Here I share my erotic fantasy art, photos, music, and video. Just scroll or search on keywords or postings.
Ava May playfully posing nude with a large swath of cloth in a grand ballroom.
A wood nymph wakes up in her bed in the middle of a magical forest. She walks through the forest and gathers up her clothes to get dressed for the day. Model: Lenny Langley
Healing Touch. Models: Jenn Michelle and Crystal Nicole
Mandii expresses her inner mermaid. Models: Mandii Monarch, Frankie Bunny
Postcard From a Forgotten Resort. Model: Sophia Jade @sophiasuccubus
Whatever it is you seek, just put on a hooded cloak and go to the top of a mountain. Unless you are seeking a sandwich. Or a slice of pizza. Or a new outfit. Or some new friends. But other than that, just go to some mountaintop; it will bring you closer to God, because, as we all know, God sits up high in the sky. And the thin air and grand vistas will make you feel a little high (why do you think they call it “getting high”?). Anyway, this piece is dedicated to all of us seekers in earnest. Excelsior! Model: Rachel Lilly
Crystal in Congregation of Potato People. Model: Crystal A
Church of the Potato People
In the Church of the Tuber, where spuds convene,
A congregation of potato people, a sight unseen.
Their eyes, like russet orbs, fixed on the sacred ground,
As they gather in reverence, in silence profound.
Starch-filled hearts beat in unison, a tater’s devotion,
In pews of mashed delight, a tuberous emotion.
The pulpit adorned with skins, a priestly spud ascends,
Preaching the gospel of the harvest, where the potato life transcends.
But amid the devout, a stranger unknown,
A beauty in disguise, a presence all her own.
She, an outsider, a radiant yam,
In the sea of potatoes, a singular glam.
Her skin, a golden hue, not of earthly soil,
A sweet fragrance of difference, a celestial foil.
Yet, she hides among them, a secret delight,
In the congregation’s eyes, a clandestine light.
The potato people, unaware of her grace,
Continue their worship in the starchy space.
But the outsider listens, absorbing their prayer,
In the silence of tubers, a connection rare.
As the sermon concludes, and the congregation disbands,
The outsider reveals herself, a rose in the lands.
The potatoes, astonished, yet welcoming still,
In this diverse church, love trumps the thrill.
For in the Church of the Tuber, diversity blooms,
In the richness of differences, unity looms.
Potato people and yams, together they stand,
In the spud-filled sanctuary, hand in hand.
