Experimental Writing on Eroticism

Okay, so firstly I thought this was good. Then i left it and read it again and thought it wasnt that good. But then again, I want you guys - those of you that read my blog - to read it. I'm no Marquis de Sade, ofcourse, stupid of me to even use his name in support of my own vanity here. But none-the-less. I hope you guys read it.

Thank ya!
X

Lying in bed, I realised it was not only the stars that she was aspiring to that warm December night. Fearless, she lay in bed watching the black butterflies of death cover the light. As inevitable as it seems, the light of invulnerability. Raising her hand in the now ominous darkness, she caressed that usually chastised area which was only distinguishable by its unburdened sonorous whispers coming from her gaping mouth. At this moment the clamorous odour of that alienated pollution seeping through the gigantically ill-sized windows was but a distant past. As her breaths get deeper, thicker, and agonisingly beautiful, en route to my shamefully naked body she turns – like a Cadillac towards an old, used motel room. She strikes my hand in an aloof fashion; oblivious and out of whim. I breathe sporadically, my heart not listening to the signals sent through my nervous system - for obvious reasons: they are getting distorted but the experimental touches of a softened hand not yet corrupted by the callousness of neither age nor wisdom. I develop my mouth towards hers in a less then indiscrete fashion which, by the nature of animals, is the preferred way to nestle a woman. My touch is rough and in control; dominant on her skin. Yet it is calm, collected, and gentle with exhilaration – the way a man’s embrace should be. With a bit of force and the assistance of her succumbing nature I move her legs ajar as I exercise a rapturous touch across the inner flanks of her thigh. Pertaining to the nature of the wind, I allow my hands to move over her nether region as though out of caprice; not thought out. She lashes out the delicately lascivious tones of breath, which not only move my soul around the inner corridors of my heart, but release the butterflies around my vitals. I overflow her thoughts with desires by massaging my hands into her voluptuous curves. Dangerously, I slide my fingers into those chastised privates, that before, were not yet familiar with a touch of pleasure, however now, those that flourish: damp with the saturation of love.

The story of climax, and hard-rooted sexual desires will be left, for a later date where Reason will give me room to speak freely.