When we get home, he takes me. Bent over the couch. On my hands and knees by the door. Pressed up against a wall. It doesn't matter to me. What matters is that empty place that needs filling, that aches to be filled, and the hardness sliding into me, into the warm and welcoming wetness.

And then its my turn to tease him, to squeeze my muscles around him, to squirm and wriggle and moan and sigh. And when he is on the edge I beg him not to come, even as I grind myself against him, even as I try to wedge him farther into me. I look into him and he looks into me. We watch each other's eyes. And when the moment of ultimate superfeeling arrives, we ride that wave together, crying out, clinging to each other like castaways cling to a life-raft.

I write and narrate erotica. You can find my work at Literotica.com under "KR", on Lulu.com and on iTunes under "silkenvoice" -- give me a listen.

Highlights from last weekend:
She was a tall woman, perhaps an inch or two shy of six feet, and junoesque. She was bent over at the waist, and she balanced herself by pressing her hands against the wall of mirrors. Her lushness of body and sweetness of spirit were so very inviting, I could not resist. I crawled under her and sat cross-legged with my back against the mirrors. I cradled her breasts in my hands and lifted my face to kiss her, and the man standing behind her raised his arm. The flogging recommenced with a loud thwap. Her breath left her in a rush and she kissed me softly. Another stroke, and another, and in moments we were sucking at each others lips. My fingers pinched her nipples, tweaked them, squeezed and bounced her breasts. She sighed and moaned. It was divine. I wished it would go on forever, but alas, like all good things, must do, it came to an end.

The violet wand sparked over my nipple, making me gasp and twitch. Again he touched the orb to my breast, and an ecstasy of electricity ran through my body. Hands ran over me, two or three others touching me, teasing me. Next, the tinsel flogger and me turned into a conduit, and the hands and flogger sparked whenever they touched my skin, making me grasp and moan and trill and writhe. It was a banquet for my skin.

Parlour games with a twist, the winner on his back in the center of the room, eyes closed and wearing only his briefs, and beaming. Four women touching him, hands running over his body, kissing and pinching and teasing. He was in heaven.

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