The Dream of the Fisherman's Wife by Hokusai, created in 1820, the first instance of tentacle erotica, depicts a woman entwined sexually with a pair of octopi. Hokusai created The Dream of the Fisherman's Wife during the Edo period. The piece expresses the Shunga's playful attitude towards sexuality.
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Another wild entry in VeryTogether's new Erotica category, from Nightmare Brunette.
"You are so stunning," he said from behind me. He was tied to a chair and I was wriggling in front of him with a tight black cocktail dress hiked high enough to show my bare pussy lips. I felt that stripperesque look of vacant boredom float over my face when I was turned away from him, but the pulse between my legs was becoming insistent. He irritated me by whining, "I want to see more," even though he'd told me he wanted to be teased. I got him off without removing my dress and then, brattily, behind the bathroom door, slipped into the second outfit he requested.
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Library Vixen contemplates sex and the forbidden. This week my mind keeps returning to guilt. Sex guilt. Why has it taken all these years to start the re-programming of my sexuality? Why does it take women in particular so long to have an openness about sexuality, that allows us to finally start having great sex when we want it, how we want it and with whom we want it? Why do I, sometimes, still feel dirty, slutty, naughty and wrong?
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I had an orgasm today that made me genuinely wonder, have orgasms always felt that good? It was the first time in some time that I’ve had what I used to call a “sunny come”—when nothing is forced or raw-feeling or effortful. It’s not too abrupt. It’s not too delayed. There’s no fantasy or concentration. The sensations are more than pleasure, they’re pure happiness, like my body’s been flooded with mushroom honey. And I smile while it happens, feeling my bare chest dissolve in the sunlight of the room, the little sword bone between my breasts spreading like it’s turning to air. Laughing as he gasps at the grasping of my cunt. Forgetting anything that happens afterwards.
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It is after the morning rush and prior to the lunch rush, the time I usually find myself at my favorite downtown coffee house. They make a perfectly strong Americano. I am a regular here, as are many others. For the last month or so I have been seeing this man, he is dark brooding, perhaps five plus years older than me. We have an acknowledged glance as two downtown coffee lovers nothing more.
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He stepped up to her and put his arms around her. She felt the front of his body terribly near to her, and alive.
"Oh, not now, not now," she cried, trying to push him away.
"Why not? It's only six o'clock. You've got half an hour. Nay! Nay! I want you."
He held her fast and she felt his urgency. Her old instinct was to fight for her freedom. But something else in her was strange and inert and heavy. His body was urgent against her, and she hadn't the heart any more to fight.
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