Speaker 1: Hello, my love lies.
Speaker 2: I'm Roxy Callahan and welcome to my Erotic Whispers, the
podcast where we celebrate the sexual empowerment of women through
the power of stories. Sometimes that empowerment is via just
enjoying a hard fuck with a stranger who's the right
person at the right time, and sometimes it's the culmination
of romantic moments or even self discovery. This week's episode
is about discovery, discovering the sexual being you truly are.
It was co written by Kate from Good Girls with
Dirty Mind Studio and myself. Kate wrote a wonderful episode
of the Your Daily Fuck podcast called Lessons and I
loved it so much I asked her if we could
collaborate on a longer piece for my podcast, and I'm
thrilled she said yes. I'll link to her original episode
in the description. As stars this week are Riley and
Heather and please note, as always, this podcast is intended
for adult listeners.
Speaker 3: The coffee shop is aggressively cheerful, a brightly lit box
of blonde wood and the incessant hiss of the espresso machine.
It smells of burnt sugar and the vague, milky perfume
of the girl wiping down the counter across from me,
Mark smiles. It's a good smile, technically symmetrical, teeth straight
and white. It's the kind of smile that's supposed to
make a girl's stomach do a little flip. Mine remains stubbornly,
clinically still.
Speaker 4: So lacrosse is going well?
Speaker 3: Then he leans forward over his untouched scone.
Speaker 4: You guys are undefeated, right, that's awesome, it's good.
Speaker 3: My own smile feels like a mask I've painted on.
Practice is brutal, but it's a good outlet.
Speaker 4: I bet you are so intense. I see you on campus,
always with your books, looking like you're about to solve
a major world problem.
Speaker 3: He means it as a compliment. I register this intellectually.
The proper response, of course, is a blush, a self
deprecating laugh, a gentle deflection. It is step three in
the standard courtship ritual, following step two, the offering of
a sincere sounding compliment. I observe the sequence of events
with a detached curiosity. My mouth performs the laugh I'm
supposed to give hardly. I'm just trying not to fail
my art history seminar.
Speaker 4: No way, you're failing. You're like the smartest person I know.
Speaker 3: And then it happens. Step four, the attempt at physical intimacy.
His hand moves across the small table, a slow, deliberate advance.
I watch it the way a biologist might watch a
creature extending a feeler. His fingers are clean, his nails
neatly trimmed. The hand settles over mine, which rests on
the cool, slightly sticky tabletop. His skin meets mine, but
there's no spark, no jolt of electricity, no sudden breath
stealing warmth. There's only pressure and texture, the faint dryness
of his palm, the slight weight of his fingers blanketing
my own. He begins to stroke the back of my
hand with his thumb, a slow, rhythmic gesture that is
meant to be soothing, intimate, A prelude, does something more.
I want it to be thrilling. I want to touch
him back. I want him to hold my hand and
for me to be nervous and excited. But I'm not.
My mind simply catalogs the sensations rhythmic pressure applied to epidermis,
temperature differential negligible, no corresponding increase in heart rate. I
feel like I'm narrating a lab report. I'm supposed to
feel a flutter, a blush rising in my cheeks, a
sudden desire to lean closer. I'm supposed to turn my
hand over and intertwine my fingers with his. Instead, I
have an overwhelming urge to pull away, not from disgust,
but from a profound sense of nothing. It feels like
a handshake that has gone on too long. A foreign
object has been placed on my body, and I am
simply observing it, waiting for the experiment to conclude. I
look from our joined hands up to his face. He's
smiling again, his eyes full of a hopeful, gentle light.
He thinks this is working, he thinks we're connecting. And
all I can wonder is what's wrong with me? Why
does the single most universal human ritual feel like a
language I can't speak, a performance whose lines I've forgotten.
I look at his perfectly nice face and his perfectly
nice hand on mine, and I feel it deep hollow ache,
the ache of an empty space I didn't even know
I had. The air in the locker room is thick
and white, with steam tasting of chlorine and soap sound
is slick and distorted. Here, the rhythmic slap of wet
feet on tile, the percussive drip from a dozen shower heads,
echo of laughter bouncing off the damp tiled walls. My
muscles scream with the deep satisfying ache of a brutal practice.
And as I peel off the muddy, sweat soaked layers
of my uniform, I let my intellectual guard peel off
with them. For a moment. This is my museum. The casual,
unthinking nudity of my teammates becomes a gallery of living sculptures.
I see it all through my art history filter. It's
the only way that feels safe. A girl leaning against
a locker, her back curved in a perfect odalisque pose
ingre would have coveted another, toweling her hair, the tension
in her neck and shds, a study in kiscouro, light
and shadow playing over the hard lines of muscle. It's beautiful,
it's academic. It's a series of profound aesthetic experiences that
the date with Mark, with its sterile conversation and pointless touch,
could never hope to match. My gaze drifts landing on
Jess she's standing under the light by the mirrors, one
foot propped on the bench as she leisurely rubs lotion
onto her long, powerful leg. The steam parts around her
for a moment, and my breath catches she is shaved completely.
My artist's eye kicks in immediately, a desperate defense mechanism.
Such a clean, elegant line, I think my mind, grasping
for the familiar comfort of analysis. A single confident stroke
egg on shield, would have adored the stark, minimalist honesty
of it. The beauty isn't in what's there, but in
a simplicity of the form itself. But the analysis is
failing me. The armor is cracking because a brushstroke on
a canvas is a static thing. It's a final, closed statement.
This line, this is the furthest thing from an ending.
It's a seam, it's suggestion, it's an invitation. My academic
brain tries to fight back, to talk about the negative
space and composition, but it's drowned out by a louder, deeper,
more primal voice I've never heard before, or desperately tried
to stifle. A paintbrush can't know the impossible softness of
the skin on either side of that line. An artist's
charcoal can't capture the subtle, shadowed heat that must emanate
from it. My gaze is fixed, and the world of
theory dissolves. All that is left is the physical, the tangible,
the wanting. I can't stop myself from wondering what it
would be like to trace that perfect line, not with
a brush, but with the tip of my finger. The
feel the skin give weight to something softer, better to
open netline, to part those lips, to see what's inside,
to touch it, to taste it. A sudden, shocking wave
of heat pulls between my own legs, a wet, heavy
ache that is entirely new, But if I'm honest with myself,
really isn't. My mouth is dry, my hard hammers against
my ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm. This isn't aesthetic appreciation.
This isn't a profound study of the human form. Pits raw,
and it's terrified, and it feels more real than anything
I've ever felt in my life. Intellectual struggle is over
before it even began. Lust is winning.
Speaker 1: Thank God.
Speaker 3: I don't even know what to do with it. Doctor
Evelyn Alistair commence the lecture Halp not with volume, but
with a gravitational pull. She paces before the projection screen,
a slow, deliberate predator in her intellectual domain. Today, she's
in dark, impeccably tailored trousers and a cream colored silk
blouse under a sharp fitted blazer. She is a fortress
of academic rigor, and yet I can't help but notice
the way the silk shimmers over the smell of her
breast As she moves. The projected image shifts to an
Egon shield nude, a woman with limbs like twisted branches,
her body stark and confrontational. The room is silent, captivated.
Speaker 1: Many male artists of his time painted women as passive objects,
reclining venus figures arranged for the comfort of the male gaze. Shiel,
she almost different.
Speaker 3: She stops, pacing her silhouette framed against the raw painted
flesh on the screen.
Speaker 1: He was obsessed notwith possessing the female form, but with
revealing its own, inherent, often tortured sexuality. That's an honesty
few men are capable of seeing, let alone capturing.
Speaker 3: She turns her head slightly, her gaze sweeping over the
darkened rows of students. It feels like she's looking directly
at me, and.
Speaker 1: As a woman who loves women.
Speaker 3: She says the words with such casual, unimpeachable confidence that
the air leaves my lungs in a silent rush, a thunderclap.
In the quiet of my own confusion.
Speaker 1: I find his work uniquely resonant. He strips away the
performance of femininity, the one intended for men, and leaves
only the raw electric truth of the body, the awkward angles,
the confrontational stares. This is sexuality that exists for itself,
for itself.
Speaker 3: The phrase lands in my mind and detonates.
Speaker 1: That's it.
Speaker 3: That's what I saw in the locker room. The casual,
powerful beauty of my teammates wasn't a performance for anyone.
It was just them. And here is this brilliant, beautiful
woman giving it a name, validating the very thing I
was too afraid to comprehend. She understands, of course, she understands,
She lives it. Suddenly, my academic admiration feels hopelessly inadequate,
a thin veil for the raw, aching desire churning inside
me my artist's eye, the safe filter I've been hiding
behind is gone. I'm no longer studying a professor, I'm
staring at a woman, and I'm consumed with a want
so profound it feels like hunger. She's brilliant, she's charismatic,
she's suxy. The lecture ends. Students, Russell notebook snapshot bags
are zipped. I remain in my seat, unable to move,
my gaze locked on her. I watch the way she
gathers her notes, her long elegant fingers moving with an
unhurried grace. I watch the fluid, confident shift of her
hips as she turns to erase the board. The sharp,
clean line of her blazer over her shoulders only serves
to highlight the softness it conceals. I find myself tracing
the path of her soak blouse, imagining the warmth of
the skin beneath, though it would feel against my own.
My eyes follow the severe, perfect cut of her trousers,
down the long, elegant line of her leg to her sensible,
yet decidedly sexy, heeled boots. I wonder, with a sudden,
dizzying intensity, what it would feel like to kneel before her,
to unbutton that perfect blouse and replace the soft crust
of silk with my own trembling hands. What is wrong
with me? I think as I gather my own books
and depart in a hurry. A university formal is a
sea of predictable black suits and shimmering, opful dresses. The
air is thick with cologne and hair spray, and a
bad cover band is murdering a slow song from the nineties.
Mary my Lacrossec captain, rolls her eyes dramatically from our table.
Goddess is a bust. She gestures with her chin at
the dance floor. All the decent dancers are taken, and
my date is more interested in the open bar. Come on,
She stands, offering me a hand. Let's just sway for
a bit, so we can say we danced, or make
someone else jealous. It's an innocent, practical invitation, an act
of solidarity against a boring night. And I take her
hand on the floor. She places one hand on my
waist and takes my other, her grip firm and familiar.
It's just Mary, It's just a dance. But the moment
we start to move, my entire world tilts on its axis.
The clinical distance I felt with Mark is long gone,
replaced by a hyper awareness of every point of contact.
Her body is warm and solid against mine. Through the
thin fabric of our dresses, I can feel a soft,
full press of her breasts against my own, our waist
to so close I can feel a heat radiating from
her skin. It feels right, it feels natural. A quiet,
terrifying explosion is happening in the pit of my stomach,
a warmth that has nothing to do with a stuffy
room and everything to do with a woman holding me.
This is just Mary, I tell myself. But my heart
is pounding a frantic, undeniable rhythm. Why does this feel
more real, more intimate than any time a boy has
held me? The song ends and we walk off the floor,
laughing about the terrible saxophone solo. But before I can
even process the storm of sensation inside me, a guy
is there. Alex, captain of the swim team, handsome in
that effortless, sun bleached way. He asks me to dance,
and I agree on autopilot. He pulls me close, his
grip possessive. His chest is a wall of hard muscle
against me, and I can immediately feel the insistent, rigid
press of his erection against my stomach. He's clearly into me.
He smells good. He looks good, and his hand is
firm on the smell of my back. It is by
every metric I've been taught a perfect scenario, and all
I want is to be back in Mary's arms. All
I can think about is the memory of soft breast
against soft breast, the uncomplicated warmth, a feeling of rightness.
Alex's hard body feels like a cage, and for the
first time, I don't just feel a disconnect, I feel
a preference. I want the other dance back. The party
is a chaotic, messive body is in sound, the air
smelling of spilled beer and sweat. Someone puts a bottle
in the middle of the floor for a game of
spin the bottle, and I'm pulled into the circle, laughing
despite myself. It's stupid, juvenile, and exactly the kind of
thing I need. The bottle spins a green blur on
the cheap rug and it lands and pointing at me.
On the other side of the circle is Sasha, a
drama major with eyes like dark ink and a perpetually
amused smirk. Ooh, Clara. Someone shouts, the rules are a
real kiss at least ten seconds, make a count a
nervous laugh escapes me. Sasha just raises a theatrical eyebrow,
gets up and saunters over. The crowd is hooting around us. Well,
you can't break the rules, and may as well give
them a show. I expect a quick, silly press of lips,
a joke. That is not what I get. Sasha's hand
comes up to cradle the back of my head. Her
finger is tangling gently in my hair, holding me in place.
Her other hand rests on my waist, pulling me firmly
against her, and then her mouth is on mine. It's
not a joke, it's a statement. Her lips are shockingly
soft and taste of red wine. She doesn't smash against me,
she explores, her mouth, moving with a devastating, practiced confidence.
I feel the tip of her tongue trace the seam
of my lips, A silent, insistent question, and my body,
without any conscious thought for me, answers. I open my mouth.
The timid, confused girl I've always been simply evaporates. A deep,
undeniable want searches through me, a primal need that I've
never felt before. I kiss her back, my hands finding
her hips, pulling her even closer. The world dissolves into
the taste of her, the softness of her lips, the shocking,
perfect rightness of it all. She pulls away after what
could have been ten seconds or ten lifetimes. There are
hoots and haulers and cheers for the crowd. It was
a performance, But Sausha's eyes are wide surprised. I touch
my own lips. They are tingling alive. Truth doesn't gently
dawn on me. It hits me like a physical blow,
knocking the wind from my lungs and leaving me utterly
changed in the sudden, ringing silence of my own mind,
discos against everything I was taught. My parents would be shocked,
my friends at home would avoid me, the church would
kick me out. But it all feels too real, too honest,
and too good. I walk into Evelyn's office a week later,
and the air is different because I'm different. I meet
her gaze directly, my posture straight. There's a new quiet
confidence humming under my skin, a sense of self I
didn't have before. She notices immediately the professional mask she
wears so perfectly is still there, but its edges seem softer.
As I talk about my revised thesis proposal, her eyes
hold mind for a fraction of a second too long.
The slow smile she gives me isn't just for my
academic insights. It feels personal knowing. She comes around from
behind her desk to look at a reference book with me,
and she stands so close that I can feel the
warmth from her body, her scent of paper and expensive
perfume enveloping me. There is a palpable, humming energy that
crackles in the space between our bodies, and I love it.
Speaker 1: There's a new clarity in your arguments, Clara, a deeper conviction.
It's very compelling.
Speaker 3: I leave her office and walk out into the late
afternoon sun, the campus grounds bathed in a golden night.
The events of the past week spent in my mind,
the cold nothingness with Mark, the confusing beauty in the
locker room, the warm rightness of the dance with Mary,
the earth shattering revelation of the kiss with Sasha, and
now the charsed, undeniable energy with Evelyn. Pie is click
into place, forming a picture that is terrifying and thrilling
and undeniably true. I stop in the middle of the
crowded quad, the world moving around me as I stand
perfectly Still, I'm a lesbian. The words form in my mind,
stark and clear. The confusion is still there, a fog
of uncertainty about what comes next. But beneath it is
a bedrock of certainty. This isn't a phase or a
whim or a sin. This is the very core of
who I am, and I have to investigate this. It's
too important, too real to ignore for a second longer.
My life, the one I'm actually meant to live, is
just beginning. The door to doctor Alistair's office click shut
behind me, the sound sealing me inside her world. The
scent of old books and something else, something warm, spicy,
and distinctly her, fills my lungs. She's not behind the
imposing oak desk that usually serves as her fortress. Instead,
she's leaning against the front of it, one leg crossed
over the other, a pile my thesis outlined, held loosely
in one hand. A pose is casual, but the effect
is devastating. She's wearing a deep v silk blouse, the
color of a stormy sky. It's a professional garment, but
the way she wears it feels like a statement of intent.
The fabric drapes in a perfect alluring line, drawing the
eye down to the shadowed space between her breasts, where
a delicate silver chain rests against her skin. Clara, the
sound of my name in her low, intimate voice makes
my stomach clunch.
Speaker 1: Thank you for coming. I was very intrigued by your outline.
Speaker 3: I try to focus on the papers in my trembling hands,
but my gaze betrays me. It flits from her intelligent,
knowing eyes to hunt her mouth, and then inexorably to
the plunging line of her blouse. It's only for a second,
a quick, guilty glance, but it's enough. When my eyes
snap back up to her face, she is looking directly
at me, and she knows. A hot, mortifying blush floods
my cheeks. My mind is screaming, she saw you, God,
she saw you stare at her breast. She thinks you're
a creep, a pervert. I'm about to stammer out in
apology to make up some excuse, but she doesn't give
me the chance. There's no anger in her expression, no judgment. Instead,
for the briefest of moments, a slow, knowing smile touches
her lips before vanishing. She looks down at my outline,
tapping a perfectly manicured finger on the page, smoothly and masterfully,
giving me an escape.
Speaker 1: You've chosen Egon's Shiel as a focal point.
Speaker 3: Her voice is calm, though it seems to carry a new,
deeper vibration.
Speaker 1: A bold choice. His critics accused him of being a pornographer.
They fail to understand the difference between vulgarity and honesty.
Speaker 3: She looks up. Her gaze is so intense it feels
like a physical touch.
Speaker 1: It's never wrong to appreciate beauty, Clara. The key is
to be true to your own eye. So many people
are afraid of what they're drawn to. They censor themselves.
But art, real art, real life, requires the courage to
see things as they truly are, without shame.
Speaker 3: Every word is a perfectly aimed arrow, striking the very
center of my secret, terrified heart. She's talking about shield,
but she's talking about me. She's talking about the look
I just gave her. She isn't shaming me for it.
She's giving me permission for it. She's telling me that
my gaze isn't perverse, but honest. I manage a shaky nod,
unable to speak She pushes herself off the desk and
walks me to the door.
Speaker 1: Stick gone nut.
Speaker 3: Her hand rests for a moment on my shoulder. The
warmth of her touch seeps through my shirt, branding me.
Speaker 1: Let that honesty inform your next draft.
Speaker 3: I walk out of her office and back into the
anonymous hallway, my body buzzing. I feel dizzy, electrified. She
wasn't just talking about my thesis. She was talking about me,
about the confusing, beautiful, terrifying things I've been feeling. She
saw it, she saw me, and for the first time
in my life, I don't feel shame. I feel profoundly,
breathtakingly scene. The conference room is stale and airless, smelling
of old coffee and academic anxiety. The two male professors
on the committee, doctor Gable and doctor Finch, sit across
the long mahogany table, looking impressed, slightly uncomfortable, and eager
to leave. I've just finished my a final, passionate answer,
and the words still hang in the air, a testament
to the woman I've become. Doctor Gable clears his throat,
hum well, miss vance an exhaustive and compelling defense.
Speaker 4: Congratulations.
Speaker 3: Doctor Finch murmurs his agreement, and they gather their papers
with a rustle of finality, offering me tight formal smiles
before exiting the room. A heavy door click shut made
me alone in a sudden, ringing silence with Evelyn. She
hasn't moved. She remains seated at the end of the table,
regarding me, not with a critical eye of a committee member,
but with an unnerving, palpable intensity. A slow, genuine smile
spreads across her lips.
Speaker 1: That was more than a defense, Clara, It was a manifesto.
Speaker 3: A praise lands deep inside me, a warm, spreading glow.
She rises and walks slowly around the table, not to leave,
but to lean her hip against the edge of it,
just a few feet away from me. The professional distance
has vanished. Tell me all that coded language you spoke,
of the subversive desire hidden in plain sight between the brushtrucks.
Do you find that it's still necessary? My heart stutters.
She isn't talking about my papers. I know she isn't.
Sometimes a candy her smile widens, a flicker of something
hungry and knowing in her eyes.
Speaker 1: Or is it that once you become fluent in the code,
you start to see it everywhere, in a shared glance,
some lingering touch, perhaps a conversation that is pretending to
be about one thing when it is very very clearly
about another.
Speaker 3: She's talking about us, about every charged meeting in her office,
every loaded conversation over a page of art theory. My
mouth as dry. I can only nod. She pushes the
questioning further, her gaze on wavering, getting right up to
the line of appropriateness and then stepping deliberately over it.
Speaker 1: In the artist you chose, their work is so full
of a specific, palpable ache. The ache of wanting. Is
that an ache you understand now, Clara, not just academically,
but in your soul and in your body.
Speaker 3: She is asking me if I know what it is
to desire to want another woman so badly it feels
like a physical pain. She is asking me if I
want her. A question is so audacious, so far beyond
the bounds of professor's student relationship, that it leaves me breathless.
All I can do is look at her. My answer
is plain on my wide, wanting eyes. He has a
single word, is a complete confession. A look of profound
satisfaction crosses her face. She has her answer. She pushes
herself off the table and walks to the door, her
movements fluid and impossibly elegant. She pauses with her hand
on the knob, turning back to face me one last time.
The analytical professor is gone, replaced by a woman whose
own desire is now an open, stunning thing.
Speaker 1: Well, Clara, your fluency is breath.
Speaker 3: Taken, and with that she is gone, leaving me alone
in the silent room, my heart hammering against my ribs,
my entire body tingling with the unmistakable, undeniable invitation she
just left hanging in the air. Graduation is a blur.
My very religious parents ask me about my thesis that
earned me high honors. For a moment, I panic. I
can't tell them, and I mumble something about art that
they soon tune out. Maybe someday they'll understand. He gone shit,
Maybe someday Thou'll understand me. The dorm room echoes. My voice,
if I were to speak, would bounce off the bare
walls where posters used to hang, leaving pale, ghostly rectangles behind.
The Air is thick with the dry papery scent of
cardboard and the faint, dusty smell of four years of
my life being sealed away. I press the tape down
on the last box labeled books. The screech of the
plastic a sound of harsh finality. This chapter of my
life is over. I sink on to the stripped mattress,
the springs groaning in protest. I should feel triumphant. I
defended my thesis, I graduated high honors. I am for
all intents and purposes free. But looking at the stacked
monument of boxes, at the dismantled version of my life,
all I feel is a profound sense of melancholy, of
being adrift in the sudden, vast ocean of what comes next.
Just this is the uncertainty threatens to swallow me whole.
A sharp electronic pain cuts through the silence. My laptop
sits on the floor, the only thing not yet packed.
I crawl over and see the notification on the screen.
It's an email. My heart does a painful, hopeful lurch
when I see the sender's name, a alistair. The subject
line is formal, almost cruelly, so a final note, and
not of dread titans in my stomach?
Speaker 1: Is this it?
Speaker 3: A polite, professional farewell, A final congratulations before She recedes
back into the world of academia, leaving me behind, leading
my fantasies to my own bed. With a trembling finger,
I click it open. The message is brutally beautifully.
Speaker 1: Simple, Clara, before you leave campus, I was hoping you
might stop by my office one last time. There's something
I'd like to give you. Evelyn.
Speaker 3: The wort's blur and then sharpened in the way, but
focus so intense it steals my breath. There's something I'd
like to give you. The memory of her voice in
the conference from washes over me. Your fluency is breathtaking,
she said. This isn't about a recommended reading list. This
isn't a graduation gift to be wrapped in a university
branded paper. This is the door. I know it, I
feel it, I hope for it. This is the invitation
I was so terrified to hope for, the one my
body has been aching for since the moment I truly
understood who I am. The melancholy that filled the room evaporates,
replaced by a surge of adrenaline so powerful my hand shake.
The uncertainty of my future crystallizes into a single, shining
point of purpose. My fingers fly across the keyboard, my
reply a single decisive word. I don't wait for a response.
I snapped the laptop shut, grab my keys from the
dusty desk, and walk out of the room without a
backward glance, leaving the boxes and the girl I used
to be behind. The campus is quiet, now bathed in
the long shadows of the late afternoon, but the familiar
paths feel different under my feet. I'm not a student
walk into a meeting. I'm not a girl seeking approval.
I am a graduate, no longer a student, a peer.
I'm a woman walking with a steady, determined stride, heading
toward the Humanity's building and the only future that matters.
A heavy oak door of her office clicks shut behind me,
the sound a final, definitive end to our old rolls.
Evelyn is not behind her desk. She stands by the window,
a glass of amber liquid in hand, the campus lights
painting a halo around her silhouette. She turns, and the
academic severity in her eyes has been replaced by something softer, warmer,
and undeniably hungry. Clara, I'm glad you came, you invited me.
A slow, beautiful smile spreads across her face.
Speaker 1: I did.
Speaker 3: She gestures with her glass toward the leather chaise lounge.
Speaker 1: We're no longer professor and student, Clara.
Speaker 3: She takes a step closer, the scent of her perfume,
that familiar, intoxicating mix of spice and paper, enveloping me.
She stops just before me. Her cays intense.
Speaker 1: Well, perhaps in some areas there are still a few
lessons to be taught.
Speaker 3: Her free hand comes up, and she traces a single
electric line from my collarbone, up the calm of my
throat to my jaw. Her touch is not a test,
but a statement, a promise, and perhaps her thumb is
now stroking my bottom lip.
Speaker 1: You have a few things to teach me, She.
Speaker 3: Leans in and kisses me. It's not the kiss from
the party, born of a dare, nor is it a lesson,
And it is a mutual, desperate claiming. Her lips are
soft and sure, and I meet them with all the
pennant want of the last four years, my hands tangling
in her hair, pulling her to me. It is a
kiss of equals, a deep, searching, passionate conversation that says
everything we never could in this office before. When she
finally pulls back. We are both breathless. She takes my hand,
her fingers intertwining with mine, and leads me to the chaise.
She doesn't command me to lie down. We sink into
the coal leather together, a tangle of limbs and unspoken need.
She is the one who kneels before me, but is
not an act of authority. It is an act of worship.
Her hands, so skilled and sure, find the hem of
my skirt and slowly, reverently pushed the fabric up my thighs.
Her gaze is unwavering, a look of profound appreciation that
makes a hot, wet ache pool between my legs. I
believe in your thesis, you said, Egon. She'll believe the
body was a vessel for ecstasy. But see if he
was right. Her mouth is on me, and the world
dissolves into pure, unadulterated sensation. She is an artist and
my body is her canvas. Her tongue is a brush,
but now the strokes are not a lesson in control,
but a desperate, hungry exploration. She paints slow, deliberate lines
along my inner lips, before focusing on my clit with
a lover's single minded intensity. It is a pleasure so sharp,
so focused, that I gripped the edges of the chaise,
my knuckles white. Her tongue is soft, and it runs
up and down my lips. The intensity of the sensation
simply unbelievable. She brings me to the brink. Her name
a gasp on my lips, and she looks up, her
eyes dark with passion.
Speaker 1: Tell me what you want, Clara, She.
Speaker 3: Whispers it again. My skin and the question itself, this simple,
beautiful act of asking, is enough to drive me over
the edge. My orgasm is a violent shuddering wave that
rips through me, a raw vocal cry of release that
echoes off the booklined walls. At a moment of complete
and total arrival, I'm left panting, my body, a trembling,
hypersensitive mess. She rises and kisses me deeply, the taste
of myself on her lips. As I'm pulling myself together
my clothes at tangled mess, I look at her, at
the woman who saw me and waited for me, and
my heart overflows. My turn. My voice is thick with
pleasure and a new found, unshakable confidence. I guide her
down onto the chaise, her body pliant, and eager under
my hands. I'm the artist, now explore.
Speaker 1: I kiss my.
Speaker 3: Way down the elegant line of her body, unbuttoning her
so blouse to finally feel the warm, soft skin beneath.
I taste the salt on her skin. I breathe in
her scent, and when I finally part her legs and
taste her for the first time, a groan of pure
pleasure is torn from her throat. I give her everything
she gave to me, the focus, the artistry, and the
final consuming release, feeling her body convulsed and hearing her
cry out my name. Afterward, we lay tangled together, her
head resting on my chest. A silence in the office
is no longer tense, but filled with a deep, peaceful
content meat. She tilts her head up to look at me,
a soft, satisfied smile on her lips.
Speaker 1: So what happens now?
Speaker 3: I went my fingers through her hair, A feeling of
silken strands, a grounding, wonderful reality. I answer, and the
only way I know how, I press a kiss to
her forehead. Now that I've graduated, I guess the real
research is just beginning.
Speaker 2: Thanks so much for listening to my podcast. I'm Roxy
callahan and my Erotic Whispers are brought to you by
tenth Muse Studio