Here I share my erotic fantasy art, photos, music, and video. Just scroll or search on keywords or postings. For more explicit work and between-the-scenes photos and videos, please subscribe for just $2.99/month!
Forest Garden of Magical Mushrooms. Model: Jane
In the heart of the enchanted forest, where Moon Monkey pond whispers secrets, Jane finds solace in a magical haven, where time dances amidst the trees.
A garden of whimsy and wonder unfolds, giant mushrooms, vibrant and alive, their hues painting dreams in the mist, as if whispers of forgotten tales.
Beneath their canopy, Jane sits, her presence a melody in nature’s symphony, the wispy mist caressing her cheeks, whispering tales of ancient magic.
Amidst the verdant chorus, little winged cherubs flit and play, their laughter a symphony of joy, curious eyes drawn to Jane’s serene grace.
In this enchanted embrace, where reality and fantasy intertwine, Jane finds a moment’s respite, a tranquil sanctuary in the heart of the wild.
The first time I heard the word “Id” was in one of my all-time favorite movies, “Forbidden Planet,” where the ancient, long-extinct, inhabitants of the faraway planet (the “Krell”), had developed a massive machine that could physically manifest one’s psychic energy into all kinds of wonderful things. But, when it tapped into that dark, subconscious part of our mind called the Id, the Krell machine manifested super-powerful, uncontrollable, scary monsters. Quite a cool and intriguing concept for my 13-year-old mind!
In addition to introducing me to the concept of the “Id” (and inspiring a lifelong love of science fiction), the movie also fired up another part of my brain–the libido (though I did not learn the word until much later). The barefoot, half-naked, Anne Francis, skinny-dipping in her idyllic garden, sent my young hormones raging. I thought I would have a little fun here and give a one-frame cameo to the lovely Lareina Tay. After all, if Dr. Morbius, alone on the planet for all those years with just his daughter, could manifest a living, breathing, pet tiger for her, is there any doubt that he would manifest some pets of his own?
French Parlor Noir. Model: Kay Ace
In a French parlor boudoir, where whispers waltz, Kay reclines on a chaise lounge, a dreamer’s vault. Silken shadows play on walls adorned with tales, As her mind pirouettes through ephemeral trails.
Lace curtains breathe in the evening’s mystique, Softly rustling secrets, the room’s mystique. Candles flicker, casting a warm amber glow, Igniting fantasies that only she can know.
A vintage mirror reflects her wistful gaze, Eyes painted with the hues of twilight’s haze. In the tapestry of time, she weaves her desire, A silent symphony, stoked by passion’s fire.
The scent of lavender lingers in the air, A fragrant sonnet, a romantic affair. Kay’s thoughts drift like petals on a breeze, Dancing with whimsy, lost in reverie.
Her fingers trace patterns on the plush fabric, A tactile sonnet, a touch of the graphic. In this sanctuary of longing and grace, She paints her dreams in an intimate space.
French whispers caress her wandering mind, Verses of love in a language refined. The chaise cradles her in an embrace so tender, As she surrenders to fantasies, wild and slender.
Oh, the tales she conjures in this private cocoon, In the parlor boudoir, where dreams softly swoon. Kay, the poet of her own clandestine lore, In the symphony of silence, she yearns for more.
Sins of the flesh. Nymphomania. Hysteria. Insane love. The demonization and pathologization of female sexuality. Models: Crystal Nicole, Olinka Lickova, Rachel Lilly
Two beautiful naturists comfortably living a little too close to nature.
Church of the Damned. Model: Olinka Lickova
Olinka in the Church of the Damned
In the Church of the Damned, where shadows dance,
Olinka stands, exalted, a spectral trance.
Above the dark demons and undead wail,
She rises, a figure in a ghostly veil.
The air, thick with a greenish swampy haze,
Creeps through the crevasses, in a spectral daze.
The rotting basilica, a haunted stage,
Its pilasters crumble in an ancient age.
Olinka’s presence, a beacon in the gloom,
A silhouette against the haunted tomb.
Her eyes, pools of mystery, deep and vast,
Hold the secrets of a forgotten past.
Around her, the undead whisper in despair,
Demons bow in reverence, a macabre affair.
As the swampy mist encircles each decayed stone,
Olinka stands, in majesty, alone.
A symphony of darkness, a spectral ballet,
In the Church of the Damned, where shadows play.
Olinka, a queen in this ethereal domain,
In haunting beauty, she shall forever reign.