The most erotic zone is the imagination.
Is not the most erotic part of the body wherever the clothing affords a glimpse?
What is erotic? The acrobatic play of the imagination. The sea of memories in which we bathe. The way we caress and worship things with our eyes. Our willingness to be stirred by the sight of the voluptuous. What is erotic is our passion for the liveliness of life.
For me a nude photograph should be erotic, not devoid of emotion. The body is a sensual thing, sensuality being one of its most beautiful and meaningful qualities.
I will cover you with love when next I see you, with caresses, with ecstasy. I want to gorge you with all the joys of the flesh, so that you faint and die. I want you to be amazed by me, and to confess to yourself that you had never even dreamed of such transports.... When you are old, I want you to recall those few hours, I want your dry bones to quiver with joy when you think of them.
Just erotic. Nothing kinky. It's the difference between using a feather and using a chicken.
Erotic intelligence stretches far beyond a repertoire of sexual techniques. It is an intelligence that celebrates curiosity and play, the power of the imagination, and our infinite fascination with what is hidden and mysterious.
We lie in each other's arms eyes shut and fingers open and all the colors of the world pass through our bodies like strings of fire.
Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry, stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
Love is friendship with erotic moments.
Some people underestimate how erotic it is to be understood.
Behind every erotic condemnation there's a burning hypocrite.
The stiletto is the icon of erotic femininity. You're taller, thinner and curvier, all at the same time. What's not to like?
So sweet and delicious do I become, when I am in bed with a man who, I sense, loves and enjoys me, that the pleasure I bring excels all delight, so the knot of love, however tight it seemed before, is tied tighter still.
No erotic work of art is filth if it is artistically significant; it is only turned into filth through the beholder if he is filthy.
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body... and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
With her eyes alone she could give this response, this absolutely erotic response, as if febrile waves were trembling there, pools of madness... something devouring that could lick a man all over like a flame, annihilate him, with a pleasure never known before.
I am sensual and very physical. I'm very erotic. But my sexuality exists on a sort of a fantasy level.
A red rose peeping through a white? Or else a cherry (double graced) Within a lily? Centre placed? Or ever marked the pretty beam, A strawberry shows, half drowned in cream? Or seen rich rubies blushing through A pure smooth pearl, and orient too? So like to this, nay all the rest, Is each neat niplet of her breast.
Self-consciousness is the destroyer of erotic joy.
The erotic is a measure between the beginnings of our sense of self and the chaos of our strongest feelings.
Her lips on his could tell him better than all her stumbling words.
Eros seizes and shakes my very soul like the wind on the mountain shaking ancient oaks.
I could bring you so much pleasure, erotic, erotic, put your hands all over my body.
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