaya ran her hands through her coarse red hair. Her fingers curled around a lock; she pulled it gently. She knew what it did to her. “Come here”. She was reluctant. Her studio was her haven, she didn’t want it sullied. Anaya pulled, this time a little tighter. “Come here”. She stood and faced her. Anaya traced the contours of her face with her finger and gently brought her head upwards. She leaned in and kissed her. Again. She loosened up a little, sighing. Anaya released her hair and rested that hand on her waist. She tugged lightly on the waistband of her sweats. She began to kiss her cheek. Then her earlobe. Her neck. Her tongue lay a trail from her neck to her earlobe. Reversed. That was her spot. She didn’t even notice when her sweatpants slid to the floor. Wasn’t aware that Anaya lay her on the tarp and took off her wifebeater in one solitary motion. All her mind could focus on was the sensation. Anaya’s mouth on her neck. Sucking her fingers. Then, on her breasts. Caressing the nipple with the soft flesh of her tongue. Her fingers took on another life, they found a comfortable spot within the folds of her

blackberry flesh and began to play.

She was very wet. Anaya always compared her to a chocolate covered strawberry…dark surroundings with a red, juicy center that dripped with the subtlest hints of the finest caramel. Anaya’s soft flesh found its way from her breast, down the middle of her torso to the red in her cove. She arched off the tarp. “What…are you doing…to me…”

(c) Kaye Michele ~ 2010

Lunchtime In'her'mission

His words sex me on a summer day
Spread like butter
Smooth like cake
My legs part involuntarily
He mind shatters me
Pleasing arousal without touching me
From alliteration whispered to me over lunch
Desire wafting through me
I groan his name
Words of unfettered erotica play pit a pat with my nipples
Sing song across my peaks
Fan an unimaginable flame
It pierces me
So deep
I want him
To pierce me
So deep
His words so carnal
Voice soft as his touch
He wrote me a story

5:45 pm 5.16.07

Stroking for the First Time

Your first time is always filled with surprises - the unexpected first stroke, the unsureness of every movement, every touch...

You can always expect sexy here.

It is our hope that the words that will trail across your screen here will encourage you to explore the sensual side of you. Whether it is our words or the words of others who are masters of their stroke...we hope to engage your mind...as well as your loins.

Take a peek inside our passionate minds...sit back...and enjoy...