Sunday, May 31, 2009

"To the Devil in You"

Worship my cock.
Crucify it in your cunt.
Resurrect it with your mouth

What is Sensuality? aliveness, an openness, a curiosity to life and love and eros...a generosity of spirit, a caring touch, the arousal of all the senses, an embrace of art and attunement to the rhythms of life, its music, its poetry...a capacity to sense the soul through the body, the spirit through the flesh, and desire in a look, a caress, a's listening with sensitivity to words, the body, our's reading each other's mind and needs and desires through the simplest, slightest's being in a flow....attuned to nature...and responsive to each other mentally, emotionally,'s being graceful and's a heightened receptivity of the's a parting of lips to the kisses of the world

The Labial Kiss of the Upper Lips

From Diane Ackerman's essay on "Kissing" in A Natural History of Love:

"According to the anthropologists, the lips remind us of the labia, because they flush red and swell when aroused, which is the conscious or subconscious reason women have always made them look even redder with lipstick."

"Kissing, we share on breath, open the sealed fortress of our body to our lover. We shelter under a warm net of kisses....Setting out on a caravan of the other's body, we map the new terrain with our fingertips and lips, pausing at the oasis of a nipple, the hillock of a thigh, the backbone meandering riverbed. It is a kind of pilgrimage of touch, which leads to the temple of our desire...."

"So, anthropologically at least, a kiss on the mouth, especially with all the plunging of tongues and the exchanging of saliva, is another form of intercourse. No surprise that it makes the mind and body surge with gorgeous sensations."

Given the similitude between a woman's upper and lower lips, it's fun to play with this likeness in a kiss (or a sequence of kisses).

Here's my suggestion for a type of sensual kissing: a labial kiss of the upper lips.

Let the man pretend that the upper lips are the labial lips, and let him kiss these lips slowly, very slowly, as if his tongue and kisses are making the lower lips of a woman petal-open and honeyed-up.

The tongue, in this labial kiss, can be very teasing, just touching and tantalizing one lip at a time, sliding with grace and a bit of poignant pressure, back and forth along the upper lips, before descending to do the same for the lower lip....and before sliding the tongue deeper into the mouth.

It can be most fun if the woman pretends to be a bit coy, as if defending the castle or inner sanctum of her most womanly self, with something of a moat: the lips can be very wet and moist, but the drawbridge remains up, resisting entry...for a time.

The labial kissing can be very mind-blowing or mind altering: The upper lips are horizontal, not vertical, but if the analogy is felt by both partners, heads can be adjusted by 90 degrees, so the upper lips can be approached vertically as well, in closer simulacrum to cunnilingus.

The erotic imagination can be so powerful: The labial lip kiss can become even more exciting and playful if the man imagines that in the corner of the lips, right where top and bottom lips merge together, there is located an imaginary clitoris that can be taken and teased by the tip of the tongue.

I daresay that 15-20 minutes of beautiful kissing in this labial style...with a man taking time to part open the upper lips and then to tango slowly and beautifully inside with the woman's tongue once entrance has been secured will shorten the time necessary to part open the lower lips of a woman.

Indeed, when the upper lips have been taken beautifully, the lower ones will be begging as much for the touch that opens them up as a garden flower desires the morning rays of sun.

The above description is for the man on top position and the woman the bottom, but it can be very hot--and instructive--for a switch to occur: Let the woman take the man's lips and kiss his lips in a way that reveals how she loves to be taken by the tongue down below.

Yes, women, if you've ever wanted to gently instruct a man how to pleasure you down below, just take his upper lips by finger and tongue the same way you love to be taken down below, doing unto his upper lips what you love done unto your lower lips.

And don't be shy about using a finger as an instructional pointer, parting open and entering and then trusting into his mouth as you love to be taken by finger and cock down below

Paean to Logos & Eros

(An update on Langston Hughes' "Advice" in ten words or less for each stanza)


The reciprocity
verbal and
and partake

Be crushed by


and kiss back

Be wanton

with words


Get mused with


Fuck with


Love with





On a bookstore prowl, I come across, leather bound, a rare book, the object of many early quests, and a very rare woman, the object (she must be) of many men's quest.

The initial object of my desire: an 18th century edition of the Old French Romance, Lancelot du Lac. The new provocation: A beautiful woman bound in black leather pants with a purple silk blouse, as alluring to me as the jacarandas in Los Angeles when they bloom in late April.

Can you judge a book by its cover? Sometimes. I am thus amused and not startled when I overhear her ask a clerk for Tobsha Learner's Quivers and a collection of contemporary erotica and love poetry.

Can you judge a book by its binding? A better bet than the cover. Just look down the spine. Contemporary publishers often deceive us: they give us a hard back cover but paste the pages to the spine, the same as a paperback book. The leather bound and hand sewn quality of this woman seems to be no delusion.

I run into the Black Leather Woman a second time, waiting at the elevator. We enter and punch up different floors. While ascending, I make her an offhand suggestion. "If you are looking for interesting erotica, especially poetry, don't forget the classics."

She looks at me a bit quizzically, then asks, "What do you have in mind specifically?"

I mention a few authors and titles. She thanks me for the suggestions, and gets off, the doors opening for her floor.

We meet again later in the classics section, a small room off on the fourth floor. We smile in recognition, and she asks me again for my recommendations.

I suggest Aristophanes' Lysistrata, Catullus, Ovid, Theocritus, the King James version of "The Song of Solomon," and, first and foremost, Sappho.

I find her a copy, and she reads: "I confess....I love that which caresses me....My tongue is broken...a thin flame runs under my skin...I drip with sweat...trembling shakes my body...I turn paler than dry grass....If you will come...I shall put out new pillows for you to rest on..."

Her eyes glint, her lips purse, her limbs loosen, she exhales, then remarks, "This is's remarkable... The words pierce me and curl inside. When I was 14, 18 this stuff always seemed so dry. What else is good? Do you have time to talk?"

Yes, I did have time, but Sappho proved no Gallehault. We just read and talked more and more that day.

We left the bookstore, several new books in her hands, and went for an espresso at a French bistro next door, and we kept talking, through the evening (as the espressos gave way to dinner) about literature, language, words, my career as as a professor of literature, her interests in writing, fiction, film, life.

And for months, we kept talking, just talking and conversing: through letters, emails, meetings for lunch, about logos and eros, language and the sensual. She had her lovers, female as well as male. I had my wife and three children. The conversations about all of them except my kids were relatively flat, straight, and short--mostly Hemingway prose, simple nouns and adjectives: fine, the same, ok, some pleasure, frustration, hope, some interest, a possibility, a lie.

The conversations about the literature, however, were bliss, the pleasures of the text: something of a menage a trois of Virginia Woolf, Tom Stoppard, and Octavio Paz talking, debating, pronouncing, condemning, celebrating, taking joy, giving pleasure.

Almost a year after our first meeting, she calls, thrilled, and asks me to meet her at the restauarant again next to our bookstore. She's dressed more formally than usual--a black silk dress with sheer black lace stockings. She orders my favorite dishes for us to share: an avocado and melon salad with a lime and cayenne pepper dressing and Coquilles St. Jacques.

After dinner, she asks for the best champagne and presents me with a gift: a copy of a literary journal containing her first story in print. The title: "The New Paradiso, Canto V." The epigraph is from Sappho: "I confess...I love that which caresses me." We exult, we toast, we kiss, and we toast again and again.

"What's it about?," I ask.

"Oh, it's rather unbelievable. A literature professor in California and an English woman seduce each other through the internet; he introduces her to Sappho, she has a muse of fire, and they light up the screen."

"How does it end," I ask.

"It's more a Hollywood than an Alina Reyes ending. No mystification. When they finally meet, they make words flesh in the classics section of a London bookstore."

Silly story, I think to myself. We almost finish the bottle of champagne, and she leaves me to read the story as she must go off for a date.

I read the story with pleasure, noting my favorite lines, the ones that hit first the spine and rush up it, as if we have a wick inside us that can be lit up at the top into a flame by words: "My cover opened, my pages turned, my spine inspected, leather bound....The erotic must unfold slowly, like petals opening before the morning sun....Men are wonderful at listening to themselves talk; woman at listening to others....I am just so coquettish with you--a nymph dancing in your mind....Having bitten the apple you will remain in paradise."

At the end of the story, she has inscribed a note. "If you want me to thank you the proper way, I'm yours in the classic section. Take me. (I never wear anything underneath a black silk dress)."

The Paradiso is the story of incarnation: The word made flesh. Life must imitate art. Let the word be made flesh. He entered the bookstore. They read no more that night.

Footnote 1. Here is the ending of Dante, The Inferno, Canto V, the story of Paolo and Francesca:
"One day for pastime, we read of Lancelot, how love constrained him; we were alone, suspecting nothing. Several times that reading urged our eyes to meet and took the color from our faces, but one moment alone it was that overcame us. When we read how the longed-for smile was kissed by so great a lover, this one, who never shall be parted from me, kissed my mouth all trembling. A Gallehault was the book and he who wrote; that day we read no farther in it."

Footnote 2. Gallehault was one of the characters in the Old French roman, Lancelot du Lac. During Gallehault's residence at King Arthur's court a warm friendship developed between him and Lancelot, who confided his love for Queen Guinevere. Gallehault arranged for the two to meet. In the course of this interview, Gallehault urged the queen to kiss Lancelot--and so began the adulterous passion between those two. From the part he played on this occasion, the name of Gallehault, like that of Pandarus, became a synonym for 'go-between.'

Grammatical Erotica: Tips for Sexing Up Prose

I come not to correct grammar, but to offer four basic points of advice for invigorating prose--a quadruple dose of verbal Viagra.

Here, now, for those who slept through Composition 101, let me offer some advice on writing that will never show up in a high school classroom.

Note: Each of the following four points will be developed in a subsequent post.

I. To write sexy, potent, thong-dropping prose, deploy strong verbs.

II. Become master of all the forms of punctuation.

III. To allure in prose, create original metaphors, as metaphor is to literal language what eroticism is to sex.

IV. Our writing style should vary according to mood, context, and subject just as our style of lovemaking should vary.

Grammatical Erotica, Part 1

To write sexy, potent, thong-dropping prose, deploy strong verbs.

At a moment of passion, the writer of limp prose declares, "Sexual pleasure is the most wonderful thing in life." It's true, but the phrasing is pathetic: The writer turns to the weakest of verbs, "is," to make this declaration. The writer has to pump up his prose at this point.

"To be" verbs just deflate a sentence. It would be ok to use "is" in a sentence to make a more tepid point. For instance, "Like masturbation, reading The New York Review of Books is a wonderful pleasure." But to use "is" in a sentence where you are describing the wonderful pleasures of sex conveys all the enthusiasm for sex that as a couple married for twenty years in an amiable relationship might summon up as they are about to make love on Saturday night from 11:20--11:35 pm.

The only way I would allow a writer to get by using "is" in such a sentence about sex is if the writer declared, "Sex is fucking great. Nothing beats it. Not even reading The New York Review of Books naked in a bath by candlelight."

A writer needs to insert some added emphasis--some vibration, if you will--into a sentence if he is going to use "is": For example, "I feel that sexual pleasure, heightened by eroticism or love, is the most wonderful thing in life."

Or the writer could be at once more romantic and more eloquent and more humorous if he or she wrote, "I feel that sexual pleasure surpasses all other wonders of life; yet too often we let opportunity for this joy pass us by, constrained as we are by a host of social conventions."

Here's another phrase that needs some verbal Viagra: "My desire is to have sex with you tonight." Instead, try "I want to make you sweat," or, more concise, "I want to fuck you," or, be more suggestive, "I want to make love to you all night long."

The best choice of words depends, very much, on the audience and the occasion, so that there are certainly times when "My desire is to make love to you" is the appropriate phrase, but other times, when the straight, bold, emphatic "Take me" (or "Fuck me") works best, and, yes, at times, you can and should be wordy, so that to get the point across repetition or verbosity is not a bad idea, as in, "Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me....yes, Yes. YES."

Saturday, May 30, 2009

Grammatical Erotica, Part II

Become master of all the forms of punctuation.

1. Comma

The comma is to punctuation what the missionary position is to sex: It's basic, common, necessary, and overused. To write sexy, potent, thong-dropping prose, we should draw upon the full range of punctuation, not limiting ourselves to the comma. Alas, the English language offers far fewer possibilities for punctuation than the Kama Sutra does for sex, but a mastery of at least four more "positions"--the dash, the colon, the semicolon, and the parentheses--can do wonders for variety and rhythm in prose.

2. Semicolon

The semicolon is like changing positions during sex; it offers alteration of direction without loss of continuity—something like a woman switching from cowgirl to reverse cowgirl without getting off the cock. Or since semicolons make a merger of two independent yet compatible sentences, we can think of the semicolon as a polyamorous couple hook-up; two sentences, which could stay apart, get linked together to form a more intriguing, complex sentence thanks to the semicolon.

3. Colon

The colon offers possibility for a more dramatic change than the semicolon. It stops—but just for a moment—the flow of sentence, as it grabs attention for what follows. When we use the colon, the shift is not from one position to another: Instead it’s like moving from vaginal to anal intercourse. You need to be careful, however, not to insert more than one colon in the same sentence: Otherwise it gets too confusing for the reader. But consider this analogy: The masterful insertion of a colon and a semicolon in the same sentence can be a blissful overload; it is the DP—the double punctuation--of grammar-fucking.

4. The Dash

The dash rocks; it may be my favorite mark of punctuation. The employ the dash at an intriguing point in a sentence—damn, it's like inserting fingers inside a pussy during cunnilingus. The dash adds some verve--indeed intensity--to a sentence. You can, like Faulkner, circle around and around with long sentences, sentences that just go on and on, as if you are writing them on a hot, lazy summer day in Mississippi, and you are writing as if to capture the rhythms of oral speech or tale telling in your prose, but the reader feels you don't know how to unfold the point and proceed more sharply, so then you need something quicker and faster--the dash--to speed things up. For enhanced vigor, or to give your prose some verbal Viagra, you can insert at least two dashes or maybe even three or four in a sentence. Right now, my dear, I want to unfold you--tongue you--and wiggle-waggle two...three...four fingers inside of you, honeying you up and making you as petal-open as a flower receiving the first morning ray of sunshine.

5. The Exclamation

Confession: I was tempted to use an exclamation mark at the end of the last sentence. But the exclamation mark--despite its wonderfully phallic shape (!)--is my least favorite form of punctuation. The exclamation mark annoys me as much as underlining. It's like the way Oliver Stone uses music in his movies: he pounds the point into you, bludgeoning your ear, when something less loud, less insistent would be more effective. (Meanwhile, the parentheses intrigues and allures.)

6. The Parentheses

Just as it can be so much fun to insert two or three or maybe even four fingers inside a woman while going down on her, it can similarly intrigue and excite to insert two or three--maybe even four or five--forms of punctuation in the same sentence: the colon, the semicolon, the parentheses, and the dash. (The ellipsis also should never be neglected.)

7. Ellipsis

Now the ellipsis, like beautiful lingerie, can intrigue and allure. It’s at once breathtaking and suggestive. You see it, and it gives you pause, but you know it’s linked to something that will follow, so you must go forward. Or maybe the ellipsis is like when you are fooling around in bed in a hotel and the housekeeper knocks and then she enters...everything just stops, for a bit...or it should stop...but with passionate, uninhibited lovers, it's just a comma of a pause, a suspended moment, as they are cool, natural, unashamed, and, if interrupted, they just wrap each other up in their arms, smile...and then continue. Or, to try another metaphor, an ellipsis is like when you move from kissing and tonguing nipples in foreplay to move ower a series of short, quick kisses..... from bosom to belly button....and then when you are all the way down there.... just lingering kisses and licks…..between and below…and bit inside…then more inside….then…..xoxoxoxo.

8. The Period.

The period is inevitable. It brings a stop to the sentence. But just because a period happens does not mean the end of the paragraph. After a period, we can start a new sentence, resuming, if you will, verbal intercourse.

9. The Question Mark

The question mark—particularly when used in a rhetorical question—can’t it be so damn sexy? Isn’t the question mark something akin to the look? You know what look I’m talking about, don’t you? What can be more exciting to a man then when a woman gives him that look? Are you man enough to take me? Are you up for the luckiest night of your life? Are you ready to rise to the challenge? Can you fuck me in a way I’ll never forget?

10. Of course, when it comes to the language of lovemaking, forget style, grammar, etc...and just moan.

Grammatical Erotica, Part III

To allure in prose, create original metaphors, as metaphor is to literal language what eroticism is to sex.

Literal language is naked, plain, stripped down, functional. Metaphorical language is nude: it's alluring, sensual, charged, electric--it's lovemaking as ecstatic union.

Metaphorical language is bliss: it's bringing together differences; it's uniting opposites; it's the tongues of lovers twisting and twirling together; it's arranging the shape and sound of words in unusual but smooth and alluring ways, a linguistic 69.

Plain language is routine, missionary. Metaphorical language is language at play.

Metaphor renders words unchaste, promiscuous. They lose their bond to an old relationship. They assume new meanings, new relationships, new associations.

Language has its rules of grammar and syntax. But the best writers become grammar breakers and dictionary defiers: they free words from their traditional meanings. So instead of telling someone "love is great," you write (as I steal from Katrina and the Waves), "Love is like walking on sunshine."

But if you want to write a story more complex than something found in most three minute pop songs, offer a more complex argument: "Love is not just like walking on sunshine; it can be like walking on broken glass [Annie Lennox]; or it can be a battlefield (Pat Benatar)….or a red, red, rose.

Finally, I must emphasize again: When it comes to the language of lovemaking, the best dirty talk is wordless. Forget style, grammar, etc...and just moan.

Grammatical Erotica, Part IV

Our writing style should vary according to mood, context, and subject just as our style of lovemaking should vary.

Just as there are times and places—-and, I hope, willing partners--for hot, quick, fast, spontaneous combustion sex, there are times and places for short, simple prose. OMG, yes: It’s morning. I’m half-sleep. I’m hard. Kiss me awake. Squeeze my balls. Mount me quick, and fuck me fast and furious, Hendrix riffing on the guitar.

But we all know there are also times and places for long, complex sentences and for our love supreme: the extensive, almost never ending lovemaking of slow hands and languorous kisses....of intimate talk and the arousal of all the senses....the lovemaking that begins early in the evening, long before a bedroom is entered, with a man looking a woman in the eye and listening to her carefully through the dinner he’s prepared for her....and ends with her riding him cowgirl into the sunrise of a new morning, taking him as slowly as the dawn coming up.

The sex between these lovers, when the clothes finally come off, takes on the trajectory of a sentence composed by Proust or Faulkner in all of its sinuous rhythms and with all of its twists and turns: His initial kiss, like a startling metaphor in the opening phrase, captures her attention and sets a tone, and his next kisses trace all along the contours of her body, pausing in places, on one nipple and then the other, like a sentence held up for a pause by a comma, and then the woman is softened and pulled apart by the touches down there, her loins opened, her lower lips parted, an open parentheses calling out for an exclamation point inside of it (!).

Now the lovemaking becomes all Hemingway. No flowery prose. Just hard pounding sentences. One after the other. Fast strokes of the pen. Action verbs. Prose stripped naked. Nothing cute. Sentences pounded out on the typewriter like fucking a woman doggie style. Drive each sentence home. Get to the point. Make her quiver. Fuck her with exclamation points!!! You've got her panting now. Short breaths. Shorter words. Do it to me. More. Don't stop. Yes. Yes. Yes. Ohh. Oh! O!!!.

Concupiscence: An Orgasmic Dessert

Melt the chocolate in a heavy saucepan over water. Add the egg yolks, espresso, and creme de cacao.

I love the moment when the moistened folds deep inside of you become like heavy cream beaten, soft and thick, concupiscent, your pussy the bowl, my fingers the beater.

As I go down on you, I am reminded of all the desserts I love best, the ones of luscious ambiguity, neither liquid nor solid, but a combination of both: mousse, Key Lime pie, vanilla ice cream, soufflé, a banana split, creme brule, raspberries.

Stir together till smooth.

I dip my finger into your bowl. Your pussy holds me in rapt attention, and I want to suspend time, luxuriating inside of you, Ulysses remaining on Circe's island. I stir gently, no desire to depart.

If the mixture hardens, warm gently and stir till smooth.

As I feel you starting to firm, I start warming you gently, one hand over your heart, caressing your breast, the other smoothing you out, palm over labia, a finger stroking each lip, deliberately, persistently, then up inside, circling in the come hither motion, a spatula stirring inside the bowl.

Then let cool.

I look at your face, and I listen to your breathing, slow at first, then quicker. I pull out my fingers and let you lick them like a father giving his child a spoon of cookie dough behind the mom's back. You are ravenous. You lick fervently. You have taken me beautifully today, waking me with a kiss, feeding the morning hunger of our skin and heart, gorging on me, then straddling me, letting me drink from your cup of morning juices. It's my solace, my joy, to reciprocate.

Beat the egg whites with salt till they hold soft peaks.

I love raspberries. They are my favorite dessert, just eating them straight. I love to watch nipples become taut, berried up, on the peak of a bosom. I tongue and twist and bite-love your nipples. They hold their peaks.

Add the sugar, a tablespoon at a time, beating after each addition. Continue beating 5 more minutes, or until stiff.

I grab you by your heels, spread you apart, and admire. I stroke myself before your eyes, flaunting my hardness, my thickness. I kneel before you, reverently, and enter inside, gradually. I go deep, rise up, go deep again, and repeat, the ancient leitmotiv. Fold the whipped cream into the egg whites and then fold in the chocolate mixture. We rock and undulate together, primally, soulfully, folding ourselves into one.

If you have time to be fancy, serve with a sauce made by blending 1 cup heavy cream, whipped into soft peaks, with 1/2 cup sour cream.

Our dessert is almost complete: My heavy cream whipped until stiff, folded into your ½ cup sour cream. Only one step left.

....add 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

I pull back, almost out, then bury myself deep inside of you, my most manly stroke yet. As we kiss, I still myself, letting you clench me again and again, eventually extracting my cock into ecstasy. The vanilla spills into the bowl.

Pour into a large glass bowl or a soufflé dish with a waxed-paper collar (or covered jar if it's just for late night fixes) and store in the freezer until 15 minutes before serving.

We spoon together into the dessert, feeding it to each other's lips. Later in the night, we remove the bowl from the freezer, giving ourselves a second helping.*

Recipe for Chocolate Wickedness

The most sensuous dessert I have ever tried is something called Chocolate Wickedness, an intense mousse-like concoction where the chocolate is intensified with espresso and creme de cacao.

Here's the recipe for Chocolate Wickedness

1 1/2 pounds semisweet chocolate
4 egg yolks
1/2 cup espresso coffee
1/2 cup creme de cacao
8 egg whites
Pinch of salt
1/4 cup sugar
1 cup heavy cream, whipped

Melt the chocolate in a heavy saucepan over water. Add the egg yolks, espresso, and creme de cacao. Stir together till smooth. (If the mixture hardens, warm gently and stir till smooth. Then let cool.) Beat the egg whites with salt till they hold soft peaks. Add the sugar, a tablespoon at a time, beating after each addition. Continue beating 5 more minutes, or until stiff. Fold the whipped cream into the egg whites and then fold in the chocolate mixture. Pour into a large glass bowl or a soufflé dish with a waxed-paper collar (or covered jar if it's just for late night fixes) and store in the freezer until 15 minutes before serving. (It's great frozen, too.)

If you have time to be fancy, serve with a sauce made by blending 1 cup heavy cream, whipped into soft peaks, with 1/2 cup sour cream and 1 teaspoon vanilla extract.

The Erotic Spiral

You are walking around the hotel room in nothing but one of my shirts.

I am walking around in nothing but jeans. We embrace and begin a long kiss.

Your hand slides down to my crotch. You feel my surging manhood, and you surge with its jolt to your womanhood.

You break the kiss to purr in my ear. I grasp you by your bottom, pull you into me, and I take your neck with kisses as I whisper into your ear.

I straddle your thigh and grind into you with my hips. I want you to feel all that you have done to me. I want you to feel the force of my desire.

You have spurred me so hard, so beautifully with your words, your sensuality, your strength, your intelligence.

I love all that is fierce and independent and powerful in you...and your wantonness...your unabashed, tomboyish, tomcattish embrace of lustful lovemaking.

You reach down and feel me hard and strong, and I stop you. I pull back from you.

I take you over by the desk. In front of the mirror, I undo the buttons of your shirt, one by one, slowly.

With each undone button, I open the shirt a bit more, just as I want your legs to spread for me when I start kissing you behind your knees, inside your loins.

I love looking at your eyes in the mirror as I take you from behind with kisses and caresses.

When the shirt is undone, I motion you to the bed, and whisper, "I want you to play for me."

You lie on the bed and play with yourself beautifully, sending powerful surges of lust through meI pull off my jeans and I stand before you at the foot of the bed.

I love showing off what you have done to me. I love showing you how to take me.

You urge me on with your own playing, circling yourself, caressing yourself, quickening your pace. I love watching you coyly take yourself, moaning softly.

The erotic spiral begins.

I increase my own tempo, bringing it on, charging myself up.

You echo me in call-and-response, taking yourself more quickly, with more intensity, screwing yourself up tight, adding twist upon twist to the rubber band inside of you that, when released, will set you soaring.

I pump myself up harder and harder, my face scrunching up, all of me taut, stretched out between two heart and yours.

You know that I am close. You start mouthing words to me, urging me to come, begging me to shoot my juices all over you.

I come right to the edge of the bed, eyeing where I want to cum on you.

But I hesitate. You look so beautiful. I let go of myself and begin to tongue you.

You lie back giving yourself to me. I kneel down giving myself to you.

We slow down our slide down the spiral.

I tongue you tenderly, almost lazily, gradually licking up and down each labial lip, before honing down inside.

Your pussy feels so ripe, so soft.

I split you open, and I marvel at what I see: Your desire, and your clit budding before me.

It's so intimate. I myself am too shy to look for too long.

I insert one, then two fingers into you, and your pussy dances for me, following my lead, pirouetting on my fingers.

We kiss, and you reach for my cock, wanting it inside of you.

I turn you over, on all fours, and you look back at me, smiling.

I signal you with a hand pressed up inside your loins to spread open a bit more, and you do.

I am smiling because I know this will be a fuck that will mean one thing simply: I love you, and I want to give you pleasure, and I want you to feel the power and joy that you have given me.

My hands caress the length of your torso, sliding up your back, with one hand settling on your shoulder, the other grasping your hair.

I enter you, splitting you open, filling you up, deep, beautifully, gloriously.

I know how much you love the feel of my initial entry, and it thrills me too, my own pleasure doubled, tripled by yours.

The last time we did this, midway in our frenzy, the room phone ring.

I love it that we made the room a concert hall for the music of lovemaking.

Pity the person who lamented our free benefit concert.

Now we resume the concert.