Satin Worship

“Satin Worship” appeared on Cleansheets under the title “Hot to Frott”

Okay so here goes. I volunteered for this and I’m going to go through with it. Let me just adjust the video camera so only my head is in the shot.

Right, I am participant number 97. I’m 27 years old, female, 5’6″, 110 pounds, single, heterosexual. I confirm that I am taking part in this sociology study of my own free will, and that the material in this tape can be used anonymously for academic research.

So the brief said to talk about my sexual preferences. I guess we all think we’re special, but there’s nothing new under the sun really. We’ve all got things that press our buttons and launch us off to ecstasy heaven. For some people it’s the sound of a voice, or the smell of leather or the sight of a stiff nipple or the warmth of a hard cock. With me its all about texture. If I want to let the genii out of the bottle, then I rub until it comes.

The French call it “frottage,” — well, they would have a word for it, wouldn’t they? When I get those dark and dangerous urges, nothing will do but a good frott. My frott fabric of choice is satin. True, it’s hard to clean, but it feels so smooth and cool, like the skin of a perfect lover.

Actually it’s been a while since I had a lover. You know how it is, you move to a new city, you work long hours, you have a preference for intelligent, gentle, people who can make you laugh as well as make you come; but all you ever meet are guys who are challenged by a sentence syntax more complex than: “Hi Sugar. You lookin’ so fine tonight. Wanna hang?” And if you do meet guys with good verbal skills, it turns out that all they can manage is a 30 degree erection that either spurts in your hand or goes soft on entry.

Who wants to spend hours in a bar squeezing conversation out of a guy who can’t remember your name but has been guessing your cup size since you first met, when you can have a nice shower, slip into something shiny and smooth and slowly work yourself into a friction frenzy?

In theory, when you’re hot to frott, you can do it anywhere. There’s a whole scene around rubbing up against people in crowded subway trains and elevators. Not my kind of thing really, I mean who knows where they’ve been? And what if they want to take you home afterwards?

I did get off in the Tube once. We were crammed into an oven in the shape of a train, learning way too much about the armpit aromas of our neighbours, when I saw a really cool guy. One of those guys who look beautiful and serene from a distance, and then you speak to them and realise that actually they’re just spaced out and vacant.

This one was straight out of a Renaissance painting: soft hair parting over a high forehead; a slim straight nose dividing eyes so blue you saw sky; and rosebud lips, permanently puckered. He was the perfect distance away: close enough to be vividly present, but too far away for me to have to touch him.

Underneath my cotton print dress, I was wearing a satin thong over my freshly shaved mound. It was too hot for a bra, not that I really need one. I moved through the crowd, letting myself be aware of each contact I made, stealing a charge from them, until I reached one of the metal poles. I leaned against it, hands wrapped around it above my head, breasts separated by the steel, feet planted slightly apart, and let my pubis rest against the shiny metal.

It takes skill and concentration to use a pole like that. You have to get in sync with the movement of the train so that it washes you against the pole like flotsam being pushed onto the beach. You use all the muscles in your body to make sure that your sex is placed under just the right amount of pressure. Fortunately I’ve had a lot of practice at getting worked up under pressure, so I kept my eyes on poster boy and put all my experience to work.

The come, when it arrived, was a delightful slow burn that started in the tips of my toes and the top of my head at the same time. I closed my eyes and let the warmth flood me. When I opened them again, poster boy had been replaced by a sweating fat man who looked at me as if I was an ice-cream that he needed to eat before it melted over his fingers. I let myself grind against the pole one more time, just to give him something to remember me by, and then I got off at the next stop. He was too stunned even to try and follow me.

It was fun, but it was a one-off. Mostly I prefer to take my pleasures at home. I have a huge, firm bed that I like to dress in fresh satin sheets. I love to slide — get on all fours and bend and dip until my nipples just graze the satin. I’d swear that there are sparks sometimes. Then there are the pillows. I have lots of pillows of different sizes and densities, Don’t you just love a pillow between the thighs, soft and persistent?

I like to take my time with sex, which may be why most men make me so impatient — wham bam, you were great, I’ll call you — all while I’m still warming up. Men are like finger food; you have to have a lot of them to stop being hungry and afterwards you wonder why you bothered.

My preference is to devote a night to sex. I call it satin worship. First I shower, then I shave my legs and pubis. I fill the bathroom with scented candles, fill the tub with scented water, fill a glass with chilled white wine, and slip into half an hour of complete relaxation.

I don’t switch the music on until I start to dress in front of the mirror. I like to look good for myself, so the makeup goes on with care and the hair is primped and teased. Damn I look good.

Then I go all wicked: thigh high suede boots and satin gloves that reach to above elbows, they’re both hell to put on, but they are so worth it. I tingle just looking at myself. I pose for a while, touching myself here and there until my nipples harden and my sex is moist, then I get out my satin satisfier: a long narrow strip of satin which I fold over and slide between my labia and over my mound. It looks great in the mirror, and it makes me feel like I’m going straight to hell with a grin on my face.

When I can’t bear to stand any more, I lay back on the bed and tie the strip over my eyes, leaving a tail of about a foot or so to bite on. I pretend that I’m performing for an audience, and I want to give them their money’s worth. I spread my legs as wide as I can, then I tease myself with my satin-gloved fingers, never entering, just pressing the labia together or pulling them apart. My hips thrust up off the bed. It takes a lot of effort so I work up a sweat . I imagine my body gleaming in a spotlight.

When I reach the point where I just have to come, I wrap the tail of the satisfier tightly around my neck, and finally push a finger in as deep as I can. It never fails.

Well I hope that helps with the research. Any chance I could get to see some of the other tapes?

© Mike Kimera 2003 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from

A story without a reader is incomplete. Please let me know what you think of this story by leaving a comment below.