August MacGregor

Celebrating Sensuality. Intended for mature audiences, 18 and over


Bowlful of Cherries

cherries by Walid Mahfoudh (Flickr)

Naked and bedded
they fed each other cherries

Pinching a stem and holding the cherry
as if bait for a tiger

Lips spread wide, teeth bared,
they plucked the fruit from its stem

(First, she tickled under each cherry
with her tongue tip because she loved his reaction)

They used to be careful of the cherry juice,
so it wouldn’t get on the white sheet

But they decided pink explosive stains on the sheets
would be good reminders of this afternoon

The rule was tossed aside, and
spraying cherry juice added to the sensual fun

Cherry and cherry, back and forth, feeding and teasing,
the sweet flesh delightful in their mouths

He moved the wide bowl from between them
to the nightstand

As it was time to feast on each other.


Photo by Walid Mahfoudh (Flickr)




A poem inspired by the playfully tilted O in Robert Indiana’s LOVE sculpture.


Her glossy red lips form an O
open to let sounds rush out
desperate to release
refusing to be contained
needing to unleash the song of bliss felt inside.

This is not the funny yet silly
O face from Office Space,
but the moaning of hysterical literature
hysteria of uncontrolled emotion
why would you want to control it
let it have its wondrous way
be it caused by literature or unseen tool under the table.

Or in this particular case
on this particular night
with her glossy red lips forming an O,
her hysteria is caused by
his fingers and mouth
eager and patient
for the reward of her crying out
O God O God O God
in a transcendent chant
above all that is ordinary.


Love Is

Love is walking hand in hand on the beach.

Love is gifts of red roses and chocolate.

Love is looking past the clichés of romance
and creating memories that are
unique to just the two of you.

Love is a song sung with huge, expansive emotion.

Love is being impatient to see your lover again.

Love is thinking your lover is the only person on Earth.

Love is comforting your lover when he or she is in pain.

Love is doing whatever you can to make your lover laugh.

Love is dancing closely together on a crowded dance floor
and not caring about the others around you.

Love is touching your lover in those places
you know they love to be touched.

Love is kissing your lover deeply for a long time.

Love is knowing that other person as who they are and not who you wish them to be, and you still stay with them, be by their side through the fun times and the heart-wrenching difficult times.

Love is enjoying bringing your lover to orgasm, and you are thrilled as they cry out in ecstasy.

Love is sweating and panting as you make love to your lover with reckless abandon, throwing any attempts to be cool or handsome or pretty or smart or suave out the window because you lost caring about those things in the moment, and all you care about is giving and getting pleasure from this amazing person.

Love is glowing after that wild sex, feeling your pulse and breath slowly return back down to normal.

Love is falling asleep next to your lover, grateful for she or he to be there, and looking forward to waking up next to them the next morning.


Jobs for a Rose

rose, courtesy Internet Archive Book Images (Flickr, Creative Commons)

Internet Archive Book Images (Flickr, Creative Commons)

“A rose is a rose,”
he said,
“whether under your nose
or stroking your breasts

or your belly

or your thighs.

For what’s the use
of a rose
if all you do is
put it in a vase and look at it?”

Words failing her,
all she could do was moan
in response.


The photo above is from page 88 of The Practical Book of Outdoor Rose Growing for the Home Garden — published in 1915, so it is now in the public domain. Click on the image, which is courtesy of the Internet Archive Book Images, to jump to its Flickr page.


A Maddening Wait

“Next month, it’s finally here,” he said, his voice thick. “Can you wait that long?”

Her eyes were hard. “Of course I can. I’ve been waiting for a while. What’s another two weeks?”

“But those two weeks could be maddening.” He slid the leather loop of the riding crop down her leg, making her sigh.

“Not at all. I’m living it, anyway.” She shook her hands against the silken ropes as if he needed the confirmation.

“Oh?” He asked with the riding crop poised in mid-air. A question. A potential. “But I’m not a billionaire with six-pack abs.”

“No, you’re not. But you’re better than that.”

The riding crop slowly lowered and teased one of her nipples. “What could be better than a billionaire with six-pack abs?”

“Reality. Christian Grey is in the books and movie. He’s a fantasy. That’s nice, but reality is so much better.”

The riding crop suddenly slashed up, then down, and smacked her thigh — making her jump from the surprise and the sting.

“Good answer,” he said.

He sounded much calmer than how she felt, with her heart thumping and her breath swiftly arriving and departing. This wait was far more maddening to her than seeing a movie based on a book that she had enjoyed. The movie was going to eventually happen. As was the riding crop, and to prove that, the crop’s head was taking its sweet time sliding up her leg, starting from her ankle. Her heartbeat quickened as the leather loop moved upward, the head of a slithering snake, intent on traveling to her core, as if it could see right into her and knew the poundings of her lust and her heart.

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Sugar Cookies in January

sugar cookies, by Annie (Flickr, Creative Commons)

Annie (Flickr, Creative Commons)

“Baking sugar cookies in January?” Angela asked. “Bold move.”

“And why not?” Ray replied. “They don’t have to be just for Christmas. I didn’t make any Christmasy shapes.”

True, the cookies were instead in the shapes of snowflakes and snowmen. And it was also true that their two sons and daughter had thoroughly enjoyed decorating the cookies with icing in all sorts of colors. Colors that real snowflakes certainly were not found in, as they drifted from clouds.

“Well,” Angela said, “it made for a fun activity, that’s for sure. With three snow days in a row, they had to be entertained to keep them from becoming savages.”

“Thank goodness they all like playing in the snow. It’s a great way to wear them out for part of the day.”

“And you’re good to play with them out there.” Angela placed her forearms on her husband’s shoulders, with her hands clasped behind his head, and her eyes were warm as they took him in. “And they look like they’re wearing you out, too.”

“Some, yeah.” He chuckled with the admission. “But I had enough energy to make dinner and cookies.”

Angela kissed him. “Any energy left for me?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why, do you want to go play in the snow? It’s awfully cold out there at night.”

“Hell, no.” She shivered. “I’m talking about playing in bed. Since they’re all passed out, it’s time for us to play.”

“Mmm,” he hummed and kissed her. “I like the sound of that.”

“I knew you would. Because I’m going wear you out.”

Angela picked up two sugar cookies, then grabbed his hand, and she yanked him toward the stairs, toward their bedroom.


The photo above is used under the non-commercial Creative Commons license. Click on image to jump to photographer’s Flickr page.


Prompt Poems: Invigorates and Arouse

Winter’s chill
icy blasts —
more focused
is the ice cube
he touches
on her
slides down
to her


That sigh
oh yes
that sigh
she gives
that’s mixed
with a moan
tells him
his wish
to arouse her
has been
granted again.