“What I say is that the supreme and singular joy of making love resides in the certainty of doing evil.” ~Baudelaire (1821-1867
Fuck the butterflies.
Seek the flames.
Both will flutter wildly, but only one completes the night.
Pursue the scent of uninhibited passion and lead the fancy of your heart along the path of stolen glances and a risked caress. Embrace her the way the night holds the moon and surround her with the heavy desire of your heart.
Whisper to her the way a dreamer talks to the sky. Breathe into her ear the way the breeze of night passes through an open window. Write poetry between her legs and relish the flavor of her satisfaction as it seeps onto your tongue.
Elicit the secrets that escape her lips in moans of delight and memorize the way her body quivers beneath your touch. Erase her memories of the past until they become forgotten words and the only name she remembers is yours.
Lay her down and watch her writhe like the sea. Be her wind. Be her sun and stars. Be the moon that controls her tide, and you will find your reflection in her eyes. She will only see you. You could ask for nothing more and you will find nothing better.
Take hold of her wrists. Hold her down. Earn her trust and she will grant you desires normally reserved for her silent thoughts.
When she surrenders herself to you, she needs you to be certain about your feelings, because only the fires of passion will consume you both.
Butterflies are for the innocent.
In the delirium of desire there is nothing innocent about the wickedness of making love.