more literary, um, heights
Here's an excerpt from Midnight Butterfly, by Joan Elizabeth Lloyd. Apparently she's also the author of Velvet Whispers. (Her site, while it guards against access by minors, seems to be fairly informative if not titillating.)
Apparently this book is from Good Vibrations. I have no idea how it ended up in our posession. This is disturbing to me -- until now I was only a student of bad movies. Now I'm a connoisseur of bad fiction as well.
I got your rated X right here:
His mouth descended and covered hers, his tongue playing beautiful melodies against her lips. She parted them, allowing his tongue entrance to her hidden cavern and the kiss lengthened until their universe was spinning out of control. She couldn't think, and knew she didn't want to, ever again.
Then, they were naked, lying on sand as soft as any feather bed, tiny waves playing with their toes. His hands covered her breasts, kneading her hot flesh, his mouth toying with her ears. "I want you," he murmured, "as I've never wanted anyone."
"Then take me," she replied, slipping her hands around his waist. Then he was inside her, his manhood large, filling every inch of her. His thrusts, his movements perfectly timed with her need, his huge body driving her upward, making her crave. His mouth covered her erect nipple, licking and sucking as his hips pressed his flesh more deeply into her.
"Oh, Lord," she said, "make me yours."
"You are mine," the man said, "always." And with one final push, warm fluid filled her and her pleasure was complete.
Again, shooting fish in a barrel. Nobody expects Tolstoy out of their porn. Nevertheless, I at least expect the porn not to sound like the woman is getting her car taken to Jiffy Lube.
It's definitely the height of eroticism to be filled with "warm fluid".