Not exactly erotica, sort of a poem. Put together on Twitter a few days ago, and messed around with a bit. –M
Traveller, on a long journey, sleeps under the old oak.
Kissed by its dryad, dreams of limbs wrapped ’round him.
Dreams of sighing branches, keening leaves.
Dreams of lost love never had.
Wakes with a new destination.
Traveller becomes wanderer, becomes seeker.
Restless to find, recall, recapture a memory not his own.
Traveler slows, stops.
Skin tough as bark.
Blood thin as sap.
Rests under an old oak.
Dreams of finding.