I am offering a new treat for my readers, audio files of me reading my erotic poetry and stories in my notoriously sexy voice. I have often been told that my voice is very sensual as well as soothing to listen to.
The first audio file that I have shared here is of my poem My Body Made of Soft Earth, one of my most popular on my blog. https://eroticapoetica.com/2013/07/02/so-that-all-can-be-revealed/
Enjoy!
Check out my new erotica story on Medium “A Hot Date.”
https://myerotica.com/a-hot-date-262910e49afa?source=linkShare-56f44365d0a5-1506875033
Hailed as “an erotic fairytale — with a happy ending!” by erotica writer Vienna de Vega.
A satisfying tale of love, sex and romance.
I’d like to dedicate this story to my blogging friend from WordPress, the gorgeous Sahar of http://www.exoticescortdiary.com, who knows well the allure of a Sheik.
Lay your celestial body
over mine, lover.
I succumb
to darkness.
I surrender
my daylight
to your moonlit ardor.
You obliterate me
with your heavenly touch;
I become void.
You envelop me
in your cool skin;
you eclipse me.
And in the penumbral shadows
of our meeting,
I glow
in the golden light
of a thousand eyes —
magical, renewed,
a sight of rare beauty,
shining too bright
to even see.
You are a jewel
within the treasure chest
of my heart.
You are my topaz,
set in crushed red velvet.
You are my secret
that I have locked away.
A forbidden love,
too decadent
to reveal.
You charmed me
like a snake
in the dark ethereal woods
of Vrindavan.
I was a curvy goddess
of ruby lips,
creamy moonstone breasts,
liquid gold
between my thighs,
who got fucked
by a god
in a dream
and awoke
to an empty bed.
Yet my tears
become stones.
Wondrous precious stones.
They shine within me,
opalescent with hope.
A whisper, kyanite flecked,
a rose quartz-hued ache,
obsidian longing,
black and deep.
Hidden beneath my clothes,
I wear
an alabaster cameo
carved in your image.
The memory of you
pressed against my warm skin.
I can still feel
your mouth on mine,
can still hear
the faraway sound
of your approach,
your amorous
flutesong.
I was a shape
that waits
to be carved
with a sculptor’s knowing hands,
emerging from alabaster white
into sharp relief,
bright scandalous technicolor,
cherries in the snow.
This is who I really am.
My breasts adorned with crystals,
my hips overflowing
from the curvaceous narrowing of my waist
into abundant fans of feminine plushness,
punctuated by a skimpy g-string of jewels;
I am everything
that I was never supposed to be:
a woman with power.
Glamour was a spell,
sensuality a witches brew.
I became a fashionable bitch
who walked the catwalk of her own shadow;
femme fatale.
I embraced the dark goddess
who lived inside me.
By the heat of my careful alchemy,
lines blurred between fantasy and reality,
dream and life.
Transformed,
I danced across the stage of life,
big energy, a woman writ large,
a high octane Sorceress
soaring like a star
through the heavens.
It was
a fever state,
hot and delirious;
being in love.
Love was a febrile hallucination, a trick of the mind.
Lurid colors, vivid imagery, rich emotion,
desperate beauty;
a haunting vision
that can’t be unseen.
Our bodies were tumid fruit
that ripened
in the sultriness
of love’s summer.
We gorged ourselves on textures and tastes;
the enchanting sweetness of lust,
the decorous tartness
of impatient longing.
The sumptuous spice
of passionate encounters.
The bitter sourness of ugly hurts,
dark moments that crystallized
into insidious weeds
and took root in the space between us;
that gave the kiss of death
to our hibiscus dreams.
In the cool blue light
of nighttime,
I feel inside myself
for you,
caressing the empty spaces
where your memory lies;
teasing at the edges of loss,
touching the pleasure that remains.
I blossom endlessly with wanting,
love’s eternal flower,
red petaled,
bright and pretty,
subtly fragrant.
I am one
who dreams of you:
the bee
that stung me.
I was so tender-hearted
when I loved you,
years ago in a Northern hamlet
by a glacial lake.
My hopes for love
were still intact then
noble and sacred edifices
constructed from an ancient narrative;
grand yet vulnerable
like the Buddhist statues at Bamiyan
before they were destroyed.
We watched
that star fall together,
one night when we sat
in thoughtful companionship by the lake edge.
Deer crept stealthily through the pines behind us
and we watched it
swirl across the sky
like 4th of July fireworks,
then plummet.
Now my heart knows
what can happen
to majestic things.
Though I no longer hope
for you,
I still
remember
everything.
