Monday, February 28, 2011

Un/forgettable

She wishes he could be as forgettable to her as she is to him. She wishes for the ability to wipe him from her thoughts, her dreams, her body memory, from her erotic longings as easily and cleanly as his own process of erasure. She wishes and hopes and attempts to forget. But time and again her body betrays her, for there he is just as she opens herself to the pleasures of the flesh, just as the light blinds her eyes and the orgasm screams through and out of her.

There he is.

There he is before her, behind her, pressed softly, firmly into her. There is his voice, his scent, the taste of his kiss on her lips. There is his desire; the desire that speaks to her, somehow knows her, the desire whose subtleties and complexities, whose primal urgencies and lingering sensualities uncannily feel just like home.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

HNT: Fifty-one


She waits. He lingers.
The blinding sun a spot on the indulgent midday pleasure.

She waits. He lingers.
Her body poised for the exotic, for the voyeuristic gaze.

She waits. He lingers.
His eyes languidly mapping skin and curves, taut lines of diaphanous ebony.

She waits. He lingers.
The air thick, the walls pulsing with the desire coursing their veins.

She waits. He lingers.
Her quickening breath, her liquid glisten betraying urgent fleshly passions.

She waits. He lingers.
His lust now rumbling, his hardness straining for freedom and capture willing.

She waits. He lingers.
A sly smile curving her lips full and soft and eager.

She waits. He lingers.
A groan of impatient gliding metal sounding in the quiet.

She waits. He lingers.
Her whispered pleas edging him ever closer.

She waits. He lingers.
His shattered stasis a pawn in their teasing game.

(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players…)

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

(Re)Birth


The rays of the rising sun
The heat of the summer season
The day of my birth

The body, the mind, the spirit
The wonder, the bliss, the passion
The woman I have become

Monday, February 21, 2011

Give It to Me

Give it to me, baby. Give it to me.

He whispers as he trails strong fingers lightly.

Give it to me, baby. Give it to me.

He murmurs, sinking down upon his knees.

Give it to me, baby. Give it to me.

His fiery hands moulding flesh soft and fair and yielding.

Give it to me, baby. Give it to me.

His lips, his tongue mapping the line of long, lean sculpted legs.

Give it to me, baby. Give it to me.

His kisses sensual, profoundly overpowering.  

Give it to me, baby. Give it to me.

Her legs spread wide, revealing dampening silk and lace.

Give it to me, baby. Give it to me.

Her fingers fine easing fabric from smooth, bright aching sex now.

Give it to me, baby. Give it to me.

His voice catching, his thirst screaming, tearing through his skin.

Give it to me, baby. Give it to me.

Their eyes lock in want, in hungry desperation.

Give it to me, baby. Give it to me.

Her hands guiding him to her dripping honey pot.

Give it to me, baby. Give it to me.

Her breathy moan, her shiver as her parts her flowering folds.  

Give it to me, baby. Give it to me.

Her hips push forward, his head buries in her sweet hot little cunt.

Give it to me, baby. Give it to me.

His tongue of magic, swirling, licking, devouring her feast of cream.

Give it to me, baby. Give it to me.

His mouth greedily gulping, ruthlessly fucking for his first taste of her slippery come. 

Give it to me, baby. Give it to me.

And with one last groaning kiss, she does.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

HNT: Fifty


If only these eyes could gaze
Behold you
If only these lips could kiss
Caress you
If only this body could feel
Know you
I would ask, I would want, I would need
No more
Or no other

(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players…)

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Rain

His come rains down hard onto the smooth fullness of her well-fucked cunt, jet after jet of searing cream drenching her glistening lips, sizzling drops and drips etching her brightness with his name, marking her skin with his possession. As he straddles her supine form, muscular chest heaving, satisfied body recovering, she directs his heavy gaze to the delicate fingers gliding through his slippery essence, painting the swell of her breasts, the peaks of her nipples, tracing the folds of her flower, teasing the plump, greedy clitoris crying out for more.

But it is only once his fingers meet hers, sensually circling and fondling the pure pink pleasure; it is only once his gluttonous digits scoop up his thick seed, feeding it into the depths of her tight velvet heat; it is only once his spent cock finds new life again, driving into her with an urgent fury, merging the juices of their lust; it is only once the deluge saturates her sweet little cunt that her body opens to receive its right and its privilege, that her full mouth parts in ecstasy breathtaking, absolute and sublime. 

Thursday, February 10, 2011

HNT: Forty-nine


Tonight
I care little for the future
 Tonight
It is not your forever I desire
Tonight
I hunger only for your present
To melt
Into your flesh
To stoke
The flames of your fire

(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players…) 

Monday, February 7, 2011

The Small Hours

It is in the small hours of the silvery dark that our truth, the truth of our desires, our need, the veracity of the yearnings that stir our minds, arouse our bodies, tremble our souls rises up to meet us; to sigh and whisper, to sensually caress, to scream and shake and jolt us out of the somnambulist existence which often typifies our days in the bright.

It is in the shadowed quiet that the passions profound and profane overtake us, unwilling, unable to be kept any longer at bay. It is in this stillness, this dim that my flesh sings its torch song, my lips aching to feed and tongue to taste, my arms craving to soothe and fingers to trace, my heat hungering for communion, for otherness, for the sweetest of violations.

It is here, it is now, all pretence is stripped away and I can freely confess to the phantoms of the night, I can openly admit in the safety of this velvet embrace, I can finally own in the sphere of my reality and the realm of my wonder, he is the man I have always longed to meet.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

HNT: Forty-eight


You
Shatter my control
Splinter my resolve
With a breath
With a glance
With the touch of whispering fingers
With an ease that strips my body
With a seduction that bares my sexual soul

(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players…) 

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

41°C

The curtains and shades are drawn. Dazzling bands of white sunlight mark each glass and metal perimeter. The blades are spinning, loudly whirring, the electronic whirlwind whipping at my curls and the near nakedness reclining languidly, somewhat listlessly, on the plush, chocolate sofa.

This heat. This heat. This heat.

These are the only two words my mind can rationally exclaim, the only two circulating round and round as my supine fairness simmers, as the sheen prickling my skin glows then instantly evaporates in the dim.

This heat. This heat. This heat.

It is the kind that melts bitumen, dissolves asphalt, liquefies tar. It is the kind that threatens to overtake, to destroy with a mere thoughtless spark. It is the kind that begins with the blazing sun and the winds from the west, transforming the open air into a charred and unholy inferno.

This heat. This heat. This heat.

It compares little to the one rising up inside me, the one that has me yearning for searing flesh, the meat of man, your thick hardening cock. Even as I lie here spent and overcome, I hunger for your kiss, your sweat, your fiery libations; I ache to see and feel your imposing body hovering above me, your hands travelling up from ankles to calves to thighs, spreading me open, splaying me wide as you position my foot on the wall, the other on the coffee table, your fingers digging into the yielding softness of hips and buttocks petite, cupping the mons, the flower blossoming with your touch.

This heat. This heat. My heat.

You mould me, take hold of me, owning me as few have done before, your fingers, their tips tracing the terrain of my torso, the swell of my breasts, brushing the pale silken peaks, your mouth, ravenous, voracious following suit, tasting, licking, gulping at the curves, the firm mounds of excited flesh. And as our eyes meet, our combined gaze piercing the low afternoon light, you glide your eager shaft along my cleft, coating yourself in my warmth, my glisten, until it is too much to bear, until the pleading moans escaping these lips leave you no other choice than to part the bright shiny folds, than to feed your glans into my sweet little cunt, than to stretch and fill and fulfil the velvet heat that will envelop and shroud you, that will clutch and grasp and milk you once your head touches my womb, once your cock captures my lust.

This heat. My heat. Your heat.

But I know with a certainty I can not explain, that the beast within you will show his face here on this day, that this season, this time, this molten awakening will see him screaming through the fa├žade of polish and refinement, through your skin and your flesh and the sensual man, to fuck me and mark me, to rouse the unspeakable carnality within the woman before you. I know he will come to me, come for me, carrying me roughly to the white expanse begging to be soiled, pushing my face into the bed as he growls his commands, his possession, wrenching me up on hands and on knees, a rag doll for his bidding. As he enters me with a fury that takes me prematurely to the brink, as my body welcomes him like a lover foreign and beloved, as he strokes and you thrust, as your sweat pools in my back, as your hand grips these fair hips, as your hand yanks at my locks, my mouth suckling your thumb, as you fuck me and pound me toward the white blinding light, as you fill me with the come I crave through the day and the night, as the water we shed and the cries we exhale fuse our bodies in this moment of passion, of fervour, abandon, I know with a certainty I can not explain, I know with a desire I can not contain that this heat, my heat, your heat, our heat is all I will ever require.