#sensualwriting

[giannykiss]

Si el poro es el filtro del sudor, el vello es la antena del escalofrío.

​— Gkiss ♡

[s0ftplacetoland]

I watch you across the room, a flicker of something wild in your eyes, the way your lips part, a subtle invitation— the air thickens with every stolen glance. I want you like the night wants the stars, impatient, restless, knowing you are the one who will pull me into the dark.

Your presence hums through my veins, a pulse I cannot ignore, your body calling to mine like a tether I cannot escape. Every move you make, a promise whispered in the spaces between us, shaking me from the inside out, making my skin ache for your touch.

You take your time, lingering just out of reach, and I tremble, knowing you enjoy this— every inch of me is yours, and I ache with the knowledge that only you can claim it.

When your hand finally finds me, it is a command, a claim on my flesh, and I yield without hesitation. There is no question, no resistance— you own me, and I crave it, the way you make me want.

You move closer, and the world fades— only this, only you.

You trace my skin with fingers that carve possession into my soul, and I am lost, finally warm in the heat of your hunger.

Mine to take,

yours to ravish.

[theweightofdivinity]

I rub flower petals on my tender breasts,

dragging them slowly, gently pressing them close to where my heart hums, letting the softness speak to the pulse beneath, while the petals allow themselves to listen to the ache. When the blood comes, from every swollen edge of feeling, I allow it to flow, not just from my womb, but from every place that has held too much lately.

Petal by petal, I press the petals harder now, deeper and deeper, until I realize this is the veil thinning inside me. I cradle myself like a lover, into a cocoon preparing to bloom. As the letting go begins, I meet the ache with touch, and only then, my grief moans itself into bloom.

[louisdeclairvoile]

No one has opened this book yet. Its pages wait—silent, untouched, like a mirror that does not reveal until you dare to face it.

Seen is not just a story. It is an encounter. It asks what happens when desire doesn’t turn away— but holds your gaze.

Be the first to look. (Link)

[silkconfessions]

I want to hold you close and tell you how beautiful you are,

my words soft against your skin like praise.

A kiss, a whisper, a plea not to stop;

because you deserve to be wanted like this.

[bhutiore]

The Ancient Map Beneath My Skin

Between my folds, a map lies hidden —

a map leading toward an ancient desire.

It awakens through touch alone,

when softness becomes a guide,

when the fingertips of something unseen trace secret paths.

At first, it’s barely a warm brush,

a contact so faint it feels like a whisper against the skin.

A touch that burns,

moving slowly, as if following a trail of wet silk.

The heat slides,

lower, higher, circling,

reviving the long-forgotten memory of old pleasures.

There are no names here—

only pressure, softness,

temperatures rising with every step taken.

Everything turns into a rhythm:

the caress and the surrender,

the touch and the letting go.

And in the end,

when nothing remains but that quiet trembling,

the map fully reveals itself,

showing the secret that had always been waiting there,

beneath everything we keep silent.

[smallfatia]

The Geometry of Desire

The afternoon light filtered through the silk curtains of their Tribeca loft, casting amber shadows across Elizabeth's bare shoulders as she sat by the window. She was reading—or pretending to read—a collection of Anaïs Nin essays, though her mind drifted elsewhere, to the gallery opening last Thursday, to the curator's hand on her wrist, lingering just a moment too long.

Jade emerged from the shower, a towel wrapped loosely around her waist, water still beading on her dark skin. She moved with the unhurried grace of someone who knew she was watched, who welcomed it. Elizabeth looked up from her book, a slight smile playing at her lips.

"You're thinking about her again," Jade said, not as an accusation but as an observation, the way one might comment on the weather.

"I am," Elizabeth admitted, setting the book aside. "Does that bother you?"

Jade crossed the room and settled onto the chaise beside her wife, close enough that their knees touched. "Why would it? I was thinking about Marcus this morning."

They had been married for seven years, together for nine, and had long ago discovered that their love existed not in spite of their desires but because of them. Traditional fidelity had always felt to them like a house with too many locked doors, airless and constraining. They had chosen instead to build something with open windows, where light and air—and yes, other people—could move freely through.

"Tell me about Marcus," Elizabeth said, turning to face her wife fully now, genuinely interested.

Jade's eyes took on a distant quality, remembering. "We had coffee yesterday. You were at the museum. He's teaching a seminar on Brazilian literature at Columbia this semester. We talked about Clarice Lispector for an hour, and then..." She paused, smiled. "And then we didn't talk about Clarice Lispector."

Elizabeth reached out, traced her finger along Jade's collarbone. "Was it good?"

"It was." Jade caught her wife's hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. "Different from you. Not better, not worse. Just different. Like listening to jazz after spending the morning with classical music."

This was their language, developed over years of honesty. No euphemisms, no guilt, no possessiveness disguised as love. They had learned that desire was not a finite resource to be rationed but something that expanded, that fed itself, that made their own connection deeper rather than diminishing it.

"The curator—Anna—invited me to dinner tomorrow," Elizabeth said. "A small gathering at her place in Chelsea."

"Will you go?"

"I'd like to. If you're comfortable with it."

Jade laughed, a warm sound that filled the space between them. "Elizabeth, my love, when have you ever needed my permission to live?"

It was true. That was the foundation they had built: trust absolute enough that permission became irrelevant. They checked in with each other not because the rules demanded it but because they genuinely wanted to share their experiences, to include each other even in their separateness.

"What about you?" Elizabeth asked. "Do you want to see Marcus again?"

"I might. Or I might not. That's the beautiful thing, isn't it? The not knowing. The following wherever curiosity leads."

Evening descended on the city, and they made dinner together—pasta with garlic and olive oil, a simple Chianti—moving around each other in the kitchen with the choreography of long intimacy. They talked about everything and nothing: Jade's architectural project in Brooklyn, Elizabeth's upcoming exhibition, the absurd price of organic tomatoes, whether they should finally get that cat they kept discussing.

Later, in bed, they made love with the particular intensity of two people who chose each other daily, who knew that their togetherness was not mandated by tradition or enforced by jealousy but freely given. Elizabeth traced the familiar landscape of Jade's body—the small scar above her left hip, the constellation of freckles on her shoulder—and felt that particular alchemical mix of comfort and desire that only long love provides.

"I love you," Elizabeth whispered against Jade's neck.

"I know," Jade replied, pulling her closer. "I love you too. And I love that loving you doesn't mean limiting you."

"Or you limiting yourself for me."

"Exactly."

They lay together in the darkness, windows open to the city sounds below. Somewhere out there, Anna was probably preparing for tomorrow's dinner. Marcus was perhaps grading papers or reading in his apartment. The future held possibilities neither of them could predict, and that was precisely how they wanted it.

Their marriage was not about possession but about witness. They bore witness to each other's full humanity, including the parts that yearned and wandered and wondered. They had discovered that fidelity meant being faithful to the truth of who they were, not to some borrowed script of how marriage should look.

"Do you ever regret it?" Elizabeth asked quietly. "Choosing this path? It would be easier to be conventional."

Jade was quiet for a moment, considering. "Easier for whom? Not for me. Not for us. We'd just be different people living smaller lives." She shifted, propped herself up on one elbow to look at Elizabeth in the dim light. "I don't want to love you in smaller ways. I want all of it—the complexity, the trust, the freedom, the coming home to each other after we've been ourselves fully in the world."

Elizabeth smiled, felt something settle in her chest, that familiar rightness. "The geometry of desire," she said.

"What?"

"Something I was thinking about earlier. Love isn't a straight line between two points. It's more complicated. More interesting. More honest."

"I like that," Jade said, settling back down beside her. "The geometry of desire."

They fell asleep like that, entangled and separate, committed and free, proving every night that love could be both anchor and wings, that opening their marriage had somehow made it more sacred, not less.

In the morning, Elizabeth would go to Anna's dinner. Jade would work late on her designs, and maybe call Marcus, or maybe not. And afterward, they would return to each other, bringing their experiences like gifts, enriching the life they built together with all the vastness of life lived fully, honestly, without apology.

This was their love: not a cage, not even a home in the traditional sense, but a garden they tended together, where many flowers could bloom.

[suit212]

My first sensual lyric or love poetry on Tumblr

My first love story here – a small experiment in head-cinema, intimacy, and power play. I didn’t write it alone: an AI was my partner-in-crime. And yes… I made it sweat during the more explicit scenes. Which parts are mine, and which belong to the machine? That’s for you to guess. 😉 It’s just an experiment – but your thoughts would mean a lot.

The Cottage in Golden Light

The sun cast golden stripes on the curtains. The scent of lavender hung in the shimmering air, and bees hummed over delicate blossoms. A cottage like a summer dream.

Still no knock on the door. Too late already. If he’s late, perhaps he’s young - broad shoulders filling his shirt, a fine face, steady hands. A body carrying that careless strength only the young still have. Oh… too perfect. Too tempting. And far too distant from my own age.

And then - there he was. Standing in the doorway: young, strong, handsome. His overalls strained across his frame, every seam confessing what he wished to hide. The game had begun before either of them spoke a word.

I wanted to appear professional, diligent, and focused on my next assignment. The tool heavy in my hand, the smell of metal on my fingers. Yet the fabric pinched and pressed. She saw it, I knew she did. Every step through her hallway was a confession.

The Way to the Machine

Her step was springy, his gait heavy. The overall stretched with each stride across his hips and thighs, making him seem clumsy. She watched with relish how strength and insecurity tangled together. He followed, uneasy, the tool in his hand like a shield.

I walked behind her, the hallway too narrow, my steps too loud. My body strong, but betrayed by cloth. Delicious, she thought – and I felt it.

The Too-Tight Overall

He knelt before the machine, bent down, worked in silence. But the fabric cut, pressed, irritated. She saw it, read it, enjoyed it. “So quiet?” she asked with a smile. “Normally one curses at a stubborn washing machine.” His neck flushed red. He said nothing.

Kneeling at the machine was my anchor. Finally, mechanics, screws, something I understood. Yet the fabric bound me like ropes, pressed me, rubbed me. Each turn of the wrench made it worse.

Teasing in the Doorframe

She stepped closer, jasmine drifting like a veil around him. “Stand up.” He obeyed. Too much light, too much closeness. The truth drew itself unavoidably across the cloth. Desperately he muttered: “I… I need the bathroom.”

I stood in the doorframe, smiling. A flimsy excuse – all the more charming because he needed it.

The Bright Bathroom

She led him like a queen who knows her prisoner is already lost. The bathroom was a watercolor of bright tiles, floral patterns, porcelain. In that feminine innocence he looked out of place – and thus all the more beautiful. He struggled with buttons and cloth until everything slid to the floor: the overall, the last scrap. Naked, he stood there, pressing his buttocks together as if that might hide him.

“Please… don’t look,” he whispered. “Oh, yes,” she replied, her smile soft and cruel at once. “Because now you are honest.”

Her Exploration

Her eyes wandered over him, testing, savoring, like a collector studying a rare piece. His body was strong, athletic, yet in her presence every line trembled with shame. His skin soft, his posture uncertain – a double delight for her. With her right hand she grasped him, with her left she reached deeper. His shock, his trembling, his helplessness made her smile inwardly. She relished his reactions – each twitch, each flinch was proof of her power.

The First Loss of Control

His body could no longer resist. First a trembling, then it broke free – not quietly, not hidden, but as a stream, hot, wild, unstoppable. She held him firmly, unyielding, and suddenly his proudest part lay in her hand like a rebellious firehose.

He gasped, tried to pull away, but her grip remained. With almost playful composure she guided the stream, let it lash against the tiles, splash across the rug, droplets sparkling like glass beads in the light. Then she turned it against him.

The warm flow ran over his chin, down his neck, tracing lines across his chest and belly. The rest slid lower, dripping, collecting, until the tiles and the overalls at their feet carried a glistening, liquid mosaic.

“Look,” she whispered, her voice half tender, half mocking, “your body paints for me. A work of art – and I am the hand that guides the brush.”

He wanted to sink into the floor, burning with shame, yet he felt there was no stopping. The flood seemed endless, as if his body had abandoned every boundary. And she – she laughed softly, like a string of pearls, while she kept directing him, until the bathroom gleamed with his confession.

I closed my eyes. It was humiliation, burning, hot. I wanted to disappear, but I heard her laughter. “You are beautiful because you cannot resist.”

The Game of Hands

She would not let him escape. Her hands played, tested, swayed. His shame grew, his strength ebbed. She savored how manhood became powerlessness.

She held him, felt the warmth, the pulse, the mute defiance of his body. Yet her mind wandered further—curious, sensual, insatiable.

*“It’s the contrast that intoxicates me,” she thought. “The soft pouch in my hand, delicate, almost silken, as if it might vanish if I pressed too hard. And within—two hidden weights, firm, undeniable, shifting when I stir them. To hold them is to feel power and fragility at once: the tenderest part of him, and yet the clearest sign of his manhood. I rock them gently, curious, amused, as if I were weighing secrets. Each sway tells me: strength is nothing once I set it in motion. And softness contains more force than he could ever imagine.”

Her lips curled into a quiet smile while he trembled with shame. She knew he did not only feel her fingers—he felt himself already caught in her head-cinema.

And then she saw, with astonishment and admiration, that his body had not given up. Still upright, so hard it curved slightly under the tension. She smiled wickedly: “This will never fit back into your overalls. This proud piece lives by its own rules. And I will explore it all. Every detail. With my hands. And you will feel that you do not decide – only I do.”

The Intoxication of Touch

Her fingers wandered with deliberate slowness, tracing the contours as if learning a secret map. Every ridge, every curve, every shiver beneath her hand told her a story. What fascinated her was not only the firmness but the yielding beneath it—the way strength betrayed itself in softness, the way pride trembled under the smallest touch.

She leaned closer, her breath brushing his skin. The scent rose, warm and raw, not perfume but something elemental, as if the body itself confessed its truth. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, letting the sensation fill her—the weight in her palm, the heat against her skin, the fragile power that was hers to command.

“This,” she thought, “is what men never understand: that their glory is not in what they show, but in how helplessly they respond. And I—only I—decide when that response will end.”

“No… please…” he stammered, voice rough. “They are so sensitive…” “Precisely for that reason,” she whispered, “they belong in my hand.”

She closed her fingers tighter, too tight, felt him jerk, heard his sharp intake of breath. With her left she lifted the softer weights, weighed them, rocked them, as if to test their worth. For her it was play, for him trembling between lust and fear.

“Please… I cannot bear it…” “Oh, yes,” she breathed, “because I will it.”

She held him tightly, feeling him tremble, and in her head the rush grew louder than the bees outside. He was not finished yet, not emptied – he still carried inside what had always fascinated women: excess, overflow, the raw promise of manhood that refuses to be tamed.

In her mind she pictured it – how it would be if he now not only soaked the tiles but also filled the room with his heat. She loved the thought that men believe their power lies in restraint, while in truth, the essence only appears when they overflow.

How would it look? White, warm, defiant. Not perfume, but a scent – raw, mineral, like salt on sun-heated skin. Not jewelry, but a trace that says: Here a body was honest. Here a man has wasted his innermost self.

Her grip tightened as the thought intoxicated her: his pride, squandered in the light, wasted like pollen blown in the wind. And she would be the hand that decided where it went. To the floor, against him, across the room – as if summer itself were an altar for the sacrifice of his lust.

“Yes,” she whispered inwardly, “that’s what I want now. Not because I need it – but because I want to see how far you can still fall.”

She held him still, watched each twitch, each spasm. “Do you see?” she whispered. “Everything you thought was yours, is now mine.”

The Ritual of Packing Away

She pulled the fabric back up, a little too high, so he felt it. She arranged him like a garment folded too tightly. A playful pat on the backside, a mocking smile. “So this is what a proud man looks like when he is honest.”

He stood still, breathing heavily, skin flushed, heart racing. Yet in his eyes suddenly flickered something new.

His Grip – The Last Move of Power

He raised his hand, calmly, self-assured, and adjusted himself – slowly, deliberately, almost demonstratively. Each motion was the return of pride. When he was done, he looked up – and this time it was her cheeks that flushed.

She had explored him, tested him, exposed him – and now he showed her that pride could return. For a moment the room belonged to him.

The Ritual of the Initiated

“I’ll be back next week,” he said, with a smile both mischievous and triumphant. “As a mechanic… or as a gardener? The bill – as always, in a discreet envelope.”

She laughed, half caught, half delighted. “Come as a gardener. We haven’t had that in a while. And you were, as always, magnificent.”

He grinned; she tapped his shoulder lightly. Both laughed – loud, freeing – while outside the bees kept humming as if nothing had happened. Both knew: this game would not soon be forgotten.