My first book will drop in a few weeks, and I haven’t had the time to whip up a hot erotic story. My mind is in a cloud of revisions for my other novel that’s scheduled for release July 2012. So cuming up with stories that scoots you in your chair, and cross your legs to jilt a spark in your stick shifts or low valleys is damn near impossible. 

Look, maybe I could write a quickie of a poem that paints in vivid details of a lonely housewife’s deviant behavior by binding a complete stranger into her escapade games.  She grips the whip into the leather of her glove, moving the grooves along the sweat of his skin.  The stranger flinches each time she moves the whip near his dick as if the tease causes a mind blowing orgasm.

Or, I could write about a frigid woman who hasn’t had a good fuck in quite sometime.  This woman’s scrumptious walls forgot what it is like to have the warmth of a man tickling her fancy. The only affection her clit receives lies inside of her nightstand. It’s convenient when the heat of her Kat beckons for a good massage, and screams in quiet silence when bliss meets satisfaction. But once she gets the real shit?  Forget about the neighbors knowing her name, she may for a second forget hers.

Or, I could write something I’ve long to write—yet difficult to put into words. I love to write about subjects that touch the basic fabric of erotica—even if it’s controversial. Tasting the same essence as yours while feeling the softness of their skin, you want go further but suffering the mild anxiety of your psyche. You look upon a mirrored image of your anatomy. Biting your lip as you wind up for a fantasy to become a reality. And when you allow your inhibitions to flow—don’t hold back. A person only lives once.

If I thought of this earlier in the week, I could recite one my poems on audio. Gently whispering like the Ying Yang Twins to my intoxicating rhymes. I’ll ask you to close your eyes, and to imagine me lying behind you as my body presses against your strong backside. Between each line of the poem, I take a moment to nibble the earlobe causing that person to grimace with approval. He clinches the pink satin sheets, softly moaning as I continue with my words. Even my diction and the innocent syllables cause him to squirm. Damn, I’m getting mentally intoxicated visualizing this paragraph.

Moving on…
And finally, I may write for my next post self-gratification. What’s wrong with clutching the very thing that creates life? Dammit, it’s your body—so why not seek wham-bam thank you ma’ams onto yourself. Hey, at least you don’t have to worry about minute man sex bursting at the seams prematurely. And what woman—or man—whichever, wouldn’t want to create a symphony of an intense euphoria. All you have to do is try it. I promise no one will know unless you tell them…duh!


Oh well, it’s time to get back with this novel. As I wrote earlier, it is impossible to write any hot erotica. Cum here next week, Mani will have something fresh. If you don’t, I’ll suck—I mean sick Herman Cain on you!

This is Imani Wisdom and I approve this message. As you were...

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Lenasledgeblog.com said...

Hehe. No please don't sic Hermam Cain on me. :-) I love erotica stories for the most part, sometimes they can get so full of sex that there is no real story. So I look forward to reading some of your work. Your blog is very easy and entertaining.

Imani said...

Thank you, Lena! I am so glad you stopped by.

I also agree with you on the more sex than a storyline. I stopped writing erotica for that very reason. I didn't want to keep with the "Joneses" against my principles.

I read many types of erotica, and let's say some I don't consider them as erotic--maybe more perverse entertainment, but that's it.

But thank you again for stopping by, Lena. It means so much coming from a fine writer like you. :)

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