August MacGregor

Celebrating Sensuality. Intended for mature audiences, 18 and over


A Reader in the House of Books

He didn’t use the library’s
self-checkout machine,
instead bringing the book
to the counter
when the pretty librarian
was behind it.

To see if she gave a reaction
when he slid
A Spy in the House of Love
across the counter
with the temptation of asking
if she’s read the book,
this specific copy of the book,
because it would be
very lovely to know her fingers
had caressed the words
and slid each page to the side
to get to the next page,
like peeling away
layers of a fantasy
getting closer to the center.

Which page corners did she fold down
to mark her spot when
she paused reading?
A break to take care of a craving
or drive to work at the library
or maybe meet her friends for wine.

But she’s a librarian, and she would find
folding page corners
to be a crime against the book,
preferring to slide an erect bookmark
between the layers,
fitting it snug and safe
until she’s ready
to slip back into the fantasy again
and hear Anaïs Nin’s
soft, French-accented whispers in her ear.

He doesn’t ask the librarian if
she’s read the book.

It’s enough to see the
slight rising of her eyebrows
and the brightening of her eyes
before she returns to
the expression she wore before.

It’s enough to plant the seed
of this book in her mind,
and cause her to imagine reading it,
maybe even with him.

He will imagine sitting
next to her on the couch,
naked under a blanket,
taking turns reading to each other,
trying out their best French accents,
laughing while aroused.



Reading Heartbeating

(Note: the first link is safe for work, but the second is not. Which is a good reason to click on it.)

The infographic says
6 minutes of reading
can slow your heartbeat,
and I like that reaction
of readers ingesting
some scenes in my stories.

But in other scenes,
I hope for quickened thumping
of readers’ hearts
as their eyes leap from
word to word
line to line
in a rush to find out
what sensual thing
happens next.
Because in my stories,
it’s fantasy time
and not the kind of fantasy
of strolling by a lazy stream
(birds chirping
sun shining)
and seeing a flying pegasus
swoop down nearby, then
is led by a friendly elf
to the stream for a drink.

Rather, the fantasies are meant
to elevate heart rates
like books that come
with trigger warnings
which turns away some readers
but is a draw
for other readers who
(while they’re deep
in the forest of the story)
find a good position to prop the book
with one hand turning the pages,
while the other hand
teases their own triggers,
causing heart rates to skyrocket.


The Masks Stay On

I wrote a Mardi Gras poem last year, so I figured I’d give it a shot again…

No need to remove our masks,
since the night carries mysteries
in its inner pockets like knives and
photos of compromising positions.

Like the one she’s in right now,
a wondrous part of her unmasked:
her gown is finally pushed up —
this sumptuous gown that titillated
me all evening, with its enviable ability
to hug her curves, a teasing smirk
by showing off skin here and there,
just enough to tempt me
into wanting more and more.

Finally I get to feel the crimson gown
lift and slide, clutched my eager hands,
this soft dress the color of blood
like that stampeding in me to my center,
hardening even more
as I sink into her, not bothering
either to remove my mask
or my tuxedo in our great haste.

She moans at my arrival of heat,
her moans are more a celebration
than the party revelers
on the floor below us,
laughing and talking loudly,
down the wide curving staircase
that we ascended in our journey
to find this bedroom tucked
away from the tipsy crowd
for the privacy of our lust.

Her moans are more jubilation
than the yells on the street
outside, the parade float patrons
calling out bargains of beads
for flashes of the drunken watchers
dancing on the sidewalks.

We dance our own Mardi Gras exuberance,
the thrill of plunging into her,
her moans a free verse jazz,
as she lays upon this bed,
in this unfamiliar room,
in this extravagant mansion,
on this intoxicating night.


Prompt Poems: Dark Kingdom and Soothing Touch

Her breath charges
her heart thunders
as she
enters his
dark kingdom
of blindfolds and ropes–
and he allows
his beast to
run and heave.


Glass of wine
and his
soothing touch
go a long way
in easing her
stressed body
and mind
after a hard
week at work.


Prompt Poems: Cocoa, Edge, Bells, Petals, Vow

Poems written based on Twitter prompts: #fieryverse, #madverse, and #wordchimes…

Back inside
after frolicking
in the snow,
their hot kissing —
while the
milk warmed
on the stovetop —
dusted cocoa
all over the
kitchen counter.


after forever
of tiptoeing
on her hot spots
with his fingertips
and tonguetip,
he pushes her
over the edge,
and she soars.


Hearing sleigh bells
from the
thick snowed forest,
she shivered
not from cold —
due to the fireplace —
but from


walking to the
tropics burst
in technicolor
their petals
like cheerful cheeks.


Once again,
his eyes
lingered on
another woman,
and she made
a silent vow
to leave him
once and for all.


20 Sexy Stories and Love Poems in 5 Words

I’ve written scary stories in 5 words and poems in 5 words, so now it’s time for …

(can you feel the excitement building??)

… sexy stories and love poems in 5 words!

(but you already guessed that from the title, didn’t you?)

  1. Let’s cuddle like cute hedgehogs.
  2. Her body is a poem.
  3. Skin smooth as chocolate cream.
  4. Her snake tattoo: Deadly beauty.
  5. Naked, they entered the library.
  6. Naked, they ate delicious sushi.
  7. Men grateful for nipply weather.
  8. Ticklish and orgasmic: Full weekend.
  9. “Touch me there, don’t stop.”
  10. Parted lips of glossiest red.
  11. First kiss grew, flourished, tropical.
  12. Her falling dress; he shivered.
  13. Nefarious bra clasp! Can’t unlock!
  14. Together, we endure and rejoice.
  15. Feeding her a raw oyster.
  16. Bedroom sanctuary: Togetherness comfort found.
  17. Blissful moans, her beautiful singing.
  18. Things she does with bananas.
  19. Fingertips adore exploring her body.
  20. Avocado meets jalapeño: Gettin’ spicy.


Crimson Black Leaf

autumn leaves, by [puamelia] (Flickr, Creative Commons)

[puamelia] (Flickr, Creative Commons)

The crimson black leaf upon the ground
Catches my eyes and I pick it up for a closer look
Which pulls me even closer
As I fall into the leaf’s color and veins

Transporting me to a room
In an exotic place, perhaps Marrakesh
Even though I’ve never been there in real life
But something about the feel of it and smell of spices
Matches what I imagine of the place
The room lit by three candles
Behind a red swirling tapestry
Emanating a crimson glow

Making me think she and I
Are inside a lantern hooked behind
The spoke-handled wheel
Of an old, tall ship
Swaying about in an angry sea
We’re holding each other tight
As we look out the lantern’s glass
With frightened awe
At the lines of rain
And waves like clutching hands

Or perhaps we’re inside a heart
Not hers, nor mine
But both of ours together
The crimson beating heart
Our bodies make when pressed together
Sometimes beating with the
Fury of a ravaging storm
Sometimes with the calmness
Of a leaf departing a high branch
And floating slowly, softly down
Into the awaiting hand
Of someone in love with the worlds
Both real and imagined.


The photo above is not mine, but from [puamelia] at Flickr, and it is used under the Creative Commons non-commercial license.