Quotes About Sensuality

Ridges of muscle on his stomach rose under his skin like divisions on a slab of chocolate. He held her close by the light of an oil lamp, and he shone as though he had been polished with a high-wax body polish.

He folded his fear into a perfect rose... She took it from him, and put it in her hair.

She could feel how soft she felt to him. She could feel herself through him. Her skin. The way her body existed only where he touched her. The rest of her was smoke.

Olhos nublados fixaram olhos nublados e uma mulher luminosa abriu-se para um homem luminoso. Ela era ampla e profunda como um rio na cheia. Ele singrou suas águas. Ela sentia os movimentos dele mais e mais fundos dentro dela. Frenéticos. Furiosos. Pedindo para entrar mais fundo, Mais fundo. Limitados apenas pela forma dela. Pela forma dele. E quando foi detido, quando já tinha tocado o mais fundo dela, com um suspiro soluçado, trêmulo, ele se afogou.

He could feel the tremor, the motor under her skin. Still, of all the women in the world, to have this woman's hand in his made him indescribably happy.

The erotic is a measure between the beginnings of our sense of self and the chaos of our strongest feelings.

my body writes into your flesh the poem you make of me. Recreation

For the erotic is not a question only of what we do; it is a question of how acutely and fully we can feel in the doing. Once we know the extent to which we are capable of feeling that sense of satisfaction and completion, we can then observe which of our various life endeavors bring s closest to that fullness.

But the erotic offers a well of replenishing and provocative force to the woman who does not fear its revelation, nor succumb to the belief that sensation is enough.

Recreation Coming together it is easier to work after our bodies meet paper and pen neither care nor profit whether we write or not but as your body moves under my hands charged and waiting we cut the leash you create me against your thighs hilly with images moving through our word countries my body writes into your flesh the poem you make of me. Touching you I catch midnight as moon fires set in my throat I love you flesh into blossom I made you and take you made into me.

For the erotic is not a question only of what we do; it is a question of how acutely and fully we can feel in the doing. Once we know the extent to which we are capable of feeling that sense of satisfaction and completion, we can then observe which of our various life endeavors bring us closest to that fullness.

Women see ourselves diminished or softened by the falsely benign accusations of childishness, of non-universality, of changeability, of sensuality.

And I knew when I entered her I was high wind in her forests hollow fingers whispering sound honey flowed from the split cup impaled on a lance of tongues on the tips of her breasts on her navel and my breath howling into her entrances through lungs of pain.

she seeks me like roses in my mouth.

I placed my hand against the side of his precious, electric face and felt the stubble beneath my fingers. I was overwhelmed with the lust and wonder of it all.

Did I feel a physical desire for him? I did. Was I moved by a passion of my body? I was. Have I experienced the most violent form of sensual pleasure? I have.

I want to sleep with you. Now, tonight, and at any time you may care to call me. I want your naked body, your skin. your mouth, your hands...I want you like an animal...or a whore.

Vane watched her reaction from under heavy lids, watched flaring passion light her eyes. Sparks of pure gold flashed in the hazel depths as he gently kneaded, then sent his fingers gliding over her silken skin. He knew he should kiss her, distract her, from what came next- but the compulsion to witness, to know her reaction as she learned what he would do, as he filled his senses with her, waxed strong.

He dragged in a shuddering breath and forced his lids up. He looked down, at her on her knees, leaning into him, her glorious hair rippling over her shoulders, gilded in the firelight, shifting as her head moved and she pleasured him. He saw his fingers locked on her head, felt hers slide higher, circle the base of his staff, and tighten.

The warm stillness within the room was broken only by the rustling of sheets, and soft, urgent murmurs. Then the silence gave way to soft moans, groans, breathless pants, desperate gasps. Culminating in a soft, piercingly sweet scream, dying, sobbing, into a deep guttural groan.

Clare, there's no chance in hell I would ever believe you're frigid." Her heart began to race. "No?" His gaze went to her mouth, and then back to her eyes. "Not with the way you look at me." She swallowed, her body vibrating at the intensity of his gaze, and the weight of his hand as he caressed her neck. "How do I look at you?" she whispered, her voice too breathy. "Exactly how I want you to.

She kissed me again, reaching that place that sends messages to toes and fingertips, then all the way to something like home. Some music was playing on its own. Nothing like a woman who knows to kiss the right thing at the right time, then kisses the things she's missed…

In Italy everything is more romantic. I can also be in bed with ten girls, but I love these ten girls.

Music takes me to places of illimitable sensual and insensate joy, accessing points of ecstasy that no angelic lover could ever locate, or plunging me into gibbering weeping hells of pain that no torturer could ever devise.