Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Bare
Weariness sweeps over me, my mind and body spent. And even as this haze overtakes me, arresting my motion, tenderly easing me down onto the bed, compelling the nakedness newly fragrant and warm from the drops and the steam to a state of slumber and rest, it is you I crave, it is you and your body bare and unadorned, your own naked form moving toward me, slicing through the darkness as if in the sweetest of dreams, your body gleaming, shimmering, the last rays of the moon drawing a streak from your mouth and its heated breath to the wiry curls on your chest to your muscled abdomen and the hollow of your hip to the taunt tendons of your forearm as your stroke your hardening and thickening shaft, the cock rigid and throbbing with desire, hungry for the embrace of my most intimate flesh, tempted towards the slender legs now splayed open wide, the delicate fingers teasing apart glistening lips, the voice pleading for your touch, for your carnal invasion, for your sensual caress, for the moment you kneel between my thighs and drive your naked cock in one breathtaking thrust to the hilt, your mouth swallowing my moan, your kiss finding my breast, my need for more of you, for all of you, my body arching up to meet you, my calves pressed into the small of your back, our fingers laced, eyes locked, our bodies poised, entwined, cast as one, moulded together, forever by the night.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
L'Amour Fou
You’ve marked my mind, my body with insanity, this heart, this desire with uncertainty, the night once my comfort now the enemy, the shadows taking on your spectral form to haunt me, your phantom a reminder of revelations urged from deep within me, the myopic passion you inspire so easily, the moments I laid bare my simplicity, complexity, this woman adrift in the sensory deep.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Wicked Game
Are you ready?
Are you willing?
Are you brave enough to take me?
Do you have the courage for the completeness that I crave?
Are you hungry?
Are you yearning?
Are you now aching to touch me?
Does your hard and eager flesh betray this boundless wicked game?
Friday, October 12, 2012
Dusk
If I whisper my plea, if I exhale my need, if I dare to utter my longing to explore all that we crave and desire, would you come to me, would you close the distance between us, would you fuse your body to mine, would you give yourself to this moment, would you hold me in the day’s fading light?
Monday, October 8, 2012
Threads
It isn’t always about the suit.
It isn’t always about your sartorial refinement and the way it sets my erotic imagination racing, the way it captures my attention, arrests my gaze, compelling my hands to wander along the lines that accentuate your commanding masculinity, my palms sliding along the charcoal lapels, my digits fingering the fine weave as I register the heat rising up through the suiting, the beat of your heart through the starched cotton, the almost painful pulsation of your cock drumming against my mound and my thigh, the glans aching for the cool air and the wet warmth of my mouth ever craving, its only release the streaming precum soaking the shorts concealed beneath.
It isn’t always about the suit.
It isn't always about the contrast between your clothed form and the scant, diaphanous silks drawn tight across my body, your touch gliding, absorbing supple curves and undulations, transitioning from nylon to lace to soft femininity, as your fingers wind themselves into my tresses, this woman a slave to your kiss and caress as you walk me back, as you lower me onto the table, your strong hands running along my stockinged legs, spreading them wide to meet the periphery, your fingers pulling aside the drenched panties to reveal the bright gleam of my lust, to ease your thick cock inside me with a slowness that has me trembling, clutching at your sleeves, my cunt grasping, swallowing your hardness, my hands gripping at threads, drawing you close, drawing you ever closer, your weight bearing down, your tongue finding the crimson of my taut peak, your hips thrusting that last inch of your flesh to my limit as I cry out your name, my back arching off the wood, my body wrapped in and around you, my body and yours prematurely on pleasure’s edge.
It isn’t always about the suit.
It isn’t always about the stains of our lust conspicuous on the front of your trousers or the flash of dark wiry curls glimpsed through the gaps in your shirt or the graze of your cuff on my nape or the chill of your link on my skin or my wrists bound together with the black silk of your necktie as you finally run your tongue along my sweet succulence or the musky scent of leather that rushes through my nostrils as I take hold of your belt to bring your cockhead to my lips or the sweat and the sheen that fuse these fabrics, our bodies together as you place my hands on the stucco and take me from behind with an urgent hunger that mirrors my own, your hands pushing up the tightness of my skirt, shredding the lace, parting me open, your shaft sliding in with an effortlessness that somehow draws all the breath from my lungs, your fingers strumming my clitoris, your naked cock plunging in deep, emerging slick and triumphant even in this alleyway dimly lit, your cock possessing my cunt, your force pinning me to the wall, my muffled pleas for more, for more, for your come, for your scorched seed inside me, the sound of our fucking, my mewl and your groan merging with the traffic's hum.
No, it isn’t always about the suit. But today it would seem that it is.
It isn’t always about your sartorial refinement and the way it sets my erotic imagination racing, the way it captures my attention, arrests my gaze, compelling my hands to wander along the lines that accentuate your commanding masculinity, my palms sliding along the charcoal lapels, my digits fingering the fine weave as I register the heat rising up through the suiting, the beat of your heart through the starched cotton, the almost painful pulsation of your cock drumming against my mound and my thigh, the glans aching for the cool air and the wet warmth of my mouth ever craving, its only release the streaming precum soaking the shorts concealed beneath.
It isn’t always about the suit.
It isn't always about the contrast between your clothed form and the scant, diaphanous silks drawn tight across my body, your touch gliding, absorbing supple curves and undulations, transitioning from nylon to lace to soft femininity, as your fingers wind themselves into my tresses, this woman a slave to your kiss and caress as you walk me back, as you lower me onto the table, your strong hands running along my stockinged legs, spreading them wide to meet the periphery, your fingers pulling aside the drenched panties to reveal the bright gleam of my lust, to ease your thick cock inside me with a slowness that has me trembling, clutching at your sleeves, my cunt grasping, swallowing your hardness, my hands gripping at threads, drawing you close, drawing you ever closer, your weight bearing down, your tongue finding the crimson of my taut peak, your hips thrusting that last inch of your flesh to my limit as I cry out your name, my back arching off the wood, my body wrapped in and around you, my body and yours prematurely on pleasure’s edge.
It isn’t always about the suit.
It isn’t always about the stains of our lust conspicuous on the front of your trousers or the flash of dark wiry curls glimpsed through the gaps in your shirt or the graze of your cuff on my nape or the chill of your link on my skin or my wrists bound together with the black silk of your necktie as you finally run your tongue along my sweet succulence or the musky scent of leather that rushes through my nostrils as I take hold of your belt to bring your cockhead to my lips or the sweat and the sheen that fuse these fabrics, our bodies together as you place my hands on the stucco and take me from behind with an urgent hunger that mirrors my own, your hands pushing up the tightness of my skirt, shredding the lace, parting me open, your shaft sliding in with an effortlessness that somehow draws all the breath from my lungs, your fingers strumming my clitoris, your naked cock plunging in deep, emerging slick and triumphant even in this alleyway dimly lit, your cock possessing my cunt, your force pinning me to the wall, my muffled pleas for more, for more, for your come, for your scorched seed inside me, the sound of our fucking, my mewl and your groan merging with the traffic's hum.
No, it isn’t always about the suit. But today it would seem that it is.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
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