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.