My #naked #erotica #blog and #spshow

Upon viewing my Google+ cover picture (shown above, and also my choice of background on Twitter: @alexamalova), one reader asked if I always write in that state of undress. I naturally and naturistically replied, 'Always!'. Whether sitting primly in the park, or lounging lasciviously on public transport, I am gloriously unadorned, my delectable curves and delicious crevices on full unadulterated view. I insist too that all adult passers-by and fellow travellers are similarly unbedecked, their pert/dangling tits and smooth/unshaven pudenda, their erect/flaccid cocks and tight/swinging scrotal sacks, are al fresco and open to plebeian perusal. See the hot blush on cheeks, the wetted lips, the dilated irises, and the arousal made liquid; dangling obscenely from the purple tip; hiding longingly between squirming thighs. I raise my trembling fingers, tap the rigid impatient keys, and flare my nostrils as the resultant dancing symbols strum my hot wet hunger.

As you can see, I have to be naked to write. And you, dear reader, so you have to be naked to read. Peel off those inhibiting clothes, disrobe your prudish mind and curl up beside me and enjoy me... enjoy me till your enjoyment overflows.

Sex machine

The machine was built for pleasure. Independent of external forces, it rocked and rolled, ebbed and flowed on cushioning foam and silent springs. Touching parts were exquisitely oiled so they moved freely, yet still maintained sufficient contact. A delicious necessary friction.

The machine was tireless, drew on an infinite primeval power source. Its cycles were random, yet pre-determined, continually oscillating from frenzy to stillness, from cacophony to silence. As overload threatened, it again returned to a near-stationary state. After a moment's calm, it cautiously accelerated, soon reaching a plateau of steady, insistent rhythm. And there it stayed, effortlessly feeding off it its own momentum.

The machine was soft, warm, angular and smooth. It was powerful. Irresistible. It sang, it breathed, it quivered, and cried. It was self-adjusting, self-feeding, self-serving. It cooled itself with glistening drops of saline that sprang from every living surface.

The machine was flexible, adaptable, could achieve its purpose in many ways with many modes of construction. It had been tested to destruction, had been stripped and rebuilt many times. It was intelligent, could function in many environments, adapting to available space with imaginative arrangements of its parts. It was timeless, yet very much of the moment.

I was half of that machine and she completed it. And when complete, it required nothing but instinct to fulfil its purpose. No metals, plastics, sand or glass. No coal, electricity, plutonium or gas. The fuel and raw materials were already contained within its living parts. It was a kind of miracle. When separated, each half of it was helpless, hopeless. Useless. Together we were beautiful, incredible. Amazing.

She was ready: prone, naked and vulnerable. I too was ready: naked, hard and primed. I mounted her, engaged with her. We clicked. My firm shaft entered her exquisite slippery tightness and at that moment we became one. In stillness we tested every point of contact and support. Then a kiss, a silent, knowing exchange, and we began to move. She clung to me, sucked on me then contracted as though fighting to expel me. We battled momentarily, then simultaneously surrendered to an ancient natural rhythm. It resonated through us, tamed us and conjoined us. Like liquid, we flowed. The bed forgave us. The fluid air shifted and encapsulated us. The machine came alive. It fucked itself.

Inversion 1, a sexy sci-fi novel, will be published soon.