Sexy erotica…
“Seasons,” erotic prose by P J Rosier
In summer comes Verity. Her hair yellow as the sun ripe corn, her flesh aglow like a July sunset. Her eyes are blue, the color of a summer sky, her touch as gentle as the warm welcoming breeze from the salty sea.
Salty, too, are her lips; a welcome seasoning to my erotic tastes. Her hands encourage me to come closer, to caress her ripe flesh soon ready for the gathering. Her harvest is as bountiful as that of any nature drenched fruits. Her breasts are the epicentre of my longing, to be held and suckled.
Her belly, smooth and flat, is a pillow for my head. My lips reach down and tease the strands of her pubic hair, carding her wool into threads of my broadcloth lust. I drop below to savor her lips there; so well named, her labia full opened by my own lips and tongue. A slice of melon fruit, cool and refreshing, giving succor to my over-heated system.
Her thighs are firm and smooth, her legs long and supple. Developing saplings of an erogenous wood. She wraps them behind my neck, my mouth is cider-pressed with joyous conjunction to the juice of her own special fruit; my tongue giving worship to her liquor.
After the giving and receiving of hands, our own form of sacred worship, she mounts me; her hot and damp vagina enfolds and draws me into her. Soon I feel her muscles pulsing, I swell inside her but it is never enough. She grips all the more tightly and we move to the lovers' rip-tide, she up and down, and I from side to side until my own wave rushes out. Caught at the flood, she herself froths and roils, her voice triumphant in its ecstasy until...silence. We sag, like overripe corn in the field, outweighed and lacking in strength now. Finally, we lie side by side; later I shall rise again and she will embrace my pleasure and repay it a thousand fold. The full nature of her bounteous power strikes me dumb with wonder.
In autumn comes Virtue. Her hair red as the flaming leaves of fall, her flesh as pliant as the piles of newly fallen leaves, crisp and mellow. Her eyes are green as the grass that now fades, her grasp is strong and willful, an omen of something that cannot be denied: that winter is nigh.
Autumn by Dirk Westphal, available at ObsessionArt.com
Her breasts are larger than her seasonal predecessor, pendulous and sensual they swing from side to side, full juicy pears about to tumble as windfall. Their prominent nipples arouse an eroticism unmatched by anything else. I am forced to their proximity and graze them with my lips before pleasuring myself, and her, with mouth's sweet suck.
My hands, alive to her beating rhythm, traverse her length from slender stemmed neck (why does it so remind me of a young tree, doomed to sway wildly in winter's bitter roar?) to gently swollen fecund belly. Her delta is bare; harvested by soap and razor, talcum and kisses. Her cleft below moistens my fingers with the maple syrup richness of her being; soon it will be balm to my lips.
When all such petting is done, we must move swiftly to the climax because autumn days are shorter than those of summer and if we tarry, we shall miss our little death, our Elizabethan petit mort. Here cool autumn shall lie down and prone be, so situated as if in virtuous defeat to summer's earlier fire. I rise above her smooth back, run eager fingers down that fleshy highway to lust and part her globes, her taut buttocks, to enter that hidden road to the passion I seek. With deft fingers and expensive creams I anoint her tightness and thrust, but gently, within her. She moans, as the wind moans in autumn's travails outside, and I do enter more deeply as autumn enters a man's soul and leads him into the coming darkness. Her darkness there is breached gradually by me; my thrusts fill her and she cries out. She bucks beneath me, a steer to be branded perhaps, my mark on her there forever. And so I flood her and she screams and gasps and falls back. And so do I. We are spent at season's end.
What of spring, what of winter? In spring I am alone. It is my Lenten fast, my abstinence that makes the coming feast all the more appetizing. As in all true worship, the lack of what we desire is both a test of our resolve and an arousal for what wonders are to come. The worship of nature in my women's bodies is no different.
In winter, I am the watcher. Verity and Virtue come together in their own sweet conjunction of limb and lust. When summer love meets autumnal dissolution, the fruit of their loins is the writhing, heavy musked miasma that so enslaves me that I can but sit and stare. I could not intervene even if I were allowed. I can only be entranced by nature's vision of climactic passion.
Originally published November 2010