Crushing on Mr. E

www.eroticnoire.co.uk

I bloom like a flower pollinated for the first time, a sharp eternal trigger.

I’m bared raw from the rhythm of his words, each syllable a teasing stroke — to my pulse.

He strokes heady adjectives across my skin.

Feathers similes across my hardened nipples.

Teases prose down my thighs.

I envy the front-row-seat, of the hard earned sweat, that falls from his brow, glimmering in the candlelight against her shivers.

He’s a lyrical lover with unknowing arrogance, which sets the bar out-of -reach and knocks lovers off pedestals; revealing the needy, weak orgasms they were built upon.

I self-regulate rations of his work, like a recovering fiend — who’s spent a lifetime chasing the dragon.

I cast him in a protective bubble, like a snow globe. Bringing him out and only shaking occasionally, so as to contain the space where his flakes fall.

So many of us hunting for a hero in a sea of mortals. We’re blindfolded, led down shady lanes of erotic promise, with awkward groping and misplaced passion.

If only the page was a map to his touch, one stolen moment to treasure, make tangible the lure, avoiding tarnish.

His scripture resonates within my soul teasing back layers of my sexuality and reflecting back to me something a little more beautiful.

He “soft sucks on the clit of my mind”.

How to find him:

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