I know we've built a reputation for writing bondage and torture into our erotica, but Jasper and I can write love scenes as well. Write... er, right, Jasper? Allow me to post some examples:
From Jasper's Maggie Pie --
She journeyed with him to their beginning -- their second beginning, the night he showed up on her porch, his porch, the night of his confrontation with three men outside a Holyoke tavern. He appeared before her near midnight as a weathered alley cat, the hair on his head matted with dried sweat. His shirt waved in the breeze, overlapping his jeans, its buttons unbuttoned, most buttons missing. The matted hair of his chest and belly centered his open shirt, splotches of red dotted his knuckles, the backs of his hands. He told her of his deed, of his manhandling of her husband, his pummeling of her husband’s two friends, not knowing how she would respond, not knowing if she would be pleased or displeased. He surrendered to her, desperate for her acceptance.
She took his scarred hand, led him directly into the grey-shrouded turret, near this same bed in this same room. She stripped him of his tattered clothing, guided him to lay flat on her mattress, exhibited for him her newly-found skills, unknown even to her until executed. With her mouth she praised him, with her tongue she painted him, and with her throat she controlled him.
Bud had no choice but to reach for the bedposts. His reach was involuntary, but of his own doing. The overwhelming ecstasy of her touch stripped him of all notions that he was the dominant partner. The power of her touch weakened him, sapped his strength, erased his ability to defy her. He stretched himself, demanding to be punished. Then as now, she punished him with denial. Their first session, a session of discovery, of secret desires learned in silence by movements and responses, sealed their reunion, rekindled their passion, while leaving their pain a distant memory. She controlled him, and her domination allowed him to exonerate himself from all guilt. With Julie in control, Bud’s demons were extracted, taken from him, no longer his responsibility, no longer his problem. With Julie in control, Forrest Richter was dead, buried and forgotten.
Now as then, she became weary. She laid atop him where she had begun, keeping his penis imprisoned, crushed to the depths of her vaginal walls. Her head fell next to his, between his cheek and the crook of his shoulder. Her fingers encircled his triceps and biceps. Julie drifted into sleep.
And now from my Thomas Coleman Full Nelson, from the book Hard Working Men --
Thomas basked in my praise. Sprawling before me with eyes closed, he snored off and on, moaned and groaned off and on as I licked and kissed and manipulated muscle with my hands. With no regard for his sore ribs or anything else, I saturated his body with my spit, buried my face into his untreated armpits and glossed over their bushy blackness. My lips clamped his biceps, my jaw opening wide to engulf their thick and hard power. My face inhaled his belly, so soft at its surface, so concrete beneath. His perfectly-matched nuts were assaulted with tongue and lips, their cropped hairs tugged with teeth, their sperm-bulging skin nibbled with mouth and twisted with fingers. His feet, his sturdy, size ten, fur-topped feet were painted with my spit, each toe sucked, each sole and each ball joint massaged with fingers and licked with tongue. And his tits, so firm, so tiny and so hidden with his arms down, now were wide open with his arms up. Little nickels with little tips became little dimes with rising tips, hardening tips, as I sucked and licked and slurped and finger-pinched. My baby's baby bottle nipples were treated as such without mercy, because my eyes were locked onto his frantically bouncing cock. My assault upon his tits produced a phallic ballet of involuntary clenches. The contractions of his scrotum were my doing, not his. His mighty cock bobbed and weaved with power and grace. He spit silky, pre-orgasmic lubrication, strands of the stuff glistening in window-filtered moonlight and tethering his cock head to his belly. Overflow of his manly syrup sugar-coated his ready-to-explode mushroom, its bulging sheen inviting my mouth to taste. All of my beautiful Thomas joined his scrotum in convulsing, as he arched his back, sucked in his belly, thrust his tits deeper into my mouth and fingers.
Oh, how he suffered, how he writhed in uncontrolled ecstasy, flexing and posing and thrusting and groaning like a heroic, chained muscle-stud. And when I could no longer bear to watch him struggle through my cruel extension of our nine years of frustration, I finished him.
See? No chains or ropes, simply two people upon a mattress making love. You and I are true romantics, Jasper.