Graf_Severin
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Dec 10, 2005
- Posts
- 664
So, I could go into detail about my looks, my interests in writing beyond just erotica, that I'm in So Cal native interested in an imaginative woman to collaborate, bounce ideas off of, and/or play with on here and/or in person, but I might as well begin with a story I'm working on and offer for you to continue the story here.
This way, at least, my "personal" is an introduction that's beyond me and hopefully interesting to you. At least you get something out of it whether or not we continue this conversation.
So here's the 'contest': The writer of the best responding paragraph will get an email back with my 3rd paragraph, and we will continue until we publish it on The Literotica site. How does that sound?
The rules: 1. You're female 2. You write only one paragraph 3. You can write it here or to my email.
Have fun and thanks for reading.
--Severin
_______________________
Leda is stoned in a desert edenic garden. She is toking on her way to meet the collards and the radishes, the purple basil and the French thyme, the forgotten funny names of heirloomed veggies she received from a farmers’ market months ago. The garden is absurd with native, giant vegetation. Dinosauric agave passes her, leaves soHim horny bitch enormous that when she pats them they feel like the firm blubber of whale. It’s as if she isn’t walking; rather, the earth moves by her. She is floating like a high kite laying low. She is securely carrying a heavy watering can with her, pressing the cold tin to her chest, her nipples hardening through the delicate silk.
What else, you ask? Pink flip-flops that flop sometimes like sex on the strange stones that line the narrow valley she walks. The rest of her tan flesh is exposed (henna lines her calves and snakes up her Indian thighs, with both ink strains circling and meeting at the small of her back) until you get to midway up her back, where a purple bra strap is strained to barely cup the two fruits that want to be free up front. Her bum is exposed in the twilight, undulating with each step. It is plump, and with her small frame, perfectly so.
A woman generally shouldn’t ever worry of shape or size. And really if either sex ‘should’ worry, it would be men, the hunters designed to have less adipose, anyhow.
Thus how it’s so sexy that a woman should love her body no matter its type. Loves it for what it is. Wears her sex like an accessory. Loves the goose-bumped undulation of her bum as she goes to tend a culinary space no one but her has really seen.
Beautiful hydraulics of flesh that make me believe in a creator though I believe in none.
Her essence tingles ever more due to the sweltering 90-degree heat, the perfume of her essence mixing with the summer and the acacias at their scenting hour. She hasn't shaven there in a while, and it is that tuft of hair I see when she bends over to water the radishes, herself presented to me in that primordial suggestion—the Gestalt of ass, hair, lips upon lips—which makes me forget that I am not quite out of view of this curtain, that my pants are dropped, that it is out, that I myself have been exposed here for umpteen minutes, an uninterrupted infinite zone.
* * *
….
This way, at least, my "personal" is an introduction that's beyond me and hopefully interesting to you. At least you get something out of it whether or not we continue this conversation.
So here's the 'contest': The writer of the best responding paragraph will get an email back with my 3rd paragraph, and we will continue until we publish it on The Literotica site. How does that sound?
The rules: 1. You're female 2. You write only one paragraph 3. You can write it here or to my email.
Have fun and thanks for reading.
--Severin
_______________________
Leda is stoned in a desert edenic garden. She is toking on her way to meet the collards and the radishes, the purple basil and the French thyme, the forgotten funny names of heirloomed veggies she received from a farmers’ market months ago. The garden is absurd with native, giant vegetation. Dinosauric agave passes her, leaves soHim horny bitch enormous that when she pats them they feel like the firm blubber of whale. It’s as if she isn’t walking; rather, the earth moves by her. She is floating like a high kite laying low. She is securely carrying a heavy watering can with her, pressing the cold tin to her chest, her nipples hardening through the delicate silk.
What else, you ask? Pink flip-flops that flop sometimes like sex on the strange stones that line the narrow valley she walks. The rest of her tan flesh is exposed (henna lines her calves and snakes up her Indian thighs, with both ink strains circling and meeting at the small of her back) until you get to midway up her back, where a purple bra strap is strained to barely cup the two fruits that want to be free up front. Her bum is exposed in the twilight, undulating with each step. It is plump, and with her small frame, perfectly so.
A woman generally shouldn’t ever worry of shape or size. And really if either sex ‘should’ worry, it would be men, the hunters designed to have less adipose, anyhow.
Thus how it’s so sexy that a woman should love her body no matter its type. Loves it for what it is. Wears her sex like an accessory. Loves the goose-bumped undulation of her bum as she goes to tend a culinary space no one but her has really seen.
Beautiful hydraulics of flesh that make me believe in a creator though I believe in none.
Her essence tingles ever more due to the sweltering 90-degree heat, the perfume of her essence mixing with the summer and the acacias at their scenting hour. She hasn't shaven there in a while, and it is that tuft of hair I see when she bends over to water the radishes, herself presented to me in that primordial suggestion—the Gestalt of ass, hair, lips upon lips—which makes me forget that I am not quite out of view of this curtain, that my pants are dropped, that it is out, that I myself have been exposed here for umpteen minutes, an uninterrupted infinite zone.
* * *
….
