Erotic Tale #10: Just the Two of Us

Erotic Short Stories & Vignettes

Josephine slid her hands down the lines of her tapering waist as she regarded her semi-nude reflection in the mirror. There was something different… unfamiliar… about the woman looking back at her. It was like beholding a stranger from across a crowded room, but knowing exactly who they are. Her reflection provoked a surprisingly submissive response in her, and she cast her gaze downwards. Somehow, she felt her reflection continuing to watch her, even though she herself was looking everywhere else but straight ahead.

A single tear seeped from one of her storm-tossed blue eyes. It rolled down her cheek, under her chin and straight towards the valley between her heaving breasts. It vanished into the space that shielded a heart threatening to pound its way out of her chest. This felt intense. She had always figured that she was never really truly alone when she was just with herself, but this time felt very different; it legitimately felt like a separate and wholly benevolent entity was right there with her… and it thrilled her to no end.

“Touch your breasts. Feel their weight, the delicate near-transparent tissue encasing them,” said a disembodied voice that sounded a lot like her own. She looked up and met the piercing eyes of her reflection once again. It was her for sure, but the difference was uncanny; her reflection was dominating… but adoring.

She didn’t question the order. She knew it was in her best interests to listen and comply without resistance. Her hands were resting by her side, and then they began to crawl like spiders up her torso, up the subtle muscle indentations of her obliques until they arrived right beneath her breasts. With utter delicacy and a silent slowness, her hand cupped her left breast, and her thumb swiped her erect nipple from beneath her bralette. Her other nipple hardened in anticipation as her hand finger-walked across her chest to cup her right breast and stroke that little node of oft-neglected nerve-endings. She threw her head back and closed her eyes, a whimper escaping her red lips.

“Yes. I can tell how much you like that. You do enjoy it, don’t you?” the honeyed voice asked. Josephine stared into her own eyes, her inhibitions melting like glaciers in the modern era.

“I do enjoy it,” she whispered as both of her hands pulled up her bralette, and held the soft orbs of warm receptive flesh. She caressed them as her eyes swept up and down the length of her body, which was ripening with sweetness and juice like a sun-warmed plum. Another bead of sweat released itself from her browline and travelled along the curve of her cheek.

“Take a photo. You can send it to your husband. You can send it to an admirer. But it’s really for you. You can opt to touch yourself to it later, if you like,” the voice offered, oozing excitement.

“Ummm… ok. But with my parts covered,” Josephine replied with growing confidence.

“They say ‘Less is More,'” her reflection agreed with a chuckle.

In response, Josephine adjusted her errant tits back in her bralette, grabbed her phone and snapped a few selfies. She giggled, enjoying her moment of self-worship. To her utter surprise, she really liked what she saw through her camera.

“Now taste yourself,” the voice implored with a trace of barely-controlled passion. Josephine’s body reacted with rolling hills of gooseflesh across the expanse of her skin. She looked into her own eyes as a finger caught another wayward bead of sweat, and brought it to her lips. Her tongue snaked out and licked it from her fingertip. It tasted like salt and home. It brought another tear to her eye.

“Taste more,” the voice asserted, still gentle but with a sense of scarcely masked carnality. Josephine was getting so turned on. She felt like two people in one, and relished the lip-smacking confusion of being both object and subject of her own desire. She finally smiled at her reflection… an eye-watering vision of cinnamon, honey, and acid-whipped cayenne.

She reached down, her hand vanishing beneath the lacey material of her panties, and slipped her fingers between the folds of her vulva, which were moistening with autosexual arousal. She located her little pearl of exquisite pleasure, and moved her finger around it in circular motions, drawing out even more nectar before plunging her fingers into her cream-lined opening. She pulled her fingers free and brought them to her lips, and proceeded to lick and suck off the glisten.

“Mmmm… that’s so good,” she moaned to herself, making eyes at her reflected self, a devious smile playing upon her elastic mouth. Her fingers plumbed back into her silky depths and pulled out strings of warm viscous sex which she rubbed between her thumb and forefinger before continuing to stimulate her engorged clitoris. She was already on the brink of climax.

She felt it building in her belly, and with feverishly dexterous fingers, she quickened her hand and found herself moments away from release.

“Let it go. Let is all go. Release it. I want you gushing as you cum,” the voice said. But the voice was coming from her own mouth, and not just her reflection. It had been coming from her all along.

“Mmm… yesss… unnnffff,” she groaned as she gave in to her climax. Liquid dribbled from deep inside her dripping wet cunt, and curled its way down her legs, pooling immodestly at her bare feet.

She looked up to meet her own eyes… and there was no more differentness or strangeness. It was just her, and she laughed so hard that she released the rest of the river roaring in her loins.



Erotic Tale #9: The Massage

Erotic Short Stories & Vignettes, Uncategorized

***This is “erotica” in that there are erotic moments, but again, no sex. I am trying to focus on sensuality and imagination in my own brand of erotica… for the moment. Hope you like it!***


Jo was burned out, and it had been a long time coming. She had booked the day off work to see her doctor to talk about the downward shift in her mood and energy. She had been in denial that she was approaching a depressive episode; she didn’t have time for that shit. She was too busy and stressed. She had a family. She had a tough job. Things were actually going pretty well…ish. Depression takes up lots of time, and has a way of pissing on you when you’re on your way up.

But she had to face reality: on Friday, she completely froze at work, and found herself unable to function. She remembered just standing there, amid the chaos and confusion that was unfolding before her, unable to think, say or do anything. She was a complete blank. And it felt terrifying. She needed a mental health day to get her head sorted.

After her appointment, she booked a massage and an hour in a sensory deprivation tank at a spa in her city. She had been there many times before and knew what to expect.

But this time, she had a different massage therapist, who was walking towards her as she waited at reception.

“Hi, Josephine? I’m Beatrice. Care to follow me?” Beatrice’s smile shone down at a stunned Jo, who found herself frozen once more… but in a good way. A very good way. Beatrice was about 5’7″ with a slender build, soft light brown wavy hair that framed a very lovely visage, and depthless dark brown eyes. Jo was instantly attracted to her.

“Ummm… sure.” She mumbled as she grabbed her belongings. Beatrice, without asking, relieved Jo of her things, already alleviating some of the stress that had been ravaging its way through her muscles, especially the one embedded in her chest.

“Please. Allow me. You can relax now. It begins now, ok?” Beatrice said as she lead Jo to a small candle-lit room that smelled of white sage — which, to her, was a most comforting aroma.

Jo laughed uncomfortably, feeling like her heart was exposed, and that Beatrice could sense the cracks weaving themselves through it.

“Please, have a seat, Josephine.” Beatrice instructed with a warm smile. Jo did as she was told.

“So, what brings you here today?”, asked Beatrice. Jo felt her face blush as she toiled with whether or not to tell the truth. She finally opted for honesty: “In all honesty, I just need to be touched. Things have been so hard, and I feel my depression returning. I just want to forget everything for a bit.” Beatrice regarded her client with a completely unguarded expression, which Jo wasn’t expecting. Beatrice seemed to reflect Jo’s feelings in a non-verbal way. It helped Jo feel safe.

“Ok. I get it. Is there any part of your body that needs more attention than the others?” Jo almost snorted out a laugh because her immediate response would have been “my pussy”, but she stopped herself before blurting out something that would surely embarass her.

“Ummm… yeah, actually. Weirdly, my thighs and hips, and my… ummm…”, Jo didn’t know how to tell Beatrice that her ass needed a good rub down, but luckily she didn’t have to.

“Your glutes,” Beatrice said without an ounce of embarassment. She was a healer. She knew exactly what Jo needed.

“Yeah. Exactly,” Jo said as she avoided Beatrice’s gaze.

“Hey. There’s no shame here. We hold a tonne of tension in our behind, hips and thighs. And depression brings out all the aches and pains. Don’t worry about a thing. You just get undressed and slip under the covers and I will take care of the rest. Your job is to relax.” Beatrice touched Jo’s knee and smiled, “I will knock on the door in a couple of minutes.”

Beatrice stood up and tip-toed out of the room in silence. Jo sat there for a moment before she started to peel off her clothes and her worries. She caught her reflection in the mirror near the curtained window and admired the delicate way her waist tapered inward then flared out at her hips. She always had a shapely hourglass figure, which she appreciated, even in moments of self-hate which seemed to be in the majority as of late.

Jo tore her eyes away from her mirror image and crawled under the crisp white sheet on the massage bed. She decided to go completely nude, not even her thong. She just wanted to be naked, unseparated from herself in every way. She couldn’t explain it, but it was just what she felt she needed. She lay face down, and rested her head on the donut-shaped pillow and closed her eyes.

After several minutes, Jo heard a light knock at the door. “Come in,” she replied lightly. The opening and closing of the door was bearly audible. Beatrice padded into the room and stood right at Jo’s head. She could feel her therapist’s deep, controlled breathing; she was turning the energy in the room over, transmuting it into calmness. Jo felt wrapped in it, like a hot dog in a bun of tranquility. She smiled as Beatrice’s hands came into contact with her shoulders. She kept her hands there for a few moments, just breathing. Then she slowly turned the blanket down all the way to Jo’s behind. She pumped some aromatherapy oil onto her hands, and began to slowly knead Jo’s shoulder muscles, her neck, behind her ears, her scalp. Jo sunk her head further into the donut pillow, feeling a sense of pure relaxation wash over her.

Beatrice worked Jo’s knotted shoulders and neck for a little while, and slowly started to move down the length of her back, focusing on the muscles surrounding her spine. Jo was on the edge of drifting off but jolted back to wakefulness when Beatrice’s hands made their way to her glutes. Beatrice pumped more oil into her hands and started to massage her client’s lower back and her fleshy behind, very slowly and carefully. She used her thumbs to unearth the gnarly knots, and untangled them with her nimble healing hands.

“How is the pressure?”, she asked in a low voice. “You can go harder. I have a lot of tension,” Jo replied, surprised at her assertion; she normally would have said that everything was fine even if it wasn’t. But Beatrice somehow invited Jo’s authenticity.

Beatrice deepened the pressure of her hands, moulding and kneading Jo’s lifeworn muscles. Jo exhaled audibly.

“Everything ok?” Beatrice whispered. “More than ok…” Jo replied. Beatrice moved around the bed to Jo’s legs and worked up and down the length of them, from her glutes to the back of her knees. Every time Beatrice’s hands reached her inner thighs, Jo would stop breathing. Beatrice’s magical fingers almost grazed her swollen pussy lips, and Jo felt herself flood with arousal. She wondered if Beatrice could sense how turned on she was… and hoped she didn’t. Or maybe she did want her to know. She was feeling a little lightheaded regardless. But Beatrice kept at that particular manoeuver, over and over, getting closer and closer to Jo’s most intimate parts, and each time her fingers approached that area, she would almost gasp from the pleasure. If Beatrice kept doing that, Jo might climax right there on the table, and she doubted that she would be able to hide it. But she just let go of her fears and allowed her depression-worn body feel sensation and pleasure when for weeks, months even, she felt nothing but numbness.

She felt her orgasm building from the manipulation of the electrified flesh of her inner thighs and buttocks. She let it steamroll her and exhaled with her entire body as she released all of that toxic tension that she had been sequestering within herself. Beatrice rubbed down her legs and let her hands rest on Jo’s feet before finally disengaging contact for the first time in the whole hour. It was like she knew that Beatrice had found the release and relief her body and soul were craving.

“You can start waking up. Take your time. I will be waiting right outside for you.” Beatrice whispered into her ear, making every hair follicle on her body perk up.

“Mmm hmmm” Jo mumbled in response. A few moments after hearing the door close, she slithered off the table. Her body felt tenderized and… oddly effervescent. She was tingling all over. It felt wonderful. She smiled to herself. She chugged an entire bottle of water, and pulled on her tights and top, throwing her bra into her handbag.

Beatrice beamed at her as she opened the door. “How do you feel?”, she asked.

“Better than I have in a very long time,” was all Jo said as Beatrice lead them back down the hallway.

“Perfect. My job here is done,” she replied with a chuckle. “I will show you to your bath.” Jo felt excitement for the first time in months. She loved the isolation bath, with its silky epsom salt brine, the dark, the silence. It was the best end to the experience. She knew it wasn’t a cure-all and that the path back to wellness would be lengthy, but it was a start, and she could feel herself again.



Erotic Tale #8: The Library

Erotic Short Stories & Vignettes, Uncategorized

She liked to walk the stacks at the library after work some days. Not necessarily to take out any books or films, but to just walk up and down the rows, trailing her fingers across the spines of her pagéd friends, taking in the scent of the books and the people who have touched them before her. Well, maybe she couldn’t quite smell that, but she felt it. Felt their spectral digits curling around her own, tracing the contours of her arms and shoulders, reaching for her throat, her lips…. She lost herself in so many moments like this.

She loved to read but more than anything, she just loved being surrounded by books and their unique energies. She would pull them out at random, and drop where ever she was standing, and start reading… just to be immersed in the written word and the musings and creations of another person, to be in the moment and to let her imagination meld with that of the author, to paint the internal walls of her private world in more colours than her palette could ever hold on its own.

When her fingers found a book they liked, they pulled it off of the shelf, excitingly oblivious to which section she was perusing. As she read the words off of whatever page she flipped to, her eyes widened and her pupils devoured her irises in a fit of famished lust. It was as if her eyes could not take in enough of the erotic images the pages of the book was conjuring for her. She clutched her chest and finally exhaled as she approached the end of the paragraph. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the shelf behind her. Well-written depictions of cunnilingus often made her lose her cool a bit, but she kept the earthquake originating in her loins under control.

“Mmmmm…” She moaned to herself as one of her hands clawed up her exposed thigh towards the darkness beneath her skirt. She continued to absorb the words and pleasure-infused visions with one hand holding the book, and the other dipping in and out of her hidden ink well.

As she made her way through this languid moisture-inducing description of oral pleasure, her hands began to move with more fever and fervour as she approached the crest of her own rapture. The fact that she was in a very public space completely escaped her.

She squeezed her eyes closed as the sensations began to change. All of a sudden… she wasn’t alone there in the stacks, being rocked and rollicked by wave after wave of carnal abandonment.

Now she felt him there, on his knees, his face embedded in her sex, flicking his urgent tongue against the pulsating dewey decimal at her inviting entrance.

He lapped, and sucked and licked her lips, writing sopping wet verses into her labia with the tip of his tongue, tasting her as she squeezed out drop after drop of liquid poetry right into his waiting, wanting mouth.

He drove his tongue into her unfathomable depths, and with his mouth, coaxed from her a barely controlled colloquy of untranslatable verses and transcendent cum-soaked delirium.

She collapsed to the ground in a spent heap of sighs. She felt his soft lips graze her thigh as she came to, but when she sat up and opened her eyes, she discovered that she was alone once again; there was no other person in her vicinity. She had imagined him there, between her now-weak thighs — a pussy-licking phantom plucked straight from the pages of a book of which she did not even know the title.

But that didn’t even matter. There were other books out there that she hoped to experience in just the same way, and her library was the best and the biggest in the city.

To be continued…?


Goodness me! That was fun!


Erotic Tale #7: The Giant Canvas

Erotic Short Stories & Vignettes, painting with body parts, Uncategorized

*** Not your typical piece of erotica. This is more of a sensual piece than a carnal one. But who says erotica has to include sex or masturbation?***


She knew the moment she clamped eyes on that giant canvas at the art store that it would bring her to her knees at some point.

She could not fight it any longer.

She already felt herself surrendering to it, to this scintillating painting project she had been dreaming about for the last year. With that great mystery in mind — of how she would make this wet dream a very wet and messy reality, of how she would unfurl the limitless artistic, sensual and erotic possibilities — she decided to finally buy it, the largest canvas she had ever purchased thus far in her short tenure as a budding artist.

It was so big, she needed help lugging it to the cash, and then to her car. And then she needed more help to secure it to the roof of her car. It was that huge. On her drive home, she wondered how she would get it into her backyard without toppling over and getting crushed. But she was too excited to be overly worried. The canvas was lightish… but was rather unwieldy. She would figure it out. Or get her hot neighbor to help her; she was usually in her garage at this time… working on her car… in that tank top… that showed off her arms and their deliciously protruding veins….

But enough about her. She had to think about how she was going to go about her painting. Maybe she should just let go and see what happens instead of planning it – which usually takes a lot of the excitement out of it anyway.

She always preferred the impromptu when it came to creating. She likened it to spontaneous sex – just so much hotter than when you are expecting it.

When she arrived home, she was disappointed to see her neighbor’s garage door closed. No car outside. She must have had other plans that day. No biggie. She jumped out of the car with a stupid ear-to-ear grin plastered across her face as she untethered the bungee cords, releasing her invitingly blank canvas… and a single stream of ambrosia from between her legs.

It turns out that it wasn’t heavy at all. Just a little awkward to carry. But she did it. On her own. Had her neighbor been there, she would not have even bothered to try carrying it. She would have taken the opportunity to enlist the enthusiastic aid of her butch babe next door, and she would have paid her back in sexually-charged flirtation over beers on her balcony. Maybe she would have given her an “accidental” flash of her freshly shaved cunt, which was juicing and jolting beneath her curve-hugging sundress. She conveniently forgot to wear panties… again. She somehow always found herself commando on her art-making days; it just felt right.

She partially dragged the canvas to the little private space in her backyard where she made her art. It was mostly guarded from the prying eyes of lusty neighbors, but barely. She liked it like that. If someone wanted to see what she was up to, they need only lean over to get a better look. She positioned her space like that on purpose as she thoroughly enjoyed the possibility of being spied on when in the “zone” – as she so delicately referred to that highly masturbatory quality of her art-making frenzies.

She lay the canvas on the ground, and vanished into the adjoining shed to start pulling bottles of paint off of the shelves; after this, she would need to re-stock. She knew she wanted tonnes of colours with no rhyme or reason, no patterns or colour pairings. Just as many colours as possible, to reflect how fired up she becomes in the presence of paint, of art, of beauty and possibility. She, a kiln of hot desire in that very moment, was feeling the heat the closer she got to finally realizing her vision. And she was moments away.

When she had collected all of the paint she could stuff into her bucket, she returned to the patient canvas. She unloaded the bucket, then began emptying the contents of each bottle right back into it, careful not to mix the colours, creating layer upon layer of viscous light. She had a lot of gold, so she put a generous squirt in between each other random colour which would hopefully infuse her painting with luminescence.

She left a little paint in each bottle for the penultimate step in the process.

When the bucket was almost overflowing, she knew it was time. With a sense of great care and ceremony, she removed each article of clothing until she stood before her canvas, completely nude, terrifyingly vulnerable and ready to become a conduit for the spirit of abundant creation trembling beneath her glowing skin.

She wondered if she should upend the bucket over her head. Or pour it over the front of her body. She was undecided. And she wasn’t sure what she was going to do once she was covered in paint. But the unknown was part of the fun.

At last, after putting down a plastic sheet in front of the canvas, she opted for full-on paint immersion. Her loins dampened and jerked to wakefulness in response to her final choice. Yes. A big fucking mess was what was needed. Go all in or fuck off, right?

She decided to wear panties and goggles and earplugs. Really sexy. But safety first!

The moment had finally arrived. She took a deep cleansing breath, and stood before her canvas. She hefted the bucket full of carefully layered paint above her head, and poured it over her crown.

The paint was cool and silky as it crawled like a snail over the top of her head, her face, her neck, her breasts. It slid in one complete mass composed of irridescent rings down the rest of her body, each one stretching to reveal hidden layers of gold between every fathomable colour and shade.

She was in a trance. Words and thoughts were foreign, and she no longer had room for them. In that moment, the sensation of the paint was louder than any thought that had ever existed for her.

She let herself become lost in the colours which were now mixing and uniting and melding upon her skin, creating new hues, creating something unseen and unheard of with every passing second, the colours changing, just like something inside of her was. She felt her loins dampen beneath her paint-and-pussy-soaked panties, and her nipples harden with arousal. Not the kind she experienced when with another person, but a different kind, a much deeper and more profound version of arousal that was completely derived from within herself, her art, and her fetish.

When she was fully immersed in her medium, she walked out into the middle of her canvas and fell to her knees. She lowered onto all fours and watched the paint drip from her body onto the wide open space beneath her which was filling with swirls and drops of shimmering colour. She stayed like that and breathed right into her core. Her eyes remained transfixed on the paint and on her hands which appeared so dextrous and strong in that moment.

She carefully crawled to another space on her canvas, and flipped over so that she was lying on her back. She closed her eyes and felt the paint slide off her body and puddle around her silhouette. Her cunt was drenched in her own juices and she was blissfully unaware of the pair of eyes watching her as she appeared to somehow depart from this plane and ascend to another state of consciousness. She was unaware of how stunning she appeared to her neighbor who couldn’t help but unbuckle her pants as she watched and marvelled at the art work coming into being. The neighbor did not even notice the canvas; all she saw was an artist, a muse and masterpiece all rolled (and rolling) into One.

At this point, the artist was rolling about the canvas, slowly, purposefully, leaving impressions of body parts and her energy. It looked like the chaos of the cosmos filtered through a golden mist. She was caressing her body as she made her mark, allowing herself to be reborn into the work of art she had always envisioned.

After a short while, she was sated… and messier than she had ever been in her life. She wasn’t anxious about it. She felt turned on but not horny. She was deliriously satisfied without needing a climax. This project offered a different kind of satisfaction that sex and masturbation could never create.

She stood up and looked at her work: it looked like shit. She covered it in gobs and gashes of hand-ejaculated paint that she had saved in the bottles after initially filling her bucket. The end result was never the point. If it was any good, it was a bonus. If it was bad, it was a lesson. But it was always about the process, the unfurling of the great work.

Now that it was complete, she was ready for the final step. She beheld her painting one last time, and started to set up a little fire in the nearby pit. She then proceeded to hack the canvas off of the wooden frame with an exacto knife. Once this was complete, she rolled it up and shoved it into the ravenous flames and watched as tongues of fire devoured her work… and the person she used to be.

She was reborn, and ready for the next vision.

***If you desire to replicate this experience, use non-toxic paint only, and test on your skin first before engaging in paint play. Don’t get any in your eyes or inside your punani… if you have one of those. Maybe wear underwear. Ok, have fun now!***


Erotic Tale #6: The Tree Hugger

Erotic Short Stories & Vignettes, Uncategorized

***Contains an exploration of dendrophilia… so if sexual perversion isn’t your thing, perhaps skip this one.***

She was vibrating with an intense longing and anticipation. She couldn’t wait another second, as it was her ritual every time they arrived at the cabin. She would unpack everything in a reverent silence, get her family settled and distracted, then she would vanish like a wraithe out the back door and start running towards her tree, regardless of how much light had already receded from the sky at that time of year. She didn’t bother with a flashlight; she didn’t need one as she felt an undeniable pull from the Branchéd One waiting for her deep in the forest.

Nothing could breach the connection. Nothing could interrupt the magnetic tie that had been forging between her and this one tree over the last two years since they bought the property.

When she arrived, with wild eyes reflecting the October moonlight, she threw herself around the trunk and pressed her cheek into the rough bark. She stayed like that for a moment, breathing in its comforting mossy scent.

“I’ve missed you so,” she whispered as her hands caressed her sacred tree. She almost felt it… him… saying it back as waves of warmth spread outwards from her heart to her extremities.

She rubbed her nose gently across the bark, now catching the scent of sap. Normally, it would make her smile and hug him harder. But this time was different. She felt a delicious clenching in her nether regions, and felt that little pebble of pleasure start to pulsate between her legs.

She brushed her lips across the fissures, and planted a lingering kiss as she pushed her leggings and thong down. The hand not tracing the cleft in the trunk was travelling towards her pussy which was slick with arousal. Her fingers found her seeping entrance and started to plunge achingly slowly in and out, teasing her own self as she breathed him in, her steadfast tree, hard and erect, like a phallus rising out of the soil beneath her bare feet.

“This is ok, isn’t it?” she whispered as she gyrated her pelvis against the tree. She wasn’t sure if this silent being had given its consent to be ravished by her, but the sap that had started to dribble out of its trunk told her is was more than ok for her to explore and enjoy herself upon this most perfect of wooded giants.

She felt her cunt start to throb with the quickening approach of her climax. She could taste the sap upon her lips as she cried out her pleasure and rode her tree until she crumbled to the ground in a fit of tears.

“Thank you, my dearest, for grounding me and delighting me. It has been such a rough week,” she whimpered with a smile as she picked herself up off the ground.

She pressed her forehead against him once more and closed her eyes in gratitude.

“Until next time…” she said as she turned to stumble back to the cabin, wholly sated, with branches, leaves, sap and moss adorning her hair and clothing, and a trail of salt brine streaming from between her shakey legs.


Erotic Tale #5: The Museum Visit

Erotic Short Stories & Vignettes, Uncategorized

She liked to visit the Fine Art museum on her days off. Wandering from room to room, taking in all of the delectable visual stimuli, whether a painting by one of the European masters or a Post-Modern abstract installation, she would smile to herself, and caress the sides of her thighs as she gazed at whichever work of human creativity she found before her.

She adored art. She lived for it. She wanted to see it, touch it, smell it, feel it, be inundated by it. Art made her swell, expand, breathe deeper. It excited her in ways she couldn’t put into words.

She knew what it felt like to make it, and was aroused by the thought of other artists feeling the same way as they created. She could feel herself trickling like a little forest brook… and was relieved to be wearing underwear today as it was absorbing the aromatic evidence of her sensorially-drenched arousal.

As she ambled about the various rooms of her preferred museum, she obliviously caught the attention of a man sitting in a far corner of the room, sketchbook open on his lap and a pencil in his hand. His dark eyes followed her as she criss-crossed the room, moving randomly from one painting to another, going towards whichever painting seemed to call to her.

As she stood in front of the painting he was sketching, he noticed her press her legs together and gently bunch up her skirt with her hand, pulling it taut against her right ass cheek. He wiped his brow as he watched her thumb stroking the bare skin of her thigh. He picked up his pencil, flipped to a fresh page, and began to sketch her curves as a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his stubbled face.

She heard the sound of his pencil etching, and turned towards him, regarding his furrowed brow and his clandestine work. When he looked up to take her in again, their eyes met, his dark as pitch and hers clear as quartz. He tried to cover his sketch with his hand, but her bright eyes were faster.

He could not read the expression on her face. Was it curiosity? Irritation? Expectation? Were her pupils dilated? He was perplexed because he was so used to seeing people as open books. She was a frustration to him, but one that he found more amusing than annoying.

He noticed her skirt had buttons going up from the hemline to the waist line. The bottom two were already unbuttoned. He found it a rather practical but very sexy design feature; he imagined possibilities with that skirt.

Though he was still trying to decode her, she could read him without any doubt: he was rapt. She had often fantasized of someone wearing that exact look while beholding her, and had never seen it until that moment.

It made her clench her secret parts, and push out an audibly laboured breath. He smiled at her blushing cheeks as he flipped to another fresh page, taking care to hide his substantial erection with his sketchbook.

She noticed it, but didn’t give it away. She tossed a glance over her shoulder to see where the security guard was; he was zoning out by the entrance on the other side of the room. There were no other patrons aside from the two of them, so she slowly started to unbutton her skirt from the bottom up. The last button was positioned right below her belly button. She left that untouched lest her whole skirt fall to the floor.

He glimpsed her floral print thong as she parted her skirt, and her legs. Another bead of sweat slid down the side of his face as she pulled her panties away from the overflowing wellspring at the appex of her ample thighs. His hand started to dance the pencil across the page, sketching out the shaded areas and rolling contours of her glistening sex. He couldn’t pull his eyes from her fluttering shell-pink petals as he translated her hidden beauty to the pages of his sketchbook. He could smell her swollen sea as it ebbed and flowed like waves of oceanic desire as she swirled her finger around and around that protruding node of ecstacy peeking out from under its hood.

His turgid rod pressed into his jeans, filling him with a desperate ache and an undeniable need to enter her, infiltrate her very essence, as she slipped her index finger between her honeyed pussy lips. Then she brought her finger to her mouth and licked it clean. His body spasmed and held in a groan as he issued the final strokes of graphite to the sketch. It was finished now. So was he. So were his cum-stained pants.

And now, so was she. She buttoned down her skirt, gifting him with a crooked mischievous grin, not once breaking eye contact. He dropped his pencil in his waking reverie, and leaned over to retrieve it. As he rose up, pencil in hand, he watched her swaying hips as she walked away, and he was frozen stiff with unyielding lust. He was too much of a mess to pursue her… but they both knew this would not be the last encounter.


Vintage Erotica


I recently procured Delta of Venus by Anais Nin because I’ve been experiencing a hankering for some vintage erotica. On paper. Not on a screen. I need books!

This dirty little collection of horrendously taboo stories has my cheeks (and other areas… depending on the story) blushing and my salivating mouth gaping in shock and horror. Oh goodness me!

I don’t read as often as I used to, so it felt good to hold and feel a book in my slightly idle hands.

I can’t wait for the other two books to arrive.

Until then, I will snicker and gasp my way through this one.

That Hungarian adventurer is so cringey, omg.


Honey Pot

Erotic Poetry

Dip your fingers in my honey pot,

And you will see how sun-ensouled nectar drips from your digits like a viscous melody.

You will see my undulations beckon you to a second helping

Of unhinged longing and glee,

Long held captive by gates of goose-pimpled flesh and opaque black fibre.