Graf_Severin
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Dec 10, 2005
- Posts
- 664
Hi, so,
I've written a few stories here and don't come on here often, but I thought I'd share myself, and the beginning of a story I'm writing, since I've enjoyed viewing so many beautiful women here and so many creative, filthy writings.
And while I'm here, I'm working on an erotica story that I'd like some female feedback on, so here's a passage below; if you like the pic and the story, send me a message--better yet, here's my email: numinalportrait@hotmail.com. Don't write me unless you can take this story further, deal?
Thanks for reading. Bring me your kinky ideas, girls.
* * *
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 for 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 who are 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 undulation of her rump as she goes to tend the culinary space of her garden.
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 does not shave herself there, and it is that mound of hair I see when she bends over to water the radishes, herself presented to me in that primordial suggestion—the Gestalt of ass, lips within lips—which makes me forget that I am not quite out of view of this curtain, that my pants are dropped, that my cock is out, that I have been stroking steel here for an uninterrupted infinite timespace of maybe just a couple minutes.
I've written a few stories here and don't come on here often, but I thought I'd share myself, and the beginning of a story I'm writing, since I've enjoyed viewing so many beautiful women here and so many creative, filthy writings.
And while I'm here, I'm working on an erotica story that I'd like some female feedback on, so here's a passage below; if you like the pic and the story, send me a message--better yet, here's my email: numinalportrait@hotmail.com. Don't write me unless you can take this story further, deal?
Thanks for reading. Bring me your kinky ideas, girls.
* * *
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 for 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 who are 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 undulation of her rump as she goes to tend the culinary space of her garden.
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 does not shave herself there, and it is that mound of hair I see when she bends over to water the radishes, herself presented to me in that primordial suggestion—the Gestalt of ass, lips within lips—which makes me forget that I am not quite out of view of this curtain, that my pants are dropped, that my cock is out, that I have been stroking steel here for an uninterrupted infinite timespace of maybe just a couple minutes.
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