Your low honeyed gravel voice, pitched in sunset tones against my ear, is echoed in the slow sticky molasses drip between my thighs. Speak, love… Talk to me. Tell me what you think, how you feel… School me in your desires and teach me your fears… Speak of what has been and what will be. Just speak, love. Your whisper is a spark, your growl is a flame, and I am awash in the heat of you. Please, love… Speak. Talk to me. Say anything. Anything. Speak of Jedi Knights and Harrison Ford (yes, yes, I *know* Han Solo shot first…yeesh!) and a limping broken C3PO if you wish; the subject matters not. It is your voice… Only your voice… Aural sex does not even begin to describe it. Speak, love. Talk to me. Your voice is the sun, burning me from the inside out. It is the softest breeze cooling the singe, raising goosebumps along my limbs. It is a cleansing rain after a drought… Wet. I am WET. Quivering. Weeping. Dripping for you. For YOU. Wrap yourself up in my limbs, love. Take root in the earthy depths of my core and grow. My breasts are your apples, the world is our orchard. Push inside and feel me bloom. And always, always… Please, love… Please, please… Speak.
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This paragraph of erotica comes to you courtesy of Nate’s prompt, which required:
An apple orchard
A robot with a limp
At least one famous person (alive or dead)
(Um, the prompted words are in blue. In case you were wondering.)
I *do* so love me a creative challenge. 😉