I am a woman of silk. A woman of satin and pearl.

I surround myself with all that is female and soft and delicate and resides in the world of ethereal darkness. I am the lingering perfume that ravages you in your dreams, and later clings to your lips and tongue as you sit in your little work space and ponder the meaning of life. I am the mystery that haunts the minds of those I pass in street or shop. I am a wraith that walks in shadow, shrouded in black, panty-less. I delve into minds, producing images of silken tongues and ecstatic eyes, racing hearts and late night shouts to a deaf God. I am the reason the dead smile.

In my daily life, a manly man inevitably appears. But I have power. I see the look in his eyes. I hear the smile in the nights voice of his girlfriend or wife as he walks away. Even though I never speak, I know he will fuck her tonight. And the while, think of me.



I step into my car, a new bottle of my custom perfume in a golden bag on the empty passenger seat. I drive across the smoggy valley floor, the ass crack of Los Angeles, the freeway shared with executives and producers. The San Fernando Valley- home to overweight housewives in gray sweats with pink shoes, the mockery of femininity, the scourge of suburbia. I’m masked in black shades, a somnambulist; the road vanishes into a sedan hued rainbow. As I drive, my thoughts burrow on my clit. My swollen, dewy petals, the delicate hairs on the inside of my thighs, cry for my touch. But I deny myself. The tension builds. My thighs squeeze in elegant torture. I'm the only woman in Los Angeles who smiles in traffic. I view brake lights as foreplay.

I return home. The dress falls. My nipples, sugared pink strawberries, teased by a fragile, silk bra. I stand before the first mirror, the full length mirror in my living room. I look into my eyes, intensely blue, the color of Windows 98. Framed by a sweep of blonde hair. Blonde silk tumbles between my fingers, my shell pink nails play peek-a-boo. My hand settles, cupping my right breast.

I love my breasts. My breasts are my own. My hands; the lover I have always trusted, the lover that needs no instruction, the lover to which I shall forever surrender. I close my eyes and finger-paint on silk, pressing my bra tight over my strawberries.


I step towards the mirror and watch a beautiful feminine hand, my hand. Ah, the flicker of a nail. My mouth, soft, framed in pink, available. I stare into the mirror, into the world trapped within another world. I reach into mirror, the touch of the mirror and its chilled, soft kiss.

I pull away from the glass. Eye lids raise, the sweetness of sound and a thread from my lips. My breath lingers; the fog creeps away. A hint of my kiss, of my hunger; a trace of pale color. I touch the residue with the tip of my tongue. I taste my lips, my color. I smell the sweetness of my breath. I look into the mirror, and see the other me- my back, the tight curves of my ass. I fall in love with the side we never know.

She calls. Another lover, a hungrier lover. She stares back over her shoulder. Her eyes entice, speaking to me of hidden pleasures. I slowly turn and the courtship begins. I straddle my thong, the first blonde hairs appear along the silken borders.

She has beautiful legs in black stockings. My eyes drift downward while my hand drifts higher. White thighs encased with a silken band, lacy and filigreed. I trace the pattern with a butterfly’s touch. The mirror smiles. Ahh, skin. Pale and soft, the cream of skins. Scented with my dreams, my fingers rise to upper my thigh and the tease of those first soft hairs. The eyes of this lover are flames. I step closer.

“Show me.” She orders.

I obey.

It’s bawdy. I grab the top of my black panties and pull them down, defiant, like a man relieving himself on the edge of an empty, snow covered road. I see her. The glory of the goddess, the curl of blonde hair, the kiss of a mid-afternoon’s light upon a sea of golden pubes. Shy, I cover it up. The mirror smiles. I pull my panties up, tighter. Labia split, each step a frozen freeway. I bite my lip.

I float into the bedroom and turn up the lights. I want to see everything; every nuance, every curve, every conceivable hair.

My petals throb; they slide with each step. I want to taste.

Before me, another reflection, another mistress. I look at this lover framed in gold. Her face is luminous. I turn to my right. This one has haunting eyes. The one to my left has the hunger. I slide the bra straps over my shoulders. They all smile. Unspoken, I read their thoughts and leave on my black heels with the delicate ankle straps. My lovers agree, I see it in their eyes: it’s the right decision.

My cunt comes to life. I need me.

My bed is a sea of pillows. I lay back and look into the eyes of the incredibly sexy woman that hovers above me, her hair a cascade of sea foam. She smiles with me. I reach out for her, my hands finding her heat, downwards, towards the treasure. A naughty finger, greedy like a penis, finds the minute airspace between satin and skin. The naughty little penis steps into the sauna. The face above me; her pink mouth rounds into the sweet hole of a doughnut. I hear the sound of moisture. The face above smiles at the dew coated finger that wiggles just out of reach. My delicate, snaking tongue reaches and wraps around the little penis. Eyes close; the scent of the goddess, sweet and kind and gentle. The taste, languid and immensely private.

But to focus on the core is to deny the mind.

I roll to my side, my hand reaches for the remote; Chopin Nocturnes fill my room. I drift into the visions of a Romance that has yet to be. The ribbon of the black bra strap. I look over my shoulder, to the woman above. The strap descends, in contrast to alabaster. The lace is peeled back, the strawberry emerges. Swollen and tender, my nipple rolls under the palm of my hand. The woman above closes her eyes to the pleasure. My fingers slip under the silk, the nipple slides between my lover’s fingers. The flow of current, through wrist and arm, shoulder and spreading across my breast, my nipple grows at the flicker of my lover’s tongue. The power of the kiss; it spreads down my spine, past the dimples of my lower back that ache for my lover’s hands. The electricity flows, unheeded, down, into the peach halves of my cunt.

I roll over onto my back. My legs draw up, seeking a neck to embrace and ears to chafe. I pull down my bra. The stitching gives with the music of a torn hymen. I look at the lover at my right. Her eye lids heavy. Hands searching for her lovers hair, for the warmth of breath and softness of an evenings tongue.

Hands move down her body, across the indentations and undulations of belly and hip. The crease of the leg, in that tender spot between leg and pubic valley, fall under the lovers fingers. Down the hands go, over the outer thigh. I turn my head, the other lover, the one with the hunger- her eyes, reach out and fuck me. She licks her lips and descends onto me, taking my hand and placing it over the black silk that covers my mound. Her eyes hold mine, her voice, echoed whispers that can not be denied; she places two fingers over my satin slit. “Open your mouth.” My eyes close, my mouth opens, seeking, longing for her kiss, the graze of her tongue, the taste between her legs, her warm embrace. My legs part, my narrow hand floats in circles, pressing against the moisture of my panties. The satin presses inward, into the heart of my cunt. My circles tighten and define. Waves of pleasure written upon the face of a clock.

I raise my hips, starving for the ceaseless tongue, for the sensation of fullness, for the sensation of movement.

The panties slide down my thighs and linger at my knees. I’m seven and naughty. The silk drifts further, bound by my ankles. I roll over onto my belly, gaping and vulnerable, staring into the face of a new lover, there, just above my pillows. Her face, flushed, eyes begging for release. I look beyond her, into the white soft curve of another lover’s ass. She, with the curves of wealth, a fist full of blonde hair curling from between her legs. I look upon the beard of the clam, into the depth of the third eye.

I’m dripping.

I bury my head into the pillows, into the soft and scented thighs of one of the lovers. My tongue flickers above sweet skin, my nose embraced in a fan of blonde. I reach down, eyes closed to the sensation of tasting, of being eaten. My hand touches the budding clit, then reaches further, to wet panties that bind my ankles. The panties come off, wrapping around the heals of my shoes. I move like a cat, turning until my ass rests on the cool satin sheet. My eyes fall in love with the delicate skin of my geography. My tongue, mournfully hot and broad, tastes my knee. I draw my finger into my mouth, my tongue curling around the hard pink nail, the taste of salt and my perfume, wisterial and musky. My head spins. I lay back and find the core of my heat. I’m Pooh, head buried a pot of honey.

I’m the queen of fire. The petals part, my finger presses inward, knuckles at rest, the testicles of my hand. My finger press upwards, the sensation of molten ice, my thighs squeeze tight, showers of color pass my closed eyes, I’m on the tail of a comet, a glorious ball of white and red heat blazing across the heavens.

I bite my free hand, teeth into the jugular. Through cat slits, I see the lover above me, her hair tumbling across her eyes, her parted legs, the moaning dance of hips, the whimpers among the stars.

I turn my face, the lover to my right arches her back, thighs gripping a phantom cock, her tongue moistened lips, her wanton desire to swallow a veined sword.

I toss my head to the left; She leans forward, rocking closer and closer, urging me on to new heights. She smiles at the slurping finger. She adds her fingers into the well, dipping, filling. My thighs part wider.

Another hand reaches under my ass, into the dark crevices, seeking more heat, more intimacy. The naughtiest of forbidden fruit.

The petals of my cunt smile. Faster the fingers fly, graduates of advanced typing, words spilling, fluttering over my labia. One, two, three fingers bury into the wetness. Through my closed eyes, I see the red lights flash, the string of tail lights and the sound of my heart.

I lick my fingers, my tongue, my mouth alive, my heart burning, my brain gone in a flood of cum. My body moves, I have lost control. My stomach tightens, the walls of my pussy contract, milking fingers. My sphincter grips for another lovers penal touch.
My lovers have red eyes. They stare at me, love me, flail their bodies with me. I turn over, my face inches from the closest mirror, I press my lips against hers, our nipples touch. All the while, I move up and down on my fingers while my thumb circles my clit.

I look into my lovers face; hair draping over eyes that know the secrets, over lips that know the places the bring the most delicious pleasures.

I toss back my head; The lover in the mirror follows every move. Her taunt stomach and the elogated navel, the curved hips and the buried finger. Then in flurry of burning snow, I fall forward, my mouth sucks in air, sucks in the spewing cum of a massive twitching cock, sucks in the nectar of twenty blonde cunts.

The rockets launch. I drift in cyberspace, sliding down a rainbow.

A lifetime passes. My legs wobble. I crawl to the mirror near my computer, I see the beggar in my eyes. This lover, happy and sated. I blow her a kiss in the mirror.

Then and only then do I turn off my webcam.
© Jules Abbot 2003