The Erotica Blog

you there / lost in sleep in the luxury of our thousand-dollar Paris suite while I'm wide awake four a.m. / I have a spatula and a bell crock of butter so I start glazing your forehead / and just as on your morning toast the butter softens on contact / spreads so smoothy / yet you don't wake / I move on to your cheeks and chin with little swirls like icing a wedding cake / you give a soft snort of delight but that's probably just a dream / you are always so happy in your drea

Sophia pressed her thighs together under the café table and tried to look casual, but the ache throbbed so insistently she feared the barista might notice the flush rising from her collarbone. It had started the night before, a sudden craving that slid through her like warm liquor: she wanted to be drenched—spattered, painted, utterly soaked—by a man’s cum. Nothing else would quiet the hunger. The fantasy returned every few minutes, scalding her thoughts until her panties clu

Money's pulse fluttered against the hollow of her throat as she stepped out of the bathroom, towel knotted loosely above her breasts. Steam trailed her into Claude's bedroom, carrying the faint scent of eucalyptus oil she loved. He waited, propped against the headboard like a lazy prince, phone already on the night-stand, the covers folded down with hotel-crisp precision. A small bottle of clear massage oil clicked when he tugged it from the drawer. "Come here," he murmured.

The arch triumphal, raised above your head, pointe flexed and strapped to idol-worshipped calf – stiff-necked and flat, you stare up at that red. She executes adeptly her piaffe (she deftly steps). Her dress, brushing your chin, whiffs perfume from beneath black silken sheen. Startling stabs from her stiletto pin alert you to the turn in her routine: the piercing spear that punctures your conceit. You flinch - so swiftly she brings you to heel. Wickedly she’ll whisper, then r

The bass line thumped through the oak floorboards, vibrating up Georgiana’s heels and straight into the warm, hazy fog alcohol had wrapped around her thoughts. Her cheeks burned, flushed from three—no, four—whiskeys, and the humid crush of bodies inside the Rabbit Hole  pub. She leaned one hip against the bar’s brass rail, half listening to Chloe rant about their boss, half admiring how her own manicured fingers looked against the sweating glass. She laughed too loudly; the s

This Title Love is a pill like you wouldn’t believe and I’m Standing at the edge of a morning that does not Remember night, for that was...

In the realm of literature, poetry, though severely underserved, acts as a vessel for emotional expression and exploration of intimate...