Erotic Short Short Story

I read this story at the June 2008 Salon.

How to Pick Watermelons by a Real Farmer’s Daughter byTeresa Blalock 2006

Exhausted, my husband and I worked in the field gathering watermelons.

I made the view interesting; skimpy shorts sans panties. Bending to gather the harvest, my own melons peeked out and my shorts rode high over my cheeks.

Thrilled at the sight of my tantalizing ass and tits, he stopped to rub his cock. I finished my row and slipped into the woods.

Steadied against a tree, I shoved my ass out, legs spread. He went in fast and hard! Five sharp strokes – a torrent of heat.

Fatigue faded, replaced with energy. The only way to pick watermelons!

Erotic Poem – Touch

The following poem was read at the Salon on June 17, 2008. A lovely poem. I think many women, as I have, can relate to this poem.

TOUCH

By John

It’s in the hands, Sir.

It starts with the hands.

I know you don’t realize this;

Or even understand it.

But it’s the hands, Sir;

It starts with the hands.

A caress of the face while looking in my eyes;

A stroking, along the side of the cheek; gentle, yet insistent;

The tips of your fingers against my skin.

Offering and taking at once. Beckoning. Welcoming.

A caress. A stroke.

It’s the hands, Sir. The hands.

When you feel my arms, do you brush against them?

Grab them? Squeeze them?

Or do you trace the length of them, finding each curve;

Awakening each nerve? Exploring…discovering?.

It’s the hands, Sir. The hands.

My breasts..my soft and yielding breasts.

How do you meet them?

.Do you touch them? Grab them?Paw them?

Or is there a wonderment in your touching? An amazement.

At how this arrangement of curved flesh can bring so much pleasure;

Hold so much promise?

Is there wonderment in your touch? Gratitude? Caring?

It’s in the hands, Sir. The hands.

Hundreds have reached for me.

Grabbed me. Fondled me. Taken me. Been with me.

But only a few have known me.

Made love to me. Maybe evenloved me.

And I knew those few….loved those few.

Could feel their love

Even as they kissed me; lay with me; entered me.

I knew by their hands, Sir. By their hands.

It is in the touch.

The hands, Sir. It is in thehands.

Erotic Lap Dance

Hoping all lovers of erotica had a most Happy Thanksgiving.

One of the short, short pieces I read at the salon in June of 2008. Contemporary work.

Lap Dance ‚2003 by Jill

The petite blonde pulled my knees apart, drivingher lithe, lean body between them and driving a wedge between my inhibitionsand my need.¬† Swaying to the music, she pressed into me, giggling,”Let’s give them a show.”

My tongue slid between her breasts, up herneck.  Dropping to her knees, pulling me forward, she forced her face upmy skirt.  My head went back, my hips arched upward.  Every man inthe club applauded, waving bills in the air, drowning out my screams.

Only we could taste the truth, the essence of myclimax evident in her final kiss.

 

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Original Erotic Poetry by DeVo Nelson

Another poem read at the very first Salon in May of 2008.

BODY LANGUAGE
DeVo Nelson

 

body language

DeVo Nelson (www.bimbosavant.blogspot.com)

 

it’s not my fault

it’s genetic

sure, Freud was mad

but is that not what a genius is made of?

when i think of you

when i see you

i see our perfect babies

(not the sexiest thing, i know…)

but…i…just…know

our DNA compatible

our gonads made for each other

the tug of war of our eyes

i know. i just know.

 

when i masturbate to you

we are reading

books

so many books

we’re sitting skyclad

reading. reading. reading.

taking turns

verbal intercourse

 

so many words

so many books

the inflection of our voices

enhance our affections

with spit-smeared hands

we stroke each other

first you, then me

then our arms cross

and we are tangled in one another

and the scent of stale pages

and worn spines

 

books. so many books.

so much poetry

swimming through body language

we kiss between stanzas

we’ve lost our page

(but always find our way back)

the way your hand fingers:

the paper, and me

it could surely make me implode

 

our glasses are foggy

and stained with fingerprints

and eyelashes

but we don’t need to see

the words lead the way

our brows hung low

enveloping ourselves in every sentence

thrilled by alliteration

and analogies and personification

also by snytax errors and typos

books. so many books.

Won’t you read a spell with me?

 


 

 

 

 

 

 


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