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Erotic Arts And Letters


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I was looking for the Erotic Literature thread but sadly, it has either been deleted or locked. I hope the admins and mods won't mind if I start another one as a diversion from the many field reports that bombard MTC.


This thread is purely for erotic literature and arts. Post your favorite erotic literature. May it be poetry, an excerpt from a story, your own writings, or what not. Maybe some of us can even share artworks.


Post responsibly though as original erotic lit thread was closed due to some people who plagiarized. Please indicate if it's an original work, lifted from another site (e.g. Literotica.com), author, title of book, etc. Let's give credit where credit is due.


Let me start off with something from Rumi...




Lighting, your presence

from ground to sky.

No one knows what becomes of me,

when you take me so quickly.

--Rumi (From the book Yellow Silk 2, International Erotic Stories & Poems, edited by Lily Pond)

Edited by Zerreit
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Melissa Holmes


I too overflow; my desires have invented new desires,

my body knows unheard of songs.

--Helen Cixous


Timpani of clitoris, bass note of nipple,

fugue of fingertip and skin.


in remembrance of the body

in remembrance of the blood


this swell of self -

polished wax of apple skin,

hips of perfume bottles,

magnitude of hands


mine, his, hers

all the flawed possessives.


If you listen long enough, syntax

is inconsequential

it's frequencies of flesh that gather

the tone and pitch of pleasure

playing with its shape.


This is a game I've always played

stretch the string free of knots,

see what my two hands can do...

windows opening into, outward

this mutability of metaphor

the vulva is.


I am obvious textures - velvet,

the tease of feathers,

smooth curve of soup ladles,



a shift of particles

purple behind closed eyes.


Think of where

to touch -

translucence of wrist, stone of ankle, silk of cervix

slipperiness with word and without...

Edited by Zerreit
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Electricity flows

each time they touch

Their skins tingle

they felt it as such


A longing kiss

that lasted forever

naked bodies connect

to end they want it never


they rise up and down

like waters beneath them

softly making waves

making pattern with rhythm


temperatures rose

like the sweet love they made

and they locked their embrace

under that gentle shade...

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This feel of your hand in mine

The sound of your voice

The gentle caresses

Playful hugs and kisses


Your mouth on mine

As you find my most tender areas

Sending electricity through me

As only you know how to do


The amazement at our excitement

The lust in your eyes

That is meant for only me

The afterglow of it all


The feel of your arms around me

The sound of your breathless voice

The satisfied caresses

The caring hugs and kisses


All the things I miss about you.

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Music drifted on a breeze

The night, heavy, warm, damp


The sun had long since set

Our clothes clung to sweat, slick skin


Sensual scents of our bodies

Languor in the thick air


Sexuality flows like two magnets

Radiating, drawn to each other


Secluded in moonlit darkness

Our clothes not completely removed


With out a word, with out a sound

Your muscular arm encloses round my waist


Bending me towards the vacant car

My fingers find metal cool beneath my touch


Your breath rolls down my back

I arch and silently spread my legs


Fingers entwined in my long silky tresses

Gentle, yet erotic, my head is pulled back


The bulge pressed against my bottom

Arouses and stimulates my passion


Eagerly I am drenched, quivering

You thrust hard into my soft, honeyed sheath


Slowly pulling out, I feel every inch of you

The thickness, the length, the ridge


The head of your shaft, teasingly enters me

Hungrily my body tightens drawing you in


You feel my urgency, as it is your own

Driving into me from behind, I obey


Meeting each demand in frantic rhythm

Tension building, your fingers wet with my desire


Buried deep with in, your seed fills me

Satiated, fulfilled, I succumb with bliss.

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Wanton Embrace


My lips tremble in anticipation.

Eagerly, I press my warm mouth to your skin.

Softly kissing your throat upwards,

lingering as I lead a trail up your neck,

seeking your lips.

your skin, salty, beneath my hungry mouth.

Sighing into your breath, sparks fly.

I want to devour every inch of you!

I imagine your lips, pressing into mine, softly.

Pressure increasing, as my heart beats wildly.

Your tongue, slips, enticingly into my mouth.

Intimately, savoring, I taste you.

Then u kiss me harder, taking over my senses

and delving into my being.

Our tongues caress , circling, stroking

I cant get enough, my body is exploding!

Drowning in desire, knees weak,

as your hands roam my body,

seeking my breasts, cupping my bottom.

A path of fire scorches my skin.

Touching your face, my fingertips gingerly tracing

your jaw line, strong, proud, my blood is pounding!

I lean into to you trying to get closer.

I feel your hardness pressed against my hip.

I smile at how your body responds

to mine, in needing, wanting.

I cant get close enough.

My hands fall from your nape to your chest.

Teasingly, I rub your nipples, longing to kiss them.

Your thigh parts my legs, making my skirt rise.

Slowly, rubbing your leg into my burning flesh,

I make no sound, my breath held in.

My hands slide down to your waist.

Opening your pants eagerly,

I find you hard beneath my touch.

Gently, I enclose your engorged manhood.

Smooth, yet firm, I imagine

my mouth, caressing, sucking, tasting,

where my hand is now working at.

I want you so bad!

Yet, you aren't through, ...nor ready,

to give me, sweet release.

I feel your fingers seeking my inner flesh,

bringing waves of excitement, pleasure.

Your finger invades my now wet, innermost turmoil.

I feel a wicked rage of infernal passion,

Spreading like wildfire, assaulting my senses

I beg you to quench my desires.

I look at you, your eyes, smoldering arrest me.

My cheeks grow hot under your gaze.

A groan sounds deep in your throat, gratifying.

Then bending your head toward me.

You capture my mouth with yours.

Seducing me entirely, endlessly.

My mind, my body, my soul.

Clothes fall away silently to the floor.

You... now want me... as I want you.

Edited by MHY®
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From the book Yellow Silk 2: International Erotic Stories & Poems, edited by Linda Russo...


Seventeen, Excerpts

Kenzaburo Oe, translation by Luke Van Haute


Today is my birthday. Seventeen years of age I am today: a Seventeen. But nobody in my family realizes it's my birthday. Not my father, not my mother or my brother. Or at least they act like they don't. So I keep quiet about it too.


Toward evening, my older sister comes home from the Self-Defense Forces hospital, where she works as a nurse. I'm in the bathroom, lathering myself with soap. "Seventeen years old," she calls out to me. "Doesn't it just make you want to grab yourself?"


My sister is horribly nearsighted, and so ashamed of her glasses she's made up her mind never to get married. That's why she went to work for the SDF. In desperation, she does nothing but read. She's ruining her eyes all the more, but she doesn't care.


What she said to me now was probably stolen from a book. Still, at least one person in the family remembered my birthday. As I scrub myself down, I recover just a little from my lonliness. I repeat what my sister said. As I think about her words, my sex stands up out of the soap in a sudden erection. I go and lock the bathroom door.


It seems like I'm always having erections. I like erections. I like them because of the sensation of energy holding up through my body. And I like to look at my sex in the state of erection. I sit down again and cover myself with soap from head to foot. Then I masturbate. My first masturbation since I turned seventeen.


At first I wondered if masturbation wasn't bad for me but I looked through some sexology books in the bookstore and made the liberating discovery that the only bad thing about masturbation is feeling guilty about it.


I don't like the reddish-black adult sex, looking completely naked with the skin peeled back, and I don't like kids' sex, which looks like some kind of unripe plant. The sex I like is my own, when it's ready for masturbation. My very own sex. I can pull back the foreskin if I want to, but when I have an erection, it covers the rose-colored head like a soft sweater. I can use it to warm the stuff under the skin and melt it into a lubricating oil.


During health class, the school doctor told us how to get rid of that stuff, but everybody laughed. That's because we all masturbate, so there's never any stuff to get rid of. I've gotten to be quite a "hand" at masturbation. I've even discovered how to grab the tip of my foreskin as I come, like I'm squeezing the neck of a bag, and catch the semen in it. As a further advance, I've also made a side door in the pocket of a pair of pants. When I wear those, I can masturbate even in class.


As I masturbate now, I recall a story I saw in the color feature of a women's magazing, the confessions of a husband who gave his wife peritonitis by ramming his penis through the walls of her vagina on their wedding night. My erect sex is wrapped in its soft white foreskin, cloaked in a blue haze. It strains upward with the powerful beauty of a rocket. As I caress it, I realize for the very first time that the muscles of my arms are beginning to grow.


For a moment I stare in amazement at my muscles. They're like new rubber straps. My muscles. I grab my own muscular flesh, like my sister said. Joy wells up inside me. I smile. I'm a Seventeen, with no love for anybody but myself. My triceps, my biceps, my thigh muscles, they're all still young and immature, but with training they'll grow unfettered into thick sinewy muscle.


I think about asking my father to buy me an expander or a barbell set for my birthday. The old man is a tightwad, and he's not about to spend money on things like training equipment, but the warm steam and the soft bubbles have put me into the kind of rapture where it seems like I could talk him into it. By next summer my body will be solid, developed everywhere it ought to be. It'll catch the eyes of the girls at the beach, and plant fervent roots of respect in the hearts of the boys in my class. The salt taste of the sea breeze, the hot sand, the itching powder dusted over sunburned skin, the smell of me and my friends, and amid the cries of the naked crowd of swimmers, an abyss of blissful dizziness into which I suddenly plunge, in silence and solitude. I cry out and close my eyes. The hard hot sex in my grip stiffens for an instant, and in that instant I feel the sperm that erupts from inside me flowing out to fill my hand. All the while, I know that the lucky crowd of naked bathers is peacefully swimming, sunken into silence in the clear summer afternoon sea within me.

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Robert Wrigley


The sun's a balm and a blade. They're blind

but warm without their clothes,

having packed a pad and blanket

most of a snowy mile from the car.


She slips her boots on and steps off

into the lee of a pine, to pee

and leave his leavings in the needles

underneath. What will the coyotes think


tonight, that scent, the mignled broths

taking color from the moon. High up

the trunk, a wound has oozed

every autumn for a dozen years,


the fallen limb a rack of stobs

they've hung their shirts and woolen pants on.

The palest breath of them rises

around her thighs, her nipples


wrinkle hard in the shade, her teeth chatter,

her breasts quiver and sway

and in the lenses of her sunglasses

he sees himself asprawl in the sun.


They do not own this land, they do not

live here. No one does,

except the coyotes and the deer, and the pair

of gray sparrows flitting overhead,


eyeing the lunchtime crumbs.

Dominion is a word, and ownership

is language. Here, a deed is what they've done,

not unsingable to wits across a page.


They are mates. They have mated,

and as he warms her again

beneath their blanket, they speak of this,

who bed most often in a bed


among the walls plumb and square,

the walls of law and human fidelity.

Mating, he says. Mount.

It is the only thing, she says,


to be human in winter.

Estrus, he says. The curse

of the cycle. Fun, she replies.

Recreation, not pro. And maybe


because they are laughing now,

the sparrows see their chance and land

along the blanket's edges, pluck a crumb

and fly back up to twitter


overhead like chimes in an easy breeze.

The light is wine, and still

in her boots, she straddles him, and the blanket falls.


and the sun on her shoulders

is luminous and symbolic. She can see

in his glasses the bottomless sky,

he can see in hers, the sparrows,


working an arm's half-span away,

hopping among the folds of cloth

for a morsel of cheese or an arc of crust,

and without the lovers knowing,


a loosened blue thread from the blanket,

which the birds will weave

through the twigs and redolent needles,

come spring in their nest.

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When you touch me

Feeling your hands move around my waist

I give my self to you, wanting nothing else



When you kiss me

Your tongue glides into my warm, wet mouth

I taste you completely, wanting nothing else



When you look into my eyes

You see right into my soul

I feel your gaze, wanting nothing else



When you take me

Our bodies move as one

I meet you with unbridled passion, wanting nothing else



When you leave me

So soon after making love

I need more time with you, wanting nothing else



Knowing you go back home

To your separate life

I live for our brief interludes, wanting more from you.. :cry:

Edited by MHY®
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Standing Stone

Carmela Delia Lanza


"And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people and thy God my God..."


"Charles is where the garden will be,"

I tell my son on Palm Sunday,

the frost may still hit while we transform

the sand into soil for plants that pull me back,

an umbilical cord to my father.

I have resisted this gardening for a long time but now

I water the tree and feel this planting in my bones:

he talks about heirloom seeds from one generation to another

and my mother holds a bag of seeds in her garage,

she tells me she doesn't know what to do with them.

"The grass has taken over the garden," she says

as it should take over the world,

"I can't bend over anymore, I fall down."


Your body is over me and you ask me if I think of anyone else

while we f**k. Coming with you inside of me is not like my past.

I feel I turn myself inside out, skin is gone and I feel all

I have done, all I have meant to do brings me to this place,

the world moving night to day slowly under our bodies,

a thin moon is holding its breath, forgetting our names again.


We walk in the snow on this island where I was born,

my mother has no boots and steps in my footsteps.

The snow is up to our knees.

I have the number of the row and headstone,

my mother stops, she can't breathe,

she jokes that this would be the best place to die,

we would save some money, we could just throw her in a hole.

I keep going until I am standing over my father's half-year grave,

the wind wants to lift me over the headstone.

But I stand, a market of gravity, feeling the pull

to the center, feeling your heavy back against my breasts,

licking your black hair in the night,

no more talking, no more waving a hand, "forget about it,"

I have no moment left, no passing of fingers,

no stand of hair on my backbone,

I bury the seashells and let the wind lift me up;

my mother goes back to the car and says

she thought she was going to fall down.


I take my son to the ocean and we gather winter sand for you,

a man who is now my friend and will soon be my lover,

a seagull shivers a few feet away, looking for a warm spot.

I cannot offer him any hope while I dig with my fingers down,

your request was said as a joke and yet I take it seriously,

I will not understand your intensity until I am breathing

alone in my bed holding air that was once you.

Edited by Zerreit
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Miss Keller Returns to Her Senses

Lynn E. Levin


The voice of her left and right

hands cried out, Carmine! Amber!

India Blue! upon the wide

stretch of his chest. Peter Fagan,


you are my lighthouse, she spelled

deftly across the little bridge

of his cock. On her palm

into which he normall pressed

news of the Great War or Chautauqua


business, he nested dozens

of kisses, then sunk

his teeth into the soft

mound of her eloquent thumb. Helen,

my rose and thorn, his fingers

confessed to the inside


of her arm. On the nape of her neck

he scrawled, swear you are mine. His fingertips

were fierce with her breasts

which could suddenly hear

nor was her dark eye


blind. Then like the strikers

on the picket line, her fingers traveled

down the length of his spine

to the small shallow where

she tapped I will always be separate

even from you translator

of the world to my flesh -

this is my crime. She grasped


as he signed and deeper

signed, then without hesitating

guided him into the darkness.

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Her skin glistened from the faint light coming from his window. It was already twilight, and with the light giving way to the darkness, he was having a hard time seeing her naked body.


But he needn't have light. The heat of her skin was enough for him to know she was there, and in that dimly lit room, he could see her raise her arms and cup her hands to his face, pulled him close, and gave him a deep, longing kiss.


Heat surged from his body, and he could not describe the sensation, as he responded and wrapped his arms around her. Her skin felt like soft cotton, and her firm breasts pressed against his in a powerful but gentle embrace. Slowly she pulled away, and looked at him.


She pulled him close again, and slowly reached for the knot that held his shorts to his waist. She reached into his shorts and held his erect tool in a loving grasp. She pushed him down on his back and artfully pulled his shorts in one swift motion, whilst holding him still.


She moved in and kissed him again, gently, and progressed downwards. His neck, collarbone, shoulders, abdomen and hips reacted wildly to the moist pursing of her lips, and the hot caresses of her tongue. No longer able to hold himself back, he moved his arms and reached for her breasts. Her nipples, erect and hard from the anticipation, aroused him even more.


She held her breasts together and squeezed him. He felt as if he was being torn apart and meld together at the same time. It was a sensation he could not fathom.


Her tongue moved where her breasts used to be, and he could not help but hold her head in his hands. She played with him, licking his shaft, teasing the tip with her now burning buds, and pecking it with her lips. She licked the slightest amount juice that came from him, and lovingly squeezed his manhood with her free hand. And in one breath she put him in her mouth.


Waves of wild pleasure flooded his entire being, and only became wilder when she moved her hips to meet his burning tongue.


Although he could not reach her, he knew for a fact that she was already wet, and when he lashed his tongue on her, she could not help but let out a very pleasurable moan.


Which only heightened his own longing. He played with her clit with his tongue so fast that she shook each and every time he stops. Slow, then fast, then slow, and as fast as his tongue could flick. She let out another moan, and he knew she came twice.


She moved again, and slid him inside her.


It was as if the heat was unbearable. The pleasure from the heat of their contact rose to an undescribeable level. Both of them tangled their hands on each other's hair. Their embrace was so tight that they could no longer discern from each other. They were one.


Wave upon wave, he held himself back, controlling his urge to ejaculate, which excited her even more. She knew he was injaculating the moment he stops and slows down his pace, and that upped her anticipation.


He moved her and made her lay on her back without breaking contact. That gave her more excitement, as she can feel him deep inside her.


He kissed her again. Their tongues looking for a reason to break contact, while finding none, and he slowly thrusts himself into her. He increased his pace, and her eyes start to roll around their sockets. She moans loudly, screaming his name, screaming "f uck" several times. She screamed for him to thrust harder and faster


So he did. He pumped himself like a ferrari, being careful not to overrev himself. They both didn't want it to end. Then she came once more.


She reached for him again, and he knew what she wanted.


"Take me from behind..."


Slowly, he eased himself out and she let out another moan. She turned and got on all fours and he gently slid inside her. He caressed her breasts who were vying for attention since he was on top of her and his hand bound by the bed. He held both breasts with one hand, and he reached for her slit with the other. He thrusts gently and hard at the same time whilst playing with her clit with his free hand. She reached for him and kissed him in what would be the most erotic kiss he has had since they started going to bed together. He was near.


And she knew it. He pumped faster while she moaned and screamed his name, and screamed for him to thrust harder.


He slid out and she instinctively reached for his throbbing hardness and sucked him till his eyes rolled in their sockets in turn.


They laid down, exhausted, and looked at each other lovingly, and started to kiss again. He could taste himself in her mouth, and he tasted as she did. He was still hard, and she pulled him again into her.



Edited by chunky
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Something by Karina Africa-Bolasco





I choose to come every noon

when I have the room all to myself.

Then I dare be fully bare.

I stretch out on the planks

and from their gaps heat spurts.

Making my flesh tingle

in all the special places.

My fingers tread lines of sweat

and catch pores popping.

I touch myself

as no one ever would:

the unders, the beneaths,

the tops, the beyonds,

and the in betweens.

All at once I feel your mouth,

like the heat, all over me.

Powerful hands cup my curves,

or whatever remains of them.

The searching legs lock mine.

The body, the heart,

smarting from unimagined wounds,

almost cringe

from imagined pleasure.

I pat my buttocks:

once, thrice.


It's just the heat.

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i don't know if lyrics count, but here goes anyway...


Hand Painted Sky

Color It Red



There's a hand painted sky

Out tonight, out tonight

And it's perfect, perfect

Perfect for love, perfect for us


Yeah, us

And as the night air cooled

The beads of perspiration

From my bow


I trembled in expectation

Of what is to come

When lips touch lips

And tongue meets tongue


Lips touch lips

And tongue meets tongue

My roaming hands

Begin to explore


Ask for more, ask for more

And as the night air called

The beads of perspiration

From my bow


I trembled in expectation

Of what is to come

Until my skin presses against your skin

And everything begins to peak

Slowly, gently, you thrust me deep.

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Jane Hirshfield


There is a painting of it: an eighteenth-century miniature from the Kangra School of India, of the lovers Krishna and Radha. In other paintings, they have sheltered together, stood under a canopy of invisibility among cows and the village girls who tend them. His hand has covered her breast. In other paintings, we have watched her prepare for him, behind the screen of a bedcloth held up by her friends. She is putting red dye on her nipples and the bottom of her feet, while he looks down from an upstairs window, smiling. His body is blue, his flute's notes possess a god's effortless irresistibility. But here it is different. Though her eyes and mouth turn toward him with undeniable longing, she stops him with one raised hand. Inscribed on the page are his words, "Hear me, hear what I ask," and hers - they nare simple, immediate - "I hear, my Lord." But still she is leaving, walking away. Though her torso turns back, her feet are already rising a little out of her slippers - the god, though not the viewer, can see the red dye as she goes. Under the silk of a sari so fine it could pass through the hoop of her earring, her nipples are standing.

Edited by Zerreit
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From the book Yellow Silk 2, International Erotic Stories & Poems, edited by Lily Pond...


Nice Girls Do It, Too

Dany Laferriere, translated bye Carrol F. Coates


At the last minute, Christina changes her mind, decided to stay home and rest. She hasn't felt well all afternoon. Of course, it may just be the beginning of a case of flu, but she doesn't want to go out in that state. There are times when she has the impression of being chilled to the bone (in a tropical country!). Since she arrived in Port-au-Prince, her greatest fear has been of catching malaria. She knows what she's going to do. She's going to fix a good toddy (rum, lemon, sugar). Then she will hop into bed with John Le Carre's latest novel. She likes his cool, refined sense of humor. That will make her evening. Harry will go to the Widmaiers' alone.


"Are you sure it doesn't bother you if I stay home, honey?"


"I'd rather you went with me, but, if you're not feeling well, honey... I'll just put in an appearance and come back as early as possible."


She knows Harry has nno intention of leaving the party before the last "interesting woman" has left - that is, any woman with protruding buttocks and full lips. Let's just say that Harry has a weakness for the young Haitian women who are always to be found at the Widmaier parties. But Christina is not jealous and Harry is no fool. He likes to come home. If he fantasizes about balck women, that's his business. In a way, it's nobody's business but his own. You have to realize that Christina is the brunette daughter of New York Jewish parents. She loves Woody Allen and her favorite writer (apart from Le Carre) is Philip Roth. So she appreciates humor and has a fairly pessimistic outlook on life. She followed Harry here, but she is herself a professor of comparative literature at the Union School. Harry is working at the American Embassy as a cultural attache. He is a slender person with a prominent forehead that makes him look vaguely like a sadistic killer. On the other hand, he has sparkling eyes and a sensuous mouth. You really can't put a label on him. As for Christina, she is somewhat uninteresting, with no lips or bottom, but bright and energetic. Men are attracted to her, curiously enough. At parties, there is always a cluster of men around her. But she distinctly prefers intellectual discussions over screwing. There's no way you can explain that to a man with an erection. So, as much as possible, she stays away from those social occasions that are simply pretexts for getting drunk and looking for sex. She has been particularly wary since a drunk pinched June's ass. June is their 17-year-old daughter, born in Manhattan. The name June doesn't really suit her. Harry named her after a character that had deeply attracted him in Henry Miller novels. That was the sort of femme fatale who had introduced Henry Miller to all aspects of hell. And of paradies. Harry's daughter has none of those traits. She is a classic beauty. A perfect oval, as they used to say. Her professors lover her. She is so gofted that she takes all her courses in French - a language that she learned only after they arrived in Port-au-Prince - and comes out with top grades. June never raises her voice. Always calm. She can always be found in her room working or listening to music. Her girlfriends have finally crossed her off their lists because they can never get her to come to their parties in Kenscoff or La Boule. With growing anxiety, Christina sometimes wonders whether right under her own eyes, her daughter is not becoming a nun. What had been just a joke between Christina and Harry is now becoming very serious - to the point that mother is now on the prowl in the interests of daughter.


"Know who I saw today, June?"


"Bob Samy."


"I know you, Ma. You've been talking about him for a week so I knew you would finally manage to get a hook on him."


Christina took a quick breath.


"Is it alright if I invited him to come for a game of badminton on Saturday?"


"Mom, I have an exam on Monday."


"But, honey, you study all the time. You should get some exercise."


"We do a lot of sports at school."


"Honey, sports isn't the only thing in life," Christina blurts out with an edge in her voice. "There are boys, too, and that helps us girls keep things in balance!"


"What do you mean, Ma?"




"Just kidding, Ma. I know what you mean, but I can tell you that I haven't got any balance problems."


Christina appears to be lost in thought for a moment.


"Honey, you know that the mind isn't everything."


"Why do you say that?" June asks a bit anxiously.


"I'm saying that because I fell into that trap myself, honey," Christina answers softly.


"I don't understand, Mom."


Christina takes a deep breath this time.


"OK. Well, I missed a lot of chances with men I was interested in because I went all out on the intellect side when I was a teen."


"I still don't get it."


"Good God! Listen, honey, there are times when only the body should speak. Nothing else, just the body. You can;t do anything about it - we're made like that. It's physical, June. It's natural. We're animals too, you know! Monkeys do it. Dogs do it. Birds do it. Plants probably do it too if we just knew. June, look me in the eyes. June..., your mother does it. Even nice girls do it. Do you understand?"


"I'm not stupid, Ma. I know all that."


"June, there's a big difference between knowing something and accepting it. Or experiencing it. It hurts me to see you following the same path I took. You know I've suffered because of it, and I want to help you avoid that pain before it's too late. I don't want you to be just an intellectual. I'd like for you to have a mind, of course, but I'd like for you to have... a body too. Understand?"


"Yes, Ma."


They talked a bit longer and then June went right back to her room to do her homework. Christina went to take more cold showers (menopause). Afterwards, she called her best friend, Carol, a young woman who works with Harry at the embassy. Carol has already been Harry's mistress (Christina knows), but he dropped her after he began hanging around with Haitian women.


"Carol, I told her everything. All of it, even the bit about the animal. I felt like a fool! She stayed calm as usual, but I know my daughter - I'm sure I shook her up. I had to - she's 17, and good-looking as she is, nobody ever calls except to ask for help with their homework. You think that's normal? What can I do? I had to take the bull by the horns. I planted the seed and I'll wait for it to bear fruit. Of course I'm concerned; what do you think! If she were to start going out with four guys at the same time! But I'd prefer that! I can't sleep anymore. I hear the timer ticking constantly and I try to guess when the bomb will explode. She seems to be storing up fantasies, holed up in her bedroom, you know. She has to get out and get some frsh air, meet boys, have fun, cut up - you know, that's important. Life is too crazy to take seriously, Carol. I want her to let go (Christina is crying), blow up, taste the apple of love (she is sobbing now). That's all I want for my daughter. You say that it's everything I haven't had. Of course I know that you can't change your own life through somebody else's. I've got to hang up. Harry just came back and he doesn't have any idea what's going on in this house. He thinks everything is fine. The sun, tropical fruit, Haitian women with beautiful asses; he's in paradies. There aren't any problems in paradise. I'll call you again."


That conversation took place exactly one week ago. Today Christina has a touch of fever and she's planning for a restful evening with a toddy and a good detective novel to be followed by a sound sleep. At the last minute, she decided not to go to her own room, but to the guest room instead. It's an attractive room, smaller than the master bedroom, but intelligently arranged and that makes it very comfortable. Christina likes to hole up in this room, which reminds her of her undergrad days when she had a little room close to Columbia University. At that time, she was torn between solitude and freedom. Let's say she preferred to be alone rather than free. She would spend her time reading Virginia Woolf even as she hoped somebody would knock at the door. Now, she reads nothing but detective fiction and Philip Roth (a good thing he publishes a novel a year) in order to try ease the migraine that never gives her any rest. At least this room gives her the impression of still being the young woman who was free and alone in the sixties. From this small room, you can see the porch where Absalom sleeps when Harry isn't at home. Absalom is the young man recommended by the Widmaiers. he's a real pearl, as Francoise Widmaier says. He's polite, hardworking, and very bright. Christina sometimes considers taking him back to New York when Harry's tour is over. He already speaks some basic English and understands everything you say to him. Harry likes him a lot because of his ready wit. his quickness at understaning all sorts of complex situations amazes harry every day. Absalom is already preparing his bed for the night. He has a room where he keeps his things at the back courtyard, but Harry asks him to sleep on the porch when he expects to reutrn late from evening funtions or those torrid nights with some "Annaise." That way, Abslaom could react immediately to any alert. There are assassins and thieves in the streets these days. Christina smiles as she thinks that nobody knows she is here since she made a last-minute decision to stay home. She can hear June going fown to get a glass of milk in the kitchen. She listens to her daughter's footsteps climbing the newly waxed stairway. It's strange, she tells herself with a smile, you can hear every sound from this room. She never noticed that before. It's a real sound room. Through the open window, she can hear each step Absalom takes on the porch. June is listening to the Billie Holiday record her mother gave her recently when she turned seventeen. "What a serious daughter!" She thinks. A bit unfathomable, too. She has the imperturbable look of an oriental. She's a quiet flame in the midst of a storm. Christina can imagine her sitting her room listening to the record and trying to decode the searing poetry of Billie Holiday's despairing song. Absalom is also listening to music, on the little radio close to his head. Haitian music. Very sensual, gay, lively. Music to dance by. Haitian music and painting have been an agreeable surprise to Christina since she came to Port-au-Prince. It's such a contrast to the miserable life people lead here. They are hungry, but they never stop creating that joyful music and that lively, colorful art. While we Americans, who have everything, never cease whining. Real pessimists. The Haitian is the absolute opposite of the New York Jew. Today's Americans are like a fast-food restaurant of despair. They never stop producing the same depressing hamburger, day and night. Man does not live by hamburgers alone, says the Bible. Woody Allen turns out a film every year. Philip Roth, a book. Our annual ration of bitterness. Bitter America. Poor people die. The rich despair. But here, we're so far from Manhattan at first. She has Manhattan snobbery in her veins. The radical chic of the seventies - that was the greatest. City lights, random murders, yellow taxis, the wet pavement, Cuban coffee, aggressive whores. That's the fast life! before, she missed all that. Not so much now. She remembers, with an enigmatic smile, that she could do in one day everything it takes her six months to do here.


"What's time?" she wonders without even attempting an answer.


She had been so lost in her thought she paid no attention to the curious rustling on the porch.


"Non, Mademoiselle June."


She listens


"No, Mademoiselle June, I don't want to lose my job. We can't go on... If Madame hears about this, I'll get fired."


"There's nobody here," June says drily.


Christina is in a sweat already. Her daughter, June, is coming on to a man. Their servant! Christina creeps over the floor to reach the wondow. Withought making the least noise, she raises her torso. She is all nerves. Finally, she can see Absalom. He is lying on his back with June astride him. A slight breeze is rustling the leaves of the magnificent tree that completely hides the porch from the eyes of the curious neighbors.


June calmly takes off her white blouse. Beneath June's firm breasts, Absalom keeps his eyes closed. The rosy nipples are erect. Christina is getting goose bumps. With a shiver, she thinks to herself: "My daughter is in heat." Fascinated, she keeps watching. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion. Time has grown limp. Christina is really tense. There's June, her June, calmly kissing Absalom's trousers. Down to the knees. Suddenly, she grabs hold of his white-hot penis and slips it under her skirt with no formalities. June closes her eyes for an instant at the moment of contact. Her tongue emerges to wet her lips. Abruptly, she seats herself on Absalom, with all her weight. Not a whimper. Time stops. The girl's nostrils flare and contract with increased rapidity. Another instant. Then a violent orgasm seizes her. Christina watches her daughter coming with the little squeals of a mouse caught in a trap. It's endless. And just as it's over, it returns more stronly and she has another orgasm. The cry of an invisble bird on the foliahe of the mango tree. June is galloping. She comes with her mouth wide open this time. Yelling. It's impossible to say whether it's a cry of pleasure or pain. Again! Desire puts her in agony this time. Like an animal trying to bite its own tail. Unbearable desire. A strident yell. It's as if she would stop but can't break off. She is galloping. Faster and faster. She bounds higher and higher. For the fraction of a second, Christina glimpses her delicate thatch of pubic hair. Drops of sweat are breaking out on her anxious forehead. The pleasure is intense. And the girl is all seriousness. She seems to keep articulating something. A prayer? Christina is silently weeping. That life (Absalom's penis) is inserted in the middle of her daughter's womb. A few abrupt movements. She rares back with her breasts pointing skyward. Her mouth is twisted ans she is moaning. She wants to rip her skin off. Pain. Spasms. Stop. Her body begins to move. Slowly. Gently. That unbearable sensation. Suddenly, she opens her eyes like somebody just emerging from a terrible nightmare. A few more sharp groans and another scream. She completely arches her back. The veins are standing out on her neck. "She's going to hurt herself." Christina suddenly thinks. But her face shows such an openly violent and penetrating pleasure that Christina lowers her eyes. It's a private moment. "I never felt that," Christina murmurs, letting herself slump back to the floor. She sobs for a long time, until sleep overtakes her in a foetal position.


Christina abruptly awakens when she hears Harry's car come in the gate. Suddenly, she starts: Harry absolutely must not find June there. She manages to calm herself before glancing over the windowsill. Nobody is on the porch. As if nothing has transpired. She hears Harry's steps on the stairs and the passionate voice of Billie Holiday ("Strange Fruit") coming from June's room.

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Commas: A Boy Writes Of His Clitoris

Gary Scott


With pause,

evening aureoles appear -

a constellation of two, of mirrors.


Yet, I could not see what was most curious,

where vulva was murmur,


and I was a mutable weave, a cat's cradle

of new twill, a song of

small green.

But twirls shush the syntax, redefine lace, posses and I.


Fingers spread with structure,

(I can see that now),

houring space,

thick silk, outlining



the evolving O, and then O the tightness of heat

threading away like static, like clarity.

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  • 3 weeks later...
  • 4 weeks later...

Hi bustero, the old thread was closed, and then deleted I think. :)


Anonymous Songs

Edward Smallfield


naked under your dress

slap of water against the pier

tell me what country this is


all day the widow weaves

at night she separates the threads

one for each artery


slowly you erase

then with one stroke

ignite me again

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  • 8 months later...

hey.. this maybe a little ot.. but i use to have this book by tobsha lerner.. forgot the damn title but ilove the contents.. maybe any of u could enlighten me of his works so i can find the book again. this friend of mine lost it when he borrowed it. i really love the way she wrote erotica. thanks and more power to this thread i enjoyed reading the posts..

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  • 5 months later...

Just the thought of him touching her was enough to raise her body heat. And he knew it when he touched her bare skin. Her knowing looks from across the room may escape a young and uninitiated boy who has no idea what the same word spoken differently meant at all, but he needed not to hear words. He could see by the look in her eyes and how she pouts her lips that she wanted more than just sleep in his bed, despite her usual excuse of doing so. He had to finish work, and the agony of waiting for him only made her hotter.


She stood up from the the bed, already naked, and like a stalking cat tiptoed her short way to where he was angrily crunching his keyboards. She pulled him, needingly, to the bed, like she had done quite a few times before. The email had done sending, he thought, and the rest of the job, he could do a bit later.


There was another job that needed attending to, and he knew the consequences of making it wait for longer than usual.


He was right. As soon as he laid down she began kissing him hungrily, like it was the first time of anticipating the inevitable. She tried her best not to fumble from her anxiety, but failed dismally. He didn't mind her fumbling. He made her wait, and she could wait no longer. She pulled his shorts away as fast as she could and grabbed hold his throbbing erection. She tried to hold back a bit and slowed down, and teased the tip of his manhood with light pecks and licks. But she was fooling herself, and he knew it. She took him in an inch at a time, sucked and licked in steps and successions like only she could do to him, and he gave a light moan that only made her want him more.


He was more erect this time, and despite her impatience, she took her time swallowing his entirety until he could no longer contain his pleasure. He braced himself on the headboard, and tried his best not to lose his self control, which, he knows was one of the "better" qualities she likes about him when doing the deed.


He could feel her skin burning through his and his anticipation grew. She willfully forced his legs apart with her free hand and continued to alternately suck and lick him. She lightly sucked on his pair of babymakers, which were larger than most she has seen, and she knows he's proud of the lot. So proud, that he allowed her the pleasure of holding them in her cupped hands each and every time.


She moved up and kissed him longingly, probing his mouth for his tounge. He can taste himself in her mouth, a taste that he liked so much that he immediately kiss after she swallows him. He knew why women loved swallowing him.


Without him noticing it, she arched her back and positioned her hips at just the right angle. In one skillful motion, his erection found her love spot, which was all wet and ready for him to subdue. She took him in slowly until he was in entirely, and she moaned lightly in his ear. He held her hips, controlling her motions, which was increasing in frequency and intensity. She knew how to control her muscles, which gave him more pleasure each and everytime. He cupped her buttocks with each hands, and squeezed them so tight she opened up and made him come in deeper, like he wasn't deep enough to begin with. And simultaneously he sucked on her unbelievably erect nipples that had been waiting all night for the mysterious skill he does with her that heighten he pleasure even more.


She knew he was in control. She knew he never loses control until the right moment. She could tell it by the way he suddenly holds her to stop, and she could hear his controlled breaths to control his desire and push his pleasure back.


He pulled out and she laid on her back, and this time he was not going to show her mercy. He easily found her hole and probed deep. He changed his speed so much and so abruptly it drove her crazy. He was unpredictably precise each and every time, and she screamed when he pumped harder. She recognized that controlled breathing as only his. It drove her crazy that this man, her constant lover, her fiercesome equal, has actually subdued her with his patience and control. It drove her crazy that this man actually holds back when others have not.


It drove her crazy that he made an effort to keep his pleasure back so that she can achieve hers.


And willingly, she surrendered herself to the intense and unpredictable lovemaking of this man turned animal, to the point of lunacy. She has given up not wanting him. And the thought of him making love to another woman and doing what he does best only made her want him more.


He came as she did. And they both knew it wasn't over.

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  • 4 weeks later...

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