My God, he's strong. That thought was always a turn on for me. Following me into the garden, he nuzzled my neck, knowing I couldn't resist. But, for a moment, I did, long enough to make him force my knees into the soft earth as the scent of poppy blooms e...
His words captivated and seduced. They always did. Vibrant descriptions that effortlessly painted sensual pictures before your eyes. Feeling as real as your hand, that lightly floats through the field of poppies that lay before. You always imagined h...
The sun above me, the poppies below, and her in-between sublimates what I know. I came here to write; she came here to read. Instead we found something that both of us need. Her lips on my body. Her lust for my cock fulfills dreams before daytime stops. H...
I couldn't believe it, when I opened my eyes he was beneath me. He looked as I imagined, with chiseled abs and striking eyes. His large thick cock throbbed inside me. I moved in harmony to the sway of the poppies. I didn't want this to end. I wanted to sa...
I celebrated my first manuscript by fucking my first French Communist. It was France during the Crazy Years, the Années Folles. American writers surged into Paris. It was Prohibition in America; I arrived to enjoy the cafes and French culture after the Fi...
Soft moans accompanied the slow trembling plunge onto his hard cock. Her labia stretched tight around his girth as his swollen head raked along her insides until she bottomed out.Strong hands grasped her bottom kneading her crotch to his. His pubic hair g...
Flower field. Great red poppies. Her favorite. Bees humming. She loves it. I love her. I want her. I took her here. Our first time. She's never done it. We take our time. No need to rush. I want it to be perfect. For her. Seductive words. Ardent whisperin...
“Sometimes I think you love that typewriter more than me,” she mused, bent over, caressing his shoulders. “I have a deadline, baby. Fuckin’ editor wants a piece about these poppies and I got nothing.” She swung around to straddle where he was sitting cros...
He was gaunt and walked with a limp. She was beautiful, fresh, buxom. They walked slowly, looking for just the right spot -In Flanders Fields. They walked where the poppies blow. They walked between the crosses, row on row. They sat among the poppies,...
She gestures to the typewriter, “Why do you insist on using this old thing?” “The clicking gets me going.” She unbuttons the front of her summer dress. “I thought I got you going.” She pushes her companion down and straddles them. “Yes, but I’m alwa...
