Here I share my erotic fantasy art, photos, music, and video. Just scroll or search on keywords or postings.
Mandii and Frankie cool off in a waterfall. Soon their bikinis come off and things heat up. For full video go to the Erotic page. Models: Mandii Monarch, Frankie Bunny
Two female warriors relaxing. Models: Lareina Tay, Jenn Michelle
A steampunk jalopy fit for a sporty witch. Featuring the sultry Olinka Lickova wearing nothing but a black cape casually draped over her shoulders revealing a lovely breast and long shapely legs.
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Happy Passover!
For a great example of God’s infinite wisdom, power, and love, you need look no further than the story of Passover. In order to free His chosen people from the cruel Pharaoh, God made a bunch of plagues happen so that Pharaoh would relent and let the Jews go free. But despite the rather impressive plagues, Pharaoh was not impressed, and continued to refuse letting the Jews go free.
But wait, that’s not exactly true, Pharaoh WAS ready to let the Jews go after some of the more dire plagues, but GOD HARDENED PHAROAH’S HEART so that he changed his mind and did not let them go! It was like God had a few more plagues he wanted to try out and he was not going to let Pharoah’s softening heart stop him.
Finally, after many plagues, God decided to murder every firstborn child in Egypt except for the Jewish firstborn, who would be “passed over” if they painted lamb’s blood on their doors so the Angel of Death would know who the Jews were (how else would God know?).
Anyway, so God killed all the firstborn children of Egypt, from Pharoah’s son down to the lowliest maidservant. Breaking his own commandment (in a big way) of “Thou Shalt Not Kill” it seems God really just wanted to commit mass murder. I mean, he could have gotten the same result any number of ways without all the horrible deadly plagues and the mass murder of innocent children. For instance, maybe, just maybe, instead of “hardening Pharoahs’ heart” he could have, I don’t know, SOFTENED PHAROAH’S HEART???
But no, God wanted to have some fun trying out all his magic tricks and plagues and top it all off with the murder of thousands of innocent children who had nothing to do with the enslavement of the Jews. God’s great wisdom, power, and love for all to witness!
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.
Postcard from Futureworld from an imaginary past. Models: Crystal A, Amelie Belain
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.