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

Letters between two lovers My Love, I don’t even know where to begin, except to say that I’ve replayed that first night in my head so many times that the memory of it still makes my cock twitch just thinking about it. You have to understand—I’d wanted you for so long before that, had imagined what it would be like to finally have you, to taste you, to feel you lose control because of me. But nothing, nothing, could have prepared me for the reality of it. For the way you looke

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

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

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To Constance V. Plumley You knew how long it had been. I’d told you enough. The first and only time a man had taken me had been in the...

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...

After a whole year’s planning and waiting, I finally met Hua again. Last year, it was in Zhuhai where we became physically united for the...

Some more wonderful and unique photographs and poetry. I'm struck by the juxtaposition between pleasure and pain, sight and blindness, as...

Are you vulnerable? Vulnerable or Vulnerability sounds awfully scary nowadays, although in some circles and certain contexts it is...