My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun. Hers are dark and deep, mysterious and radiant like a clear night’s sky. Her lips are red like love’s lush hue, soft and gentle and wet like a rose petal glistening with morning dew. Alabaster statuary of Diana cannot compare with her round, silky, milky-white breasts that heave and list with sighs as I caress her with kisses on her chest. Her hair has a sheen like the calm black Mediterranean under a crescent moon of silver and white. Cheeks of tender lily splashed with sherry blush as her teeth of perfect porcelain are caressed by her tongue that invites like a red carpet drawing guests to her hardy hearth ablaze. Her breath and the curvature of her neck are of such an aroma that no nectar or aphrodisiac is as potent. No, not the concoction that caused Titania to fall for Bottom the Ass could be as sweet an intoxicant as the elixir of her scent. To hear her speak — that seductive sound — is more powerful than the Sirens’ call and I, more than hapless Odysseus to his mast, am to her bound. And when mine eye follows her visage down to her lovely pedestal, no angel or sprite could have a more delicate footfall than my muse when she doth lightly tread upon the ground, as if Heaven still carried her aloft though it be here on earth that she is found. Thus, when I see my love naked and bare and am caught in her gaze, me thinks she is draped in Beauty; she is so fair. To whom, I ask you, does she compare? As I am to Shakespeare inferior, so she to all others is their better.
[Excerpt from the story, “Love That Body Image,” from the blog: mysexlifewithlola.com]