The Erotica Blog

Titian - Venus of Urbino On linens sun-dried white, in soft repose, with strawberry-gold braids and ivory skin, she shows off all the work that’s been put in and turns her head to better frame the nose. Tiene con noncuranza un mazzo di rose (her servants fetch a vase to put them in, and a dress, lest her betrothed come in and find his Nyssia too long exposed). Her costume, the High Renaissance ideal, is his, not hers. Though this she does not speak, the women in their hastine

Modigliani’s Nu couché (Reclining Nude) Préférez-vous les Odalisques d’Henri Matisse or Venus, or Louis Fratino's dudes? My go-tos are Modigliani's nudes whose show was shut down by the French police. The red one - IMO, his masterpiece, speaks through her pose: "come close - I'm in the mood." Her directness is empowering, not crude, just pure and honest, without artifice. She lived in Midtown but has since moved far, where I'd be black bagged if I tried to go because I tagged

We must discuss this, Gus. It concerns Jo. Don’t act as if you don’t know what I mean. I heard your rendering caused quite the scene with the Salon, when you unveiled it at the show. You took my heart and put it on a screen, revealing what all Paris wants to know: whether she’s got the fire down below – not just above, but also in between. Unveil it now, my rival, or we fight! It’s one thing for you to have her in the sack but another thing to put her on display! Well now, th

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