His hands touched the garments, light, soft, each as ethereal as a spun-sugar cloud, every item flawlessly clean, folded with care and lovingly arranged. The panoply of shimmering hue added to his pleasure. He saw not one harsh tone, but many striking ones, for silk takes pigment with a signature subtlety. Had he not removed each garment from her body at one time or another? Still – or because of – his hand and eye were not jaded in rediscovery of beauty in these things.

“I have my hand in your drawers.”

She took his pun with a slight smile. “Don’t get anything wet,” she said. He was naked and amorous, so it was a legitimate cautionary.

“Does boy-stain come out of silk?”

“By the perfection of everything here, and the amount of sex we’ve put them through, we must have proven both by now.”

“So, no inhibitions on that count.”

“No.” She walked over to him as if to deliver the next words with emphasis, diverting his attention from the garments by the closeness of her naked body. He looked in her eyes.

“Let’s test, anyway,” she said.

They held their gaze steadily, registering understanding and agreement. Surely this was of the essence in their eroticism, such looks between them, the making of awareness and purpose silently clear.

“Then I want the very best thing you have,” he said.

“Open the bottom drawer.”

He savored the beautiful dark wood and heavy build of the lingerie cabinet – it had to be intentional, that jolt from the contrast of a few ounces of clothing secured and safe because of one hundred pounds of thick walnut. The yin-yang of that incited the mood.

He found an elegant box in the bottom drawer. It must have been recently purchased as he had never seen it. Naturally, it was over-heavy in its own right. The boards of the box were covered with linen, an off-white shade. The box opened like the folio of a fine manuscript, untying with satin ribbons that held it closed by being wound around porcelain buttons.

From inside, from within layers of tissue, he extracted an exquisite thing, a camisole, crafted of the softest, the lightest, the quintessence of silk. What color? No, not white. No. Somewhere in it, furtive in the folds, shimmering in the liquid flow as he held it by the straps to let it unfurl, both blue and green might be seen – yet that was as braying the name of two colors. No, the faintest whisper of aqua only. Not even that of the sea, for that would be too harsh as well. So weightless was this garment, so fragile, it must have been breathed into life by the will of a goddess, and only by the least of her whispers, and that must have been the moment the tinge of color fell upon it.

“That’s an impossible garment,” he said in awe.

“It cost hundreds, didn’t it?”

She nodded, admiring it with him.

His hand stroked it once, the caress conveying the exciting illusion of having felt nothing. He noticed his sensitivity reset accordingly. The garment changed the gage of touch in seduction.

“It’s almost like you’ll have to be quiet when you put it on.”

“Yes. And clean. And smooth.”

She took steps away from him to stand before the triple full-length mirror in the corner of her dressing area. He believed she might have been born expressly that this thing might have a woman suitable for it. As subtle as, being small in all proportion, with curves that implied, did not exaggerate. As light as, having that way of weightlessness when standing or moving. As smooth as, he saw again as she turned to appraise herself in the mirror, for there was nothing inelegant anywhere, no blemish, no rough skin, no body hair.

“You even have the right haircut,” he said. Short, shaped, simple. Revealing.

She floated back toward him. He gathered the camisole in his hands and held it out. Her arms went in first, then her head. He flowed the garment down her torso, letting it settle in place. It terminated provocatively, just at the bottom of her slightly rounded belly, above the bare mons. It was tailored well, for it clung and hung at the same time, revealed and cloaked, even though nearly transparent. The neckline and subtly gathered bodice made a glorious definition of her breasts, an unapologetic worship of them.

“I pity the poor man who only thinks it’s sexy to take things off a woman,” he said.

“That’s true. But what about the pants? That could be more difficult,” she said, looking down at her bare areas below the hem of the camisole. “How will you stand covering me there?”

He lifted the other half of the ensemble from the box. Same silk, same ephemera, same suggestion of color. The pants slithered in his hand. As if by magical conjoining of their libidos, she raised her right leg and put its foot on the edge of a dressing table at the same time his hand, with the pants draped over it, went directly between her legs to encompass her sex – it was all one gesture. She put her right hand on his shoulder to balance and looked in his eyes to expose her pleasure.

He caressed with care. How exciting to feel the lips right through the silk. How sensual the sensation of the fabric melting as it took up her wetness. How wonderful she was naked of hair everywhere – nothing but bare skin, exquisite silk and wetness.

“Everything soft,” he said.

“Open my lips more.”

He worked two silk-covered fingers partially inside, then pulled gently to spread her apart. More of the garment became wet through this.

“I love being opened by your hands,” she whispered to him. “I love it. Open me.”

“You can’t imagine how soft it feels,” he said. He kept gathering wetness, slipping around on her lips – and then inside them – then up to her clit-bud, surrounding it again and again.

“Let me feel.” She brought her free left hand to tangle in the fabric, and taking the other side of the lips for herself, pulled the opening wider. Their hands touched and began to move together, with true lovers’ understanding.

Her breathing increased pace, her ascent to the next level of arousal precious to him. He helped her along by pressing the length of his phallus against her hip.

“It’s so creamy,” she said. “Doesn’t it make you want to thrust right in it?”

“Slam in. We shouldn’t take away all the wetness.”

“So I can be properly fucked?” she asked. Clearly that word suited her purpose, its use instantly jolting the fount of lubrication. She was so gentle, the edges of the rude word wrenched their sensibility, but failed to rip it apart, another provocative yin/yang.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be like liquid when you enter me.”

She removed her hand. He lifted the pants. They were wet in many places, darker patches on the fine silk surface. He raised the thing to his face and caressed, wanting her scent close, knowing such a gesture would inflame her to see.

He brought the fabric to her cheek and mouth and trailed it over her neck. She put her hand under his and took the garment, then lowered her leg, bent over, put one foot after the other in the openings and pulled it up and over her hips. He felt a tug of regret when her bare sex disappeared.

She walked in a graceful circle to show the outfit. He desired her body all the more for it being cloaked. He was jealous of the silk.

“Angelic,” he said.

“Do you forgive me for saying that word?” she asked. “The F-word?”

She took him by the hand and led him to the side of the bed. He fell back on it, his cock erect, jutting strongly.

“I’m a gentle angel who wants to be fucked now. Fucked.”

She climbed on the bed to straddle him, pulled the fabric of the pants aside to expose the pouty lips, and lowered her hips. He savored the kiss of labia on the head, followed immediately by the smooth engulfing, as if being swallowed by a satin cloud, open and wet as she was.

“Me,” she said. “Let me.”

“Oh, yes, you, yes.”

“Me … with you naked and the silk on my skin.”

“You do everything.”

She squeezed with the strong muscles between her legs. Her hips began gliding. She didn’t bounce, knowing he disliked it. He settled his hands on her waist, not to control, only to feel her body move. The touch seemed as if skin on skin, so ephemeral was the fabric of the camisole.

“Find your pleasure. Take it. I’ll just be big and hard.”

She engaged her dance, stroking down on him with the circle of her sex, taking it deep, wiggling her pubic bone against his, then drawing up so the head of the cock came nearly free – so the next move would be a new penetration. She made many of these impalings. Sometimes she lifted all the way out, pressed the lips against the underside of the erection, and rubbed well, including forcing her clit against it. This was always followed by impalement. She was very adept, very smart, very limber.

“Fuck me,” he said.

She laughed and moved faster. The impetus to go higher was all hers. That was exciting, she in charge, making their sex happen. He decided to do what she did, sometimes, when the going got going.

“What a wet angel you are.”

“Wet. Strong and wet. That’s it, stroke me, stroke me. I love your juice all over me. You’re spilling it on me.”

She moved her legs up, leaned over, and pressed her breasts against him through the silk camisole. That caused kissing. He let her run that too, not putting his tongue in her mouth until her heated drive made her unable to hold back, and she thrust in. He took her kisses, as deep as she wanted. She wiggled her entire torso against him while she kissed, all the time firmly in control of the hard shaft plunging below. After a pleasurable long time, she straightened, and her high ride resumed. The sight of her mouth as she raised up nearly made him come. They looked in each other’s eyes to catch the sparks of lust, growing.

“Both mouths wet,” he said.

“Cunt wet. Mouth wet.”

“Yes.” She began moaning now, riding with just the angle to make her pleasure soar.

“Your cunt is smartest though.”

“Fuck it like that, fuck it.”

She had her position, her angle. He loved the postponement of her usual gentle self, even beautiful and precious as it was to him and full of goodness, yes, he loved her that way. It would return – yet this carnal rush up to ecstasy was immortal. His poetry came out.

“Sail away, sleek one in silk. Rub yourself on me. Sail away. You move like the girl of my dreams. I love it. Sail away.”

She heeded these urgings, let them incite, offered her unguarded face to show the joy in it. Hips, legs, and pelvis conspired to break her wide open on him, rutting, screaming, creaming, crying, rocking – and then screaming, screaming, screaming, vaulting over, reaching long, drawing it out, loosing every muscle, allowing all wetness rushing down between thighs with each convulsion. Her organs rippled around the thick thing that provoked her so, the shuddering in her breath wracking her body.

His hands on her sides felt everything.

After several minutes lying on top of him with her eyes turned away from his, coasting on her pleasure, during which he called her beautiful carnal names, she finally turned her face to him. Spasms ran through her muscles, still. Sex perfume hovered over the bed.

“Your cock is so hard,” she whispered, shaking her head in awe.

“You love rubbing it and fucking it.”

“I give it to you forever, for sex.”

“Hard cock, whenever you want it, so you can drop your cunt on it when it gets all soaking wet, because you’re being driven crazy with lust. So you can come just like that, all the time.”

“It. Is. So. Fucking. Hard.”

“… so you can rip yourself wide open on it.”

“I can’t believe how much I want it.”

“That’s the best you ever used it. Our sex is getting better.”

“The silk is all wet. The pants, anyway,” he said.

“I liked it with them on, pulled to the side. The silk was making my whole body sensitive. It’s like another skin.”

He tipped her over. His hand went between her legs. His cock came out as she rolled, and he put fingers in, instead. Oh God, wet and creamy and smooth and silky, inside the beautiful one. He pushed her legs far apart on the bed and positioned right between, right at his best angle, with the tip between the open ripe lips. The sight of the aqua/white silk pulled to the side thrilled him.