This erotic story titled «SILK SPEAKS» was delivered to me recently. Whoever the author is, thank you very much! I absolutely love it! Beautiful photo by fabulous Игорь Волгин (Igor Volgin) .

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My lady has left me laying on her bed as she is taking a slow bath in preparation for the evening. She used to leave me tied in a bow to the center of the headboard until she realized that I got wrinkled and hard to use later on. Now she only leaves me there when she wants to send the hint to the man that she brings home for the evening but in the last several weeks the man that she is with needs no hints. So I am laying flat on her soft covers, just finally dry from the night before when I spent hours being ground in a knot tied between her teeth and I can relax and listen to the contents of her closet arguing as they always do about who will go to the ball.

"Well I think it's my turn," says the little black dress she wears to every business gala, New Year's party and the occasional ex-boyfriend's wedding. "She hasn't taken me out once in the last 2 weeks even though she's been going out almost every night and let's not forget I am a classic."

"If by classic you mean you're her oldest," her sleek red, almost latex, hip hugger sneers, "yeah by all means you're a classic but if he sees you once he doesn't need to see you again." Red leaves unspoken the truth that she herself has gone out to a number of different parties recently because the lady is comfortable wearing the same dress to the same occasion twice.

"I love how you always assume it's not going to be me just because it's winter," says her white lawn party dress with the sewn in cups and the slight vents at the bottom of the hem. "You never know we could be going to his house."

"Both of you are silly," says Red. "She's obviously into this guy and nobody hugs her as passionately as I do." Red, not unsurprisingly is more emotional than rational.

"She has made all of us. We all hug her perfectly around the back, up high, and even up front." This is her yellow picnic dress speaking. Yellow is realistic because she only comes out in spring and early summer and so she is not disappointed when the lady picks another companion for a winter evening.

"You never know tonight could be my night I was born to go dancing," says a shimmering purple number with a low-cut neck and wide vents at the hem.

"Nice try," Black says not nicely at all. "She cut you two inches too high up the thigh and unless she wants to stand around all evening she can't dance sit or God forbid fall on the floor without everyone in the room becoming her gynecologist."

Sometimes I swear I can hear Purple sobbing quietly. I almost feel sorry for her. To her credit White can sometimes be heard whispering don't worry honey your time will come but I don't think any of them believe it.

I don't remember when they started talking. They were here before me. She made me from the only thing left out of a bolt of silk that she originally thought she would make into a blouse or a skirt or a dress when she discovered that as much fun as it is to be wrapped up in it silk is a devil of a fabric to sew. Only the garments that she made with her own hand seem to have consciousness or at least awareness or at least the power of speech. Her shoes are silent as are her stockings. She does not wear hose or underwear top or bottom no matter what the weather.

"Well whoever she wears do you think she will go to that restaurant again," asks White, looking to change the subject from conflict to inclusion.

"Not the fish restaurant I hope," says Black. "Whatever her date ordered left me smelling like the Dead Sea on a hot day until she could get me to the dry cleaners who damn near ripped my scenes putting me back on the hanger."

"No," says White. "I mean the one where she didn't say a word."

None of the dresses are smart enough to understand. None of them see what happened when he brought her home from that club. I spent the night on her eyes at the club and I spent the night around her wrists when we got home and Black lay on the floor after he pulled her off the lady. Silk especially when wet with a woman's sweat, tears, spit and slide, has a stronger tensile strength than steel and her present boyfriend knows his way around a sailors hitch even with enough loose ends left over to tie a pretty bow. I could see how she reacted to what he did to her using just his thumb and forefinger. The lady knew how to follow directions and no matter how much she wanted to she did not say a word that evening except for thank you.

White murmurs, "Have I ever been there?"

Black snorts, always the bitch. "I doubt anything white has ever been in that club. Everything was red and black even the shirts on the men."

"I've been there too," Red lies. They don't bother to call her on it. She lies a lot and she starts to cry when she's confronted. Personally Red is my favorite. She goes well with me in a color coordination sense and she's simple. She knows that her job is to get someone to take her off of the lady or order the lady to take it off herself. And she does the job damned well if you ask me. I end up somewhere on the lady tightly and without fail until morning if she's been wearing Red.

But lady always wears me. From the day she made me she has put me on under around or inside whatever part of her she most wants discovered and once I am found very few if any words are used before I become the third in the bed.

I stopped listening to those fools and listen for the lady's bath water to stop. She does not linger long because she does not like cold water so I know she is coming out soon to make her choice of what to wear and where I go.

Even though she created me and even though she is the only woman I have ever seen naked my lady is Beauty and Grace personified. She comes out of the bathroom after drying her hair wearing a deep purple towel that she uses only for the bath because it absorbs all the water off of her skin. She stands before a full length mirror like she does every night for this ritual and she lets the towel drop. She looks herself over with a mixture of shyness, satisfaction and determination and smiles. However difficult the years have been she has taken good care of what she was given and she stands and turns like a hairless cat glancing up and down as if she can see herself through a man's eyes and she smiles wider.

"It's going to be me it's going to be me" they all start to chant in unison. If I had eyes I would roll them at this point.

The dresses are all the same. However they were cut, whatever cloth or color they were, whatever their personalities on the hook, they know that they have no purpose other than to exist for the lady's curves. They show off the slight jut of her pelvis, the curve of her back muscles, they stroke her breast in a combination of seduction and protection. They love her the way bees love their queen.

They may love her and she may love them but I am her familiar. I go out every day. Sometimes she ties me around her thigh. Sometimes she double wraps me around the wrist, sometimes like a choker around her neck, sometimes like a girdle between her navel and her mysteries, my loose ends draping down tickling where she can feel it for hours. But she goes nowhere and she does nothing without knowing exactly where I am.

And now the hour of truth. Who is coming out of the closet? Am I going on before or after one of her second skin chorus girls? Where am I going? Am I there to protect her like a chastity belt? Am I a puzzle to be unwrapped around her leg? Am I an advertisement of playfulness around her wrist?

She has a set of lights that she puts on so that she can dress underneath them and twirl in front of the mirror but she does not turn them on. Instead she lights four candles at the corners of the bed. She takes me and she inspects me for wrinkles or tears even fading. This is the moment I dread every day. If she finds a wrinkle she can iron me the heat is unpleasant but I can endure but if I tear for even worse fade I know she will discard me and she will cut a new one and she will have a new silk sword to take with her into battle. I know that day will come. I know there's nothing I can do about it. I know that I will probably stay conscious for a while afterwards not hearing her not seeing her not being near her or feeling her warmth not even listening to those idiots in the closet prattle on about who saw what where and when. The thought makes me cold at least once a day but then she raises me to her lips kisses me slightly leaving a hint of red lipstick on me and I know what the dresses haven't figured out. not expensive prom party dresses in color red

She turns the mirror away she folds up the towel and puts it on the bed. It muffles a lot of noise in case you were wondering. The dresses start to wonder aloud what is going on but I don't listen to them anymore. Because I know that the man has been waiting in the next room all along. She gets down on her knees naked, closes her eyes, puts her head back, arches her head, and tells him she's ready. She holds me forward in a gesture of surrender.

She has found the one and I can only hope that I last as long as they do.