Quotes About Sensuality

Where do you find more eroticism than in the cloister of a convent?

Ana Clara contou que tinha um namorado que endoidava quando ela tirava os cílios postiços, a cena do biquíni não tinha a menor importância mas assim que começava a tirar os cílios, era a glória. Os olhos nus. Em verdade vos digo que chegará o dia em que a nudez dos olhos será mais excitante do que a do sexo.

A Brazilian film? Naturally, if there's a bed, a woman with a raffish expression, and a man in only his underwear, it could only be Brazilian cinema.

Keats, it must be remembered, was a sensualist. His poems ... reveal him as a man not altogether free from the vulgarities of sensualism, as well as one who was able to transmute it into perfect literature.

Does this ring any bells?' he murmured against her lips. 'I——-' Whatever else she'd been about to say was lost as he kissed her again. His gentleness took her by surprise, and without being fully aware that she was doing it she started kissing him back, just as gently. His hand curved to fit her waist as he murmured something unintelligible, his long fingers sliding with masterful confidence to her ribcage.

In the middle of the bobbing bodies, Vanessa moved sinuously against Toby. She wore a black leather skirt with a long slit up the side and a cropped leather jacket. Her midriff was bare and looked incredibly good with the gold chains that hung around her waist.

Paco Ignacio Taibo se refiere a ese mundo "místico, mágico y sensual" del convento, en cuya cocina se da "un amor perfectamente casto y al mismo tiempo de una carnalidad sin límites en esa experiencia de los sabores que alcanzaban mediante una complicidad secreta y sutil".

Our mouths opened under each other, and the warmth of his sweetened throat poured into mine. I could not think, could not do anything but drink him in, each breath as it came, the soft movements of his lips. It was a miracle.

The heat rose up my neck, wrapped fingers over my face. His hair fell around me, and I could smell nothing but him. The grain of his lips seemed to rest a hairsbreadth from mine.

And then he pressed his lips onto mine. "Live", he said. "Oh live, my life, my love, live." And that's when I'm supposed to open my eyes like a dewy fawn, and see him poised over me like the sun, and make a little gasping noise of wonder and gratitude, and then he fucks me.

He was on his side, watching me. I had not heard him turn. I never hear him. He was utterly motionless, that stillness that was his alone. I breathed, and was aware of the bare stretch of dark pillow between us. He leaned forward. Our mouths opened under each other, and the warmth of his sweetened throat poured into mine. I could not think, could not do anything but drink him in, each breath as it came, the soft movements of his lips. It was a miracle.

Everyone knew how they dripped with perfume, were corrupt from soft living.

And that's when I'm supposed to open my eyes like a dewy fawn, and see him poised over me like the sun, and make a little gasping noise of wonder and gratitude, and then he fucks me.

She's like cream, she's that soft. Once her thighs are around you, you'll forget your own name.

First, she wanted to taste the sweat that shone on his throat and fragile clavicle; then he chose to undo the tails of her shirt, that she had tied up beneath her breasts; then, but then impatient they forgot about taking turns and quarreled silently, eagerly over each other, like pirates dividing treasure long sought, long imagined, long withheld.

In spite of the air conditioning, she had filled the lounge with a faint sharp-sweet odor of large overheated girl.

In a little while she got up and went over and closed the door and came back, dropped her halter top and her sun shorts to the floor beside the bed, stood there for not more than two seconds and then stretched out beside me. She bent over the side of the bed and got her cigarettes out of the pocket of the sun shorts, lit two and gave me one and lay back in the circle of my arm, huffed out a big cloud of smoke

Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.

The naked woman's body is a portion of eternity too great for the eye of man.

I want to tell you what's really happened. Not now. Please not now. Whatever's happened, come and make love to me. And we did make love; not sex, but love; though sex would have been so much wiser.

she was really very pretty, one of the prettiest girls she knew. And as if to prove it she raised her arms and unloosed her hair, a thing she knew to be vaguely sinful, yet necessary, like a hot bath or a warm bed on a winter's night. She imagined herself for a truly sinful moment as someone wicked — a dancer, an actress.

if Greece were a woman so sensually provocative that I must fall physically and desperately in love with her, and at the same time so calmly aristocratic that I should never be able to approach her.

Sex is just an activity, like anything else. It's not dirty, it's just two people playing with each other's bodies. Like dancing. Like a game.

The sun moved, came on me, made me erotic. Sometimes to return is a vulgarity. The profoundest distances are never geographical.