This isn’t the end
It’s merely the beginning
(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players
and his special post bidding HNT a very fond farewell.
And on a more personal note:
Thank you, Os. It's been an honour, a pleasure and a blast...)
Even though my fiery arousal is soaking the scarlet lace covering my modesty, darkening the fabric nestled between my legs, filling the room with my uniquely pungent scent, he wants more, he needs more.
He needs me wetter than I’ve ever been before, he needs to see my glisten drenching the delicate filigree, scorching the skin of my smoothly shaven mound as the dampness rises up towards the ebony bow perched innocently on the boundary up high. He needs to see it, to smell it, to feel it dripping its trail on my inner thighs, pooling on my bed, marking the crisp, white sheeting for hours, for days to come.
He needs it, his voice tells me between a growl and a hiss, his throbbing scarlet hardness betraying his own lascivious hunger as he spreads my legs out wide, his hands following the stocking covered line, momentarily hovering, teasing, taunting me with the promise of his touch, his hands finally finding landfall again as they caress then take their sweet hold, one up the side of my neck to wind through the curls at my nape, the other clutching at my sex like possessor and invader, dextrous fingers at long last edging the fine weave to reveal the gleaming ruby of my lips, of the cunt longing to wrap itself around his leaking cock.
And just as I think he’ll give in to my desire as well as his own, just when I believe my throaty pleas and moans will see him acquiesce, he releases the fabric to devour me, suckle on me through the flooded lace, to slide his shaft along the slippery boundary, to press his cockhead into me so hard for a moment I wonder if he will shred, tear, break through the cruel little barrier to sheath his cock with me, to meet and fuck and have my greedy velvet heat.
As the humidity rises up, choking the purity of the air, its gleaming trace prickling her skin, her body calls out for him, reaches out to him, piercing the light, drinking in shadows, hungry for its opposite, its complement, the lure of him, his flesh, his hardness, his scent, his touch too great, too vast, too devastatingly addictive to resist.
(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players…)
While I can not help but yearn to shower you in riches and finery (and photographic equipment), I wish for you the most precious of gifts, JM: time.
I wish for you the extension of moments passionate, joyous, wondrous, the time to lavish your desires, carnal, sensual and sweet, to indulge your gorgeous Jas, to write and photograph and share with us all. I wish the hands of the clock to stop in their tracks, to grind to a halt, for the ticking and the tocking to freeze, for time itself to stand oh so very still so you can live it as you would wish.
We all need friends. Very cheeky friends. The gorgeous fellow with the mesmerising smooth chest, the late phoenix, knows he always has a friend in me. Yet…
It’s always handy to have friends in high places, friends with clout and charisma and pulling power. A friend like Jerry Lewis.
I know for a fact Mr Lewis wouldn’t need a gun to his head* to befriend our late phoenix (unlike the slightly unhinged Rupert Pupkin). I suspect it would be a match made in movie heaven. And who better to lean on, to laugh with or to call upon to organise a telethon when times get a little tough (and you’re on the street sex blogging from a cardboard box)!
There’s something about this view, the velvet darkness of this room and the bright ocean exterior and sky of blue that brings this woman of beauty, of photographic talent, of a searing sexuality to mind.
For you, Sophia, I wish for you a room with a view to indulge your artistic eye, to hide away and indulge your carnal and sensual passions, to give these walls something to really talk about…
In the forgetting, in the act of extinguishing our fire, in the struggle to rid my body of its erotic longings, its carnal addiction, it is the shutter’s click, it is this sweet yet cruel apparatus that serves as a reminder of you.
Her tremble meets his once palms, fingers, tips finally make contact, once they finally run over the deep filigree band of ivory lace, his sensual touch teasing its limits, her borders, tracing the line of the suspender belt, the swell of her abdomen, the curve of her hips as he slowly descends the straps drawn so very tight, his hands slipping slowly between her thighs, inside the tops of her tan stockings, his hands caressing, stroking, taking in the transition between nylon and her bare warmth, his hands drinking in her fair skin, committing to memory her femininity, his fingers drawing their aching design on her soft sweet glistening flesh.
His gaze doesn’t leave mine for a moment as takes me again, his hands on my hips, on my fair, shimmering skin, guiding me out of the kitchen’s darkness, away from my minute of respite, pressing me back into the golden lamplight, into the cold stuccoed arch.
But it isn’t the unforgiving chill of the wall that curves my back, that has my fingers grasping, clawing, that compels my body to seek out his hard, masculine flesh, that sends a violent ripple clear through me.
It is his touch, hot and heavy, insistent on my neck, my breasts, the flat line from my abdomen to my naked mound. It is his mouth, feasting off the lips bruised by his kiss, feeding off my hungry, seeking tongue. It is his imposing body, kneeling before me, wordlessly demanding my desire, my passion, silently possessing me as he plunges two rough digits into this slick and greedy velvet, fingering, fucking, crooked to find that gloriously maddening spot, his tongue intermittently lashing out, raking over my clitoris, his forearm tense, giving its strength, its speed, its sweet brutality, his fingers thrusting, fucking, fucking me hard, fingering me harder, his eyes calling me, commanding me to obey, daring me to defy, his eyes, his fingers, his body, his thick and straining cock needing my fire, my libations, my blistering glisten, my moan, my scream, the hot pool of my come.
For months I’ve been hoping, waiting, anticipating. Now the wait is finally over and the lovely people at Blurb have finally come through. My book, Sinfully Sensuous, is available as an eBook at last. At this stage, the eBook favours all lovers of Apple gadgetry, optimised for the iBooks® app on the iPad®, iPhone®, or iPod touch®. (And for those whose devotion is wedded to other platforms, I’m assured these formats are on the way.)
So if you’re in need of a cheeky treat that can be conveniently hidden away from prying eyes, require a stocking filler for the holidays fast approaching, or want a little piece of me and my creations at your fingertips, this might be just the thing.
This number ... 19 ... it speaks, it whispers, it sings to me of sultry summer nights, of the exotic heady, overwhelming, of a scent crisp, sensual and feminine, of Coco, of Chanel, of style and grace and passion, of this body clad in laces, silks and satins of the lightest ivory, of the deepest ebony, of the scarlet of sirens hungry, beckoning, of my body, of his body, of bodies stripped, bare, divested, of bodies gleaming, glistening, shimmering, of bodies absolute in their nakedness, of bodies yearning, of bodies lusting, of bodies pressed in close, together tight.
This number ... 19 ... it speaks, it whispers, it sings to me of man and of woman, of the perfect numeral pair, of his assured masculinity, of his dizzying imposing strength, of his body lean and tall calling for the softness of her skin, for her rosy peaks to trace and tickle, surrender, of her curvaceous suppleness nestled into his muscular back, of her cheek resting, of her lips kissing, tasting, of her arms wound around him, her hands drinking in his flesh, of their bodies independent and unique, of their bodies in this erotic union, of their bodies as one shrouded in the velvet darkness, illuminated in the platinum light of day.
This number ... 19 ... it speaks, it whispers, it sings to me, this gift bestowed by the gorgeous (and hard-working) Rori from Between My Sheets, by the humbling nominations from the lovely France and Lady Dragonfly, from the gentleman so temptingly Easily Aroused, and by you, friends, readers, writers, lovers and your incredibly generous and enduring support.
This number ... 19 ... it speaks, it whispers, it sings to me, much like the other 99 we should all discover and devour with erotic leisure, with pleasurable haste.
He grunts his approval as she spreads herself disgracefully wide open, her long lean legs hooking themselves over his muscular thighs, his cock, thicker and harder than she could have ever conceived now running along the soft strip of dark curls on the pillowy mound, now teasing her impossibly pink, smooth lips, now gliding through the velvet folds to the clitoris swollen, aching, calling, to the cunt hot and hungry and beckoning, to the cunt bright and plump and glistening, coating his throbbing shaft in her fire, in her juices before he selfishly, deliciously fills her to the brim, before he overpowers, before fucks her hard, before he takes her tight little cunt as his.
Tired. Tired. I’m so tired. I’m so tired I can’t think. I can’t think what food to eat, which clothes to wear, the way I should tie or place or set my hair. I’m so tired the banality of my day, the must-dos flooding my brain, leave me exhausted, in a whir.
And yet, I know if you were here, if I was there, if our bodies were together enveloped in this darkness, if our bodies were together cosseted away from the cold, hard, howling wind, if our bodies were together pressed in close, pressed in tight, if we were together you would revive me, you would bring me back to the light, the touch of your skin breathing in new life, your deep, sensual kiss calling to the passion never far from this fair surface, your hands travelling up the length of my naked back, your hand nestling intimately between these vulnerable blades, your hand, your fingers weaving through the curls at my nape, your lips whispering my name, moaning your desire, your thick hard cock filling me, feeding me, fucking me, wanting me, loving me, showing me the way.
You are with me, in thoughts and dreams and waking, in the tender darkness where I whisper the truth of this desire to the phantoms of the night, in the harsh glare of the light where I tuck it away inside this ever-longing body for safe keeping.
You are with me, in thoughts and dreams and waking, the blur of memory, the merest reverie setting my femininity, my sensuality alight, my hands instinctively shedding the innocence of white cotton, my fingers teasing this skin, this smoothness, this freckled fairness, this flesh reaching out to the space beside me where you belong, reaching out to the void your intensely masculine body should fill and love and live.
You are with me, in thoughts and dreams and waking, my lips longing to spend and revive with their sweetness and their danger, my legs yearning to wrap themselves around this man so tight, my body wanting, my body needing the breath, the beat, the caress of your unique flesh, my cunt wanting, my cunt needing the kiss of your perfection, the thick hard glorious invasion.
You are with me, in thoughts and dreams and waking, this body electric unwilling, unable to forget.
He climbs on-board and sits down next to me, as he always does if the seat vacant, as I invariably hope he will.
I wish him there every morning as we spy one another on the 7:25 through the big picture windows of the crowded weekday bus. I wish him there beside me, wanting to feel the warmth radiating from his masculine and clearly disciplined body, wanting to inhale the mix of his skin and the cologne on his freshly shaved face, wanting to break all social barriers and wind my fingers around his nape, drawing him close to these lips, to the scarlet kiss yearning to brand that soft spot on his neck.
I wish him there just as I wish him in my bed, just as I wish him to arrive at my door and without a single word to seize and possess me, to make me his, to tear these clothes from my body, his hands tracing the line from my neck to my breasts to the flare of my hips, his hands running up the length of my calves to these creamy, supple thighs, his hands taking hold, splaying me wide on the hard, polished floor, holding me open to his gaze, to the gaze burning to see my bright gleaming flesh, to see the glisten dripping from these honeyed lips, to the mouth hungry to feast, to the cock needing the embrace of my sweet hot clutching cunt.
I wish him there, I wish him here. And as I do you appear before me, you come back to me, erasing him, becoming him, your voice and face and body replacing, sating my sensual longings, my primal greed unlike any other man, unlike any other, stranger or known, your dark eyes meeting mine, your beard leaving the lover’s trace on my skin fair, on my passion vulnerable, your kiss, your kiss, your kiss, the kiss of your lips, the hot kiss of your skin, the kiss of perfection from your thick hard uncut flesh, your kiss, your kiss, your kiss, the kiss of our bodies as we fuck and grind and ride and plunge headlong into this familiar and unique bliss.
These tips, these hands, these fingers, they do nothing but incite the riot, they do nothing but remind me of your sweet, possessing touch, they do nothing but flood my body with the ache, your kiss, our hunger, they do nothing but recall the man I crave and need too much.
(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players…)
All I have to give, all I have to offer is this woman here before you, this fair, imperfect surface, these uniquely feminine depths, this mind sharp and hungry and inquiring, this gaze blue, this skin soft, this body supple, this body become electric with your briefest grazing touch, this body yearning to explore possibilities infinite and endless, the sensual, the carnal, the craved, the unimagined, the woman to your man, this body longing to worship, to venerate, to know you, this body on its knees whispering the benediction so deserved, these lips kissing, tasting, feasting, these fingers charting, mapping, rejoicing, this cunt giving, taking, fucking, at one with your thick hard perfecting flesh, this heart beating, beating, beating, beating passion, love, desire, beating night, beating day, beating crazed against your chest, these arms wound tight, these arms wound right, wound with freedom and belonging, wound with flesh and blood, with fire, with the need to live this short, sweet life in the present, in this now.
The winds they howl; screaming, crying, lashing the cold, hard rain against the glass, uprooting earth and flowers and trees, destroying the material world once so solid beneath my feet.
The winds they howl; wailing, moaning, breathing life into this torment, this longing that tears mercilessly at this woman wanton, that whispers cruelly into the long deep dead of night, that caresses me with the sweet gruffness of his voice, the sound of my name on his lips, the weight of his body bearing down, his thick hard beguiling flesh, the hands possessing me tight, the touch, the kiss, the fire setting me free.
The winds they howl; groaning, yelling, words of dissonance, of resonance, remainders, reminders of the feelings that make perfect yet little sense, that flood my mind with its complexity, that knot my stomach, that seize my heart, that capture my skin and flesh and cunt and soul, racing, pulsing, pounding with its simplicity, that have me crazed and yearning, that have me wanting him, wanting us, needing you in every way, in every way I have imagined, in every way this passion has yet to conceive.
The winds they howl; the winds they howl. My love for you, the winds they howl.
This passion, this need, this desire coursing oily hot through my veins, this sensuality softly rising up, prickling my skin with its gleaming, scented sheen, this carnality tearing at my flesh and blood and bones through the dark hours and the light, this woman staring back at me in the silvery reflective glass.
This can't be tamed. I can't be tamed. And I'm unsure I even want to try.
If you only knew what I'd give right now to have you hold me, to have you want to hold me, to hold me tight, to hold me close, to hold me like you'll never let me go, to hold me until day becomes our velvet night, to hold me until the first rays of the morning light, to hold me until our heat turns into fire, our fire into ash, this ash into earth and flesh and blood and sweat and come, to hold me until our breath and kiss and delirious passion become one.
It’s almost late; it’s almost ten, the quiet of the night finally setting in. And the only thing I want right now is you in my bed.
On this night, I need its softness, your hardness, its crisp clean whiteness, your naked body spread out before me on the pristine purity I long to soil with our sweat, our slick, our come. On this night, I want to take you slowly, sensually, my impatience this once contained as I kiss you lightly, deeply, my lips and tongue tasting, devouring, my nose inhaling, drowning in your scent, my gaze tracing, my hands mapping, these fingers brushing, possessing, my cunt enveloping, acquiescing, my hips gliding, riding, your cock, your heat caressing, overtaking, our passion climbing, cresting, your deep voice groaning, your deep voice calling, your hot seed splashing, my fiery glisten coating, our spent bodies curling, entwining, our spent bodies even then ever yearning, my senses committing, memorising your power, your desire, your flesh, my senses drinking, drifting, falling, dreaming of the body magnetic, of the man by my side whose sweet, mellifluous breath leaves me in a daze.
I can’t be measured. I can’t be measured with you. Not with you.
I try, I do try, but I fail miserably, each and every time. In the face of you, my carnality, my sensuality rises up, forcing its way through my skin, tearing at my flesh, dizzying my mind, shredding the seams of my impatience, my rationality, my experience of time. In the face of you and your body and your passions and your words, I am aflame.
In the end, it is this flame, this fire, my fury, my fervour that has burnt us right up for the very last time. And in its wake there is nothing but the need to guard and shield and hide this woman, this heart, this vulnerability away, to paper over the fissure of desire you cruelly and tenderly tore open wide, to find my way through the tears and this pain to the love and the lust and the home of man I hunger and crave.
If I coaxed your body down with my sweet words, with this sultry voice, if I ran my clear blue gaze along your naked craving flesh, if I confessed my need with desire and with honesty, with the blinding ache you so easily inspire, would you allow me to chart your flesh, to trace and map, to feel you, to fuck you, to make love to you, to grasp the ins and outs of you, to know you with lightness and precision, with soft lips and trembling fingers, with the warmth of this fair skin, with the deep, hot kiss of my velvet cunt?
Would you indulge me, darling lover, this sensual quest, this erotic exploration, would you offer up the man of passion I yearn for as no other?
I need you, baby, I need you. Right now. I need you to take me, to make me yours. Right now. I need you inside me, I need your naked cock buried deep inside this sweet little cunt. Right now. I need to glide you between my lips, I need to taste the pearls glistening on your head. I need to savour you, devour you, give everything I am to you. Right now. I need to hear you come, your mouth pressed against my ear, your seed splashing hot and hard. Right now. I need to wrap myself around you, my skin and yours as one. I need your gaze, your touch, your kiss, I need that soft, warm wetness that leaves us shivering, reaching for more of this perfecting bliss.
I need you, baby, I need you. Right now, I need all of this.
I see you in the city crowd, around each bustling corner, in the sea of men dressed in their finery, moving swiftly, sauntering languidly, meeting in cafes, waiting at lights, recognising your eyes, your mouth, your gait, your frame, the heady mix of your cologne and your freshly showered skin.
I see you in flashes and grabs in these strangers before me, I hear your voice somehow through theirs, your voice deep and accented, your voice hoarse with desire, your voice erotically soft, your voice drifting through the wintry breeze, taunting me, calling me, summoning my body, impelling me to follow it, to follow you through the suited throng to a quiet little place, a quiet modest room, a room with a bed and a window and an unassuming view, a room to christen with the libations of our frenzied coupling, a room to fill with the sounds of our sensual union, a room for just us two.
I see you. I see you everywhere in the crowd, on the street, in this bright, shiny city of mine.
The slender, delicate fingers belie her strength and lascivious greed, looping, twining around his thick, eager shaft, stroking, stroking, oh so slowly stroking his pulsing, throbbing uncut meat, pressing his now streaming cockhead into the smooth, full, beckoning lips, guiding, nudging his hardness past that maddening, mouth-watering point of resistance, pushing him, thrusting him, taking him in, taking him all the way in, in, in, into the deep, clutching moistness of her hot honeyed little cunt.
This body, this relentlessly craving, whimpering body, it calls to you, calls for you, night and day, day and night, through the light of the sun and the beam of the moon and the soft tick and the deafening tock, it calls and begs and pleads for you, for you and your hands and your touch, it whispers, it howls, it calls to savour your lips, it calls for a taste of your kiss, it calls and recalls in a dizzying and ruthless act of remembrance your face, your eyes, your mouth, the sweet rumble that brings me to my knees, your body, your body, you, you, you there and here, you then and now and soon after, facing me, beside me, pressed sensually, firmly into me, hovering above, spread out for our unbounded pleasure beneath.
This flesh, this skin, this feminine suppleness, this subtle warmth turned blazing fire, this breathy, sultry song, this cunt, my cunt, your cunt, the cunt belonging, the cunt longing, the cunt pulsing, swelling, blooming, shining bright, it weeps its want, it drips its desire, it instinctively pours its honeyed pungency fusing silk and satin and lace to this ache, it calls, it overwhelms this space, this place, this room, hoping to find you, hoping to steal you away, to lead you back to me, instinctively leading you by this imperceptible thread, guiding your hunger awakened and unsated, bringing you to my fair, lean legs spread wide, hips pushed deep into the bed, the crisp cotton already listless under the damp heat of my lust, my breasts heaving, nipples hard and darkened peaks, one arm stretched taut grasping, grasping, reaching for the blood and muscle and bone and hard, urgent fleshly throb of your seductive force, stroking the slick, stroking your thick uncut cock, the other nestled along the curve of my arching form, its hand, its fingers parting my folds, circling my nub, two fingers familiar sinking right in, two fingers transformed under the darkness of your gaze, two fingers fucking, two fingers crooked, fingering, fucking the streaming depths of this sex, fingering, fucking with vigour and strength, fingering, fucking, my body on the brink, my body shivering and frayed and torn open, released to you, exposed, bared, in screaming shreds.
This woman, this woman of appetites primal, of sensual yearning, this woman in the glass, this woman that is me, she calls to you, she calls for you, though her language deficient and incomplete, she calls for you, I call for you, for your mouth to feed and mine to swallow, for the tangle of limbs and lips and tongues, for the body of man, for his flesh, for the flesh, oh God, your flesh, for the hard and muscular, highlighted with shadows of curls wiry, for the masculine in scent and line and tone, for the infinite possibilities you inspire, for the possibilities decimating all rational thought, for your love making on a rainy, winter’s afternoon, for our clothes tugged aside as we fuck against the cool of a wall, for the alleyway and movie theatre, for the car speeding down the straight, smooth, glowing highway, for the insatiable hunger that thrusts, that binds us together, for my slight body astride, my thighs tight around your torso, your pulsating shaft parting the lips, nudging the portal of life, your meat stretching and perfecting the velvet so willing and tender, for the moan, for the groan as you fill me to the brim, for the bodies in sync, in rhythm, in dance, for the sounds of my rising and falling, rising and falling and slipping under your spell, for your dominance to sweep and assault, for your hands to force and grind this cunt ever nearer, for your hips to slam and pound the climax clear and blinding right out of us, for my hands around your head bringing you closer, closer, ever closer to the want and the need, to these sweet, whispering lips, to the mewl and the breath and the pure, base affirmations as I come, as you come, as we come, as your seed and my glisten, as your man and my woman become one.
In the hours and days and weeks that slide imperceptibly away, in the grip of his fire, in the face of his presence, in the space of his absence, in the past tense of his desire, she realises with an almost painful clarity that this is no longer a game. She realises that he is unlike any other, that he is the man of flesh and blood and word and passion, the man ideal, the man flawed that she has always longed to meet. He is the man, he is that man, the one who inspires thoughts profound and profane, who speaks to her erotic and carnal longings, who pierces a place deep inside her she can barely acknowledge, let alone articulate.
She knows this now; knows it her bones, in her cunt and her heart and her soul.
She knows this just as she knows she will soon be forgotten, replaced, leaving the barest whisper of a trace. She knows this just as she knows she will never be that woman for him, he will never want her as she wants him, he will never want in the inquisitive, complex and complete ways that overtake her as the sun shines bright, that taunt her in the darkness, in her dreaming even as she prays to forget, that sweep over her petite form as she splays her legs wide, as she grinds her hips, her palm into her throbbing sex, as she nudges the flimsy cotton aside and spreads her bright lips to circle the nub of her purest pleasure, as she pushes in one digit, then two, then three, as she fingers, as she fucks with animal abandon, with feminine sensuality, her moans, her raged breath bringing him back to life once again, her moans, her murmurs placing him right before her eyes, by her side, her moans, her murmurs, her call to him flooding her ears with his voice, her mouth with his kiss, her senses with his skin and weight and burning need, her moans, her murmurs, her call, her cry binding, enslaving, plunging her headlong into the abyss shadowed and blinding.
As the sheen on her bare, shivering body glistens in the low, winter light, she knows this; she knows all of this. And how she wishes instead for ignorance’s bliss.
With each utterance, with each exhaled breath and lingering look, with each touch aching, light, caress bruising, possessing, with each brush of your lips, each languid, searching kiss, with every inch of your body pressed into my nakedness, with every plunge, every thrust, every stroke of your thick aroused flesh, with every whisper, every groan, every pulse, every beat of the muscle in your broad, heaving chest, you draw me in, you hold me tight, you drown me in your danger, you seduce me anew.
I’ve been a busy minx of late: busy with pen, busy with lens, busy dressing up and then dressing … all the way down.
As I hinted a little while back, this flurry of activity has resulted in a book, and a very specific one at that: a collection of self-portraits and erotica titled Sinfully Sensuous (adopted from a memorable tag most generously bestowed by the swoon worthy Shibari).
The book, which takes its inspiration from the HNT posts here on the blog, brings together over 80 photographs and vignettes including a variety of favourites as well as more than 30 new images designed specifically for the page.
Available in soft cover and hard bound versions from Blurb, Sinfully Sensuous will be a way to have and to hold – and hopefully enjoy – a little piece of me and my creations. And that, I must confess, leaves me feeling very sinful and sensuous indeed…
It takes all of her strength not to reach out to him.
It takes every ounce of her self-control not to arch up to meet the hand adorned by the crisp, white cuff and platinum link, not to give her body over to his touch familiar and new, possessing and sweet. It takes all of her restraint, all of her will not to give in to the urge to trail her slender fingers over the smoothness of the gleaming leather, to run her hands up along the warmth radiating through the charcoal Italian wool, to map the muscular calves, the tensing thighs, to tease and stroke then devour the throbbing hardness nestled between his legs, to splay herself, open herself, reveal her fiery brightness to the flesh that perfects her. It takes everything she has, everything she is not to instinctively surrender to the passions, the impulses, the carnality this man inspires with little effort and action.
It takes everything, all things, this desire for him. It takes, it strips, it breaks, it pieces her back together again.
(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players…)
She points the way, although he needs no direction, her delicate fingers climbing the bare legs raised up stiletto high, trailing the silken line from ankles to calves, skimming the quiver of thighs splayed open, spread wide, parting the rosy folds of the sex dripping its hot liquid lust, tracing lazy circles around the nub swollen tight with desire.
She guides the way, even though he requires no assistance, her hands winding, possessing his head and face and smile, edging his gaze, his greed close, close, ever closer, holding him steady and firm at her sweet and pungent portal, his gasping breath, his gulping inhalation inspiring the maddening beating in her cunt, his mouth, his lips, his tongue grasping at the air whispering between them, his mouth, his lips, his tongue longing for that first perfect, honeyed kiss, his mouth, his lips, his tongue yearning, craving, aching, reaching for the woman, for the cup, for the flood, for her uniquely, addictive glisten.
Once the darkness descends, once the moonlight beams through, once the sapphire glow of the night engulfs the room, the shadows, the spectres, they come for her. They come for her desiring flesh, for her skin fair and blushing, for the body ever reaching for his alluringly forbidden touch. They come to feed on its fire, its need, to coax its secrets chaste and corrupt. They come, winding in and around her, pressing hard and tight against her, pinning down their woman, seductress, their lover. They come mapping her, marking her with certainty, with obscurity, their trace a cruel reminder of her longing for him, for him, to have him, to have him, in her bed, between her lips, in her cunt bright, greedy and glistening.
They come, they come, alone and together, they come...
(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players…)
I need your body strong, your body warm, your gaze and scent and kiss, your thick, hard lingering heat. I need your words, your silence, your song. I need your touch light, I need your touch dark, I need your touch complete.
Right now, I am certain you sense this, feel this, know this … fear this … to be true. I am certain this obsession, this addiction, this myopia is finally beginning to dawn.
And yet, the day on which it breaks is cold and grey and blustery, is without little hope, is without any sense, is without the rational thought that tempers the body written through with a desire so deep it tears the flesh, the soul, this woman to shreds.
Did you see?
Did you sense?
Did your flesh and blood perceive?
Did your stirring, insatiable cock by some means know just how this body yearns for your lingering touch, your urgent caress, just how this woman longs to drown in the depths of your sensual kiss?
In those swift strokes of the hand…
Did you feel?
Did you believe?
Did your skin prickle in its understanding?
Did your breath rasp and accelerate, your muscular chest heave once you realised it was you
I reach out for in the night, once you grasped my maddening need to melt and merge with your hard addictive heat?
In those sharp bangs of the drum…
Did you hear?
Did you discern?
Did your sexual soul take hold?
Did your ears swim in the moans of pleasure escaping these soft full lips, your body shudder, your uncut meat drip as I fingered and fucked this cunt to the light in the name of your passion, our flame?
In those fleeting pulses of time…
Did you taste?
Did you discover?
Did your mouth ask, speak its truth?
Did your lips and tongue offer their words, their hunger, their enveloping benediction as they craved me near, as they devoured me from afar, as they compelled you to recognise the sweet and cruel mistress of this irresistible, overwhelming desire?
It is the intensely thick, pulsating shaft languidly sliding between her full lips, teasing her flickering tongue, filling her slender throat, fucking her pretty little mouth that muffles the guttural cry from deep within her lithe body as he commands her to tease her cunt through the lace drenched in her liquid arousal, as he demands the removal of the white innocence bound tight around her hips, as he raises the succulent fabric to his nose and mouth, inhaling the dizzying perfume of her cock lust, drinking down the sweet musk of her desire.
To gaze and map and kiss
With sweetness, sensual bliss
To have, to hold
To merge and melt and fuse
With body soft, with man desired
To linger, to know
To soothe and sate and pleasure seek
With the pink, in the golden glow
To give, to take
To feel and fuck and love
With indulgence, decadence complete
Is to live
(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players…)
It beats its rhythm, every moment, every hour, every day, shaking me from my slumber, waking me in the dead night, reminding me, taunting me, taunting this body, this feminine flesh weak and alive, compelling my hands to reach out and touch, my lips to feed and caress, my legs, my cunt to open and bloom wide and electric for the breath and the skin and the man and his thick, hard, completing heat.
It is my pulse, my gait, my grind, my sensual arc and bend and curve, my essence, my measure, the quantifiable measure of my need, of my cock lust, of my obsession, of my passion for his mind and his body and his sexual soul, for the flesh that perfects, for the kiss that consumes, for the cunt lust that propels his own rapid heartbeat.
It drives me, slows me, begins and ends me, it tears me to shreds and pieces me back together again, this want, this hunger, this need, this desire for pleasure in its infinite variety, this desire for the wanton, the carnal, the erotic, this desire for the multiplicity we crave and we seek, this desire, this desire, this desire for him, for him, for him.
Fuck the words
Let them go
Give me your grunt, your growl, your moan
Grant me hard flesh, control, your power
Make me shudder, scream, surrender
Pound me mute, pound our come through the silence
Fuck the words
The body beckons
On his command, her hands will chart the path from her neck to her breasts to her hips, delicate fingers teasing, finally easing the ebony netting past fair pouting flesh as she bends deeply at the waist, exposing her glistening sex to the light, to his gaze, to his hunger.
(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players…)
I’ve harboured a dream, a desire, for quite some time. I’m sure it will come as little surprise considering this Antipodean’s fondness for exhibitionist self-portraiture.
Ever since I was old enough to appreciate its allure, ever since I could grasp its magnetism, I wanted to be the one gracing a glossy cover; to be the face or the body, to be the woman, who represents if not an ideal beauty then an idea, a mood, a sensation, a play on shadow and light, a feminine sensuality and sexuality born of the everyday.
It seems a certain Easily Aroused English gentleman has seen fit to make this dream a reality. This extremely fortunate Minx – and her self-portrait – adorn the cover of his newest collection of erotic fiction: Concupiscent.
If, by some chance, you haven’t had the good fortune to stumble across his exquisitely erotic and decadent work, make haste… Go ... Read ... Indulge ... (And buy ...) You won’t regret it. You can trust me on that.
And once you’ve recovered from the sensual and carnal pleasures and exertions that invariably follow an encounter with such words, make your way back here. Why? Because I have some book news of my own coming your way very soon…
(To you EA, my heartfelt thanks and gratitude for thinking my image a fitting accompaniment to the wondrous words that invariably leave me in a tailspin. I am honoured to be your cover girl…)
Lie by my side, curl your nakedness into mine, caress then spread the legs raised up high, fit your imposing body into this here aching flesh, swim, swim, dive and plunge into the warmth, into the heat, into the tight velvet embrace, into this sensation, this moment enslaving and pure.
Don’t go. Stay.
Let me kiss your tiredness away, allow my lips to tease and tempt you, to taste and know you, to breathe you back to life, to lead you into the shadows, to guide you into the light, to stain your pulsating flesh with scarlet signs of burning passion, to lick the pearls of your arousal glistening, to worship at the body, at the cock, at the man who inspires and sates my infinite yearning.