HNT: Thirty-four

Crawl out of the darkness
Slide into the inferno divine
Allow my fevered passion
To warm and burn
Consume you

(click) 

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

Flash

It is the flash of charcoal suiting that initially catches her eye; it is the detail of his cuff, the link, the starched white cotton around the strong wrist and large hand that causes her gaze to stray, that draws her along the path up to his stubbled chin, chiselled nose and molten stare.

But it is his thumb, gingerly and sensuously caressing, stroking, tracing the peaks of his lip, which sends a rippling surge through her spine, which sets the blush high on her cheeks, which leaves her breathlessly, achingly yearning to feel the maddening lightness of his touch.

HNT: Thirty-three

He tells me he likes pink.
He tells me he likes girlish.
He tells me he’d like to kiss me, taste me, make love to me
on a bed dressed in crisp, white cotton.

Who am I to argue with that?

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

The Sweetest Violation

Her eyes, heavy and desiring, chart the path of his hovering form, taking in the detail of his chocolate gaze, the mouth bruised by her kiss, the muscular torso shadowed by the dark matt of wiry curls, eventually locking on the mesmerising grind of his hips and the hardening flesh sliding between the soft, swollen lips of her dripping sex.

Closing in on her, his chest teasingly grazing rosy nipples, hands and fingers gliding over the mounds of her breasts, tracing the line of her taut stomach, possessing her creamy thighs, his heated whispers find her ear as she begins to beg and plead, her sultry whimpering ringing out in the otherwise quiet room.

Unable to hold himself back any longer, he gives in to her and to himself, one strong hand reaching down to stroke the uncut meat glossed with her arousal, the other feeding its thumb into her eager mouth, his eyes now drinking in the sight of her legs widening in readiness, the rising blush on her fair skin, the delicate fingers caressing, snaking, digging into his hips.

Parting her bright folds, his burnished head nudges momentarily at the portal before he sinks headlong, filling her with a deliberate slowness, inch by inch, spreading, stretching, satisfying the plump velvet, inch by inch, his slick cock throbbing, enveloped by her tightness, inch by inch, his thick shaft pulsing as it kisses her needy and intimate depths, inch by inch, her legs winding around the base of his back, inch by inch, her own arching off the bed, inch by inch, their hands a roaming mangle, inch by inch, inch by inch, his ragged breath now joining hers, inch by inch, inch by inch, inch by inch, until he is there, until his glans is pressed against her womb, until their bodies and skin and juices merge, until they are captive, until they are rapt, until they are one in the sweetest violation.

HNT: Thirty-two

The shadow, the light
Unify and divide
They spread me open
Stretch me wide
They call for your sliding, gliding
Electrifying touch
They long for the slow, teasing journey
Up the silky line
To the velvet
To the pulse
To the heat
Of my desire

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

Wav(e) of Desire

Into the slim silver box nestled lightly in her palm, she whispers her desire for him, breathing the heat of her need into his ear at an almost painful remove.

Delicate fingers now teasing electrified flesh, she shivers through the words, through the primal need to taste him, to devour his flesh, to tease her clitoris with his cockhead, to cover him in her scorching arousal, to open herself so wide her body might break, to feel his hard, thick cock stretch and fill and fuck her until she screams, until her nails rake his muscular back, until his pounding hips brand her creamy thighs, until their lips reach out for the fiery kiss, until their merged bodies are bathed in the passion all-consuming.

HNT: Thirty-one

Take me to the place

Where the men are mad

And clad in well-cut cloth

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

Wanting

I want you
I want you too
I want to lose myself in you
Forget the hour, the day 
The lands that cruelly separate
I want to dive into your body
And simply float away

HNT: Thirty

In one swift move, he reaches in and shreds the pink satin covering her modesty, his deft fingers plunging deep into the slippery heat, her raspy breath and aroused cries filling the room.

As I watch him possess her, as I watch him unleash his desire, as I watch the primal power play of their grinding, scantily-clad bodies, my longing for the one out of reach on this night, for his commanding hands and their touch, for his mouth and its kiss, for his skin and scent and hardening flesh rises up and overtakes me.

Edging closer to the screen, I begin grazing, touching, teasing, shedding my own fabric prison, baring my needy flesh to their flame, bathing this fair nakedness in the glow, sinking my body into the very connection I crave at this moment above all other.

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

There Are Days

There are days where words are simply not enough, days where my voice falls silent and short, where my mouth craves a unique expression of its lust, where my lips and tongue yearn to mark and inscribe with the hot liquid language of my desire.

There are days where words are simply not required, days where my skin seeks out his flesh, sweat and come, my fingers trailing the path of their want, my legs enfolding the form of their passion, my heat fusing with the lover of my dreams.

There are days where words are simply not important, days where my body calls to hear its own truth, where I long for the sounds of our grinding and thrusting, the echoes of cries guttural and soft, the music of a dance beyond measure.

And then there are days, there are nights, there are weeks, where words of the sweetest perfection live simply in his gaze, in his touch, in his kiss, in his speechless presence and breathless ardour.

HNT: Twenty-nine

Traverse the land

Cross the sea

Come here

Lie close

Hide away with me

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

Fever

Last night, it finally broke. As my dreaming steadily filled with vivid images of him, with the sights and sounds and sensations of the two of us together – talking, laughing, fucking, making love – my body released its lustful want, its aching need, its crazed frustration. Waking with a start, his kiss still lingering on my lips, I lay in bed, my flesh scorched and drenched, damp curls glued to my nape, pink shirt and knickers fused to my torso, my recovering breath barely fracturing the night’s quiet.

Peeling back the covers and stripping down, my nakedness glistened in the low light as I drifted somewhere between sleep and consciousness, between my bedroom and the one of our love making. With the cool caressing me, I ran my fingertips slowly over my skin, delicate, teasing strokes from neck to collarbone, around the mounds of my breasts, on my hardening nipples, down the curve of my stomach to the softness of my hips and thighs, just as he had done in that perfect and consuming vision.

Within moments, I sank into the plane that offered me the gift of his presence. Submerged once more in his voice, his scent, his weight, in the intensity of his closeness, my body unconsciously reached out for him, at first calling silently, then screaming, then weeping so hard the wetness rose up, shiny droplets dotting my flesh as I spread across the bed in response, arms and legs opening wide and ready, the slippery heat flowing freely from my aching sex.

Hovering over me, his phantom drank from the stream, instructing my hands, guiding my fingers to the juicy plumpness down below, to the pink that yearned for his hard thick cock, to the cunt that longed for fulfilment. Sliding my palm over my mound, gliding my fingers from the portal to my clitoris, up and down, up and down, dipping in two fingers deep, deep, deeper, soft, ragged cries filling the room, my back sensuously arching off the bed, his material form was suddenly beside me, the white expanse dipping under his masculine strength. With his lips and tongue on my mouth, tracing my neck, his breathy whispers in my ear inflamed, incited this desire, compelling me, propelling me to the edge, urging me, imploring me to finger myself for him, pleading me to finger fuck the velvet heat he longs to devour, to fuck my dripping cunt harder, harder, faster, faster, to spread my lips and tease the nub of my purest pleasure, to touch and finger and fuck myself as he would, as he has, as he will, to come, to come, loud and moaning, to come, to come, slippery fingers, plunging, pumping, thrashing, to come, to come, to come. To come for him. For him and only him. In fevered sleep, in fevered waking. 

HNT: Twenty-eight

Before you
Before your body of perfection, your mind inspired
Before your gaze, your words, the warmth of your embrace
Your scent, your kiss, your sweet and heady essence

 I am bare
I am open
I am the primal and the sensual
Passion, craving, want
I am light
I am flesh
I am woman 

Reborn

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

The Burn

The warmth
The warmth
In his voice
In his laughter
In his kind and generous soul

The heat
The heat
In his breath
In his stroke
In the words of his desire

The burn
The burn
In our speed
In our obsession
In our climax
In our conclusion 

HNT: Twenty-seven

In gilded glow, in shadows deep
The yearning for your soft caress
Lingering kiss, possessing flesh
Smoulders, burns 

Devastates me

(click)

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

Video

Her gasp shatters the silence with the realisation it is her raspy voice, her desperate desire that have hardened his flesh, that have compelled him to show and record the intensity of his lust. Stroking his thick cock slowly, deliberately, silently, glimpses of his profile, his muscular arm, his creamy hip, his shiny head, tease and tempt, inciting her passion, watering her mouth and cunt in an instant.

Listening to the familiar accent speak of the yearning to press her nakedness against his, to have him feel her heated whispers in his ear, her lips on his mouth, trailing down his neck, his chest, his hips, his thighs, sliding around his throbbing shaft, her body grinds in time with his as she sinks three fingers into the velvet heat longing, aching for his touch.

But it is only once he throws his head back and murmurs to the witnessing silver box just how much he wants it too, just how much he wants her too, that her orgasm crashes over her so hard, so loud she calls out his name.

HNT: Twenty-six

Take me.

Touch me.

Taste me.

Caress then shred my cover.

 Do you want?

Do you dare?

Do you dare to want me, lover?

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

Confession

As we gradually shed the veil, as we bare ourselves through the word and glimpses of skin, as our desire collides, fuses, coincides, as our urgent, carnal passions threaten to swallow us both, as our need to merge and fuck and devour overtakes the rational mind, it is your longing to kiss me, caress me, savour me, to make love to me, soft and slow and lingering, that trembles this fair body, that sets the fevered ache, that carries my breath clear away.

HNT: Twenty-five

Bathe me in the night
Cloak my flesh in blue velvet light
Bind me with your desire dark and dangerous

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

Ghost

He has been haunting my dreaming of late. Nightmarish visions of the man I met at a tender age, of the man who shared my life for over a decade, of the man I promised to marry, of the man I loved, of the man I renounced.

In my waking hours, the spectre of our relationship, the moments, images, snapshots of a time together since past, flash before my eyes, colouring my day, forcing me back to memories sweet yet hurtful and numbing. In my mind’s eye, I see our tiny flat by the sea, the laughter, the music, the dancing, the fucking. I see our reunion years down the track after our separation, both a little worldlier, both humbled and seasoned by experience and heartbreak and age. I see the two versions of our selves and the palpable attraction that coursed between us, the unfathomable chemistry that crazed mind and flesh alike.

And in the pit of my stomach, I feel, at a strange remove, the sexual rejection, the withdrawal of affection, the emotional cruelty, the arguments, the silence, the recriminations, the fear and alienation and eventual loathing. On days such as this, I recall the way he would point out my flaws just as my lips would brush against that soft spot on his neck and my hands worked their way down from his shoulders to his chest to his hips. It had the desired effect, his criticism. Red-faced and wounded, I would leave him be. As he rolled over and fell instantly into sleep, I would lay back, my sex and tears pounding and hot, and consider how I could possibly transform myself into the image of perfection he so obviously longed for and required.

I have come to realise these exchanges were just as much about him as they were about me. They were called up to diffuse my voracious sexual appetite, to reign in the fluid and varied nature of my passion, to assuage the guilt of his infidelities, to temper the frustration and anguish of his own insecurities. They were strategically mobilised just as I was coming into myself and just as he was feeling lost and out to sea.

The pen and page have, for the most part, resisted him. There is but a mere whiff of him here. The words have not cared for his presence; they have not cared to bring him back to (my) life or the site of my rebirth. But my thoughts have turned to him once more, sparked by these dreams as well as conversations with friends and lovers new.

As I think back on him, I recognise he was a necessary chapter, an essential encounter, as without him, without our stunning and broken love affair, I would not be the woman I am today. I would not be the woman daring to embrace her carnal excesses, her fervour and abandon, her beautifully imperfect mind, body and soul. While there are days where his voice rings in my ears, where his whispers callously taunt, they are fewer and far between.

For now I as look upon the woman reflected back at me, as I submerge myself in the eroticism of posing for the camera, as I watch my hands linger over the body of a lover as well as my own, as I immerse myself in the sensual and the primal, as I live and breathe and write and fuck and come, I see the beginnings of the woman I always longed to be.

In writing these words, in bringing him into the light, into the glow of the screen, my true hope is to set the last of him free, relegating his phantom to another sphere with understanding, with gratitude, with love.

HNT: Twenty-four

He lingers in the doorway, his muscular chest rising and falling, his thick meat progressively hardening, as he drinks in the woman craved as no other, as he takes in the sensual curve of her mouth, the heady scent of her perfume, the shiver rippling through the flesh wordlessly calling out for his touch.

And as he crosses the threshold, his arms encircling her waist, his eyes gazing into the deep, their bodies finally merging as one, she exhales his name along with her heat, her yearning finding its voice, her desire finding its mate, her passion finding its home.

 

(click)

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

Body and Mind

I woke with you on my mind, with the vision of your body hovering over me, with the urge to feel our warm nakedness entwined in the low morning light, with your heated murmurs on my neck, your wiry curls tickling my breasts, with your eyes firmly locked on mine.

I woke with you in my body, with my flesh reaching out for your all, with our aching desire igniting my skin, with our yearning to merge inflaming my form, with your slippery hardness sinking right in, your lips tracing the curve of my mouth, with your seductive moans crashing over us both.

And as I woke with you on my mind, in my body, in my thoughts and sensations sultry and sweet, I wondered if you did just the same.

HNT: Twenty-three

Every minute is an hour

When you’re not by my side

When my flesh calls out for you 

And only you

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

Suit

With an effortless double click, his reflection is before me: eyes framed, expression pensive, lips full and inviting, he is the picture of suave sophistication in the tailored cloth of black.

As my gaze travels the length of his form, seeking out the nuances of his handsome face, noting the strong hand resting easily on his thigh, taking in his caramel skin pallid under the glow of the artificial light, I realise just how very much I have missed him.

HNT: Twenty-two

Round midnight
Bed waiting, sleep calling
Little enticement without you here

Without your strong arms entwining
Without the murmur of words seductive, electrifying
Without your heady kiss so all-consuming
Without the man of passion who sates my yearning

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

Hand of Man

Strong, masculine hands seizing their craving, their want, their desire.

Coarse, powerful hands sweeping, grazing womanly skin silky and fine.

Commanding hands mapping the line of my back, lifting me high, spreading me wide, sating the ache that all but consumes me.  

Hands, fingers, dexterous and greedy, that tease my clit, that work my slit, that crook to find my sweet little spot, that fill my tight cunt to the brim. 

Hands caressing my face, my neck, the soft mounds of my breasts, vice-like grip on my hips as his thick shaft glides in to the hilt, as it savagely pounds my slick velvet heat.

Hands in my hair, on my head, digits mapping the curve of my lips as I slide your glans deep, deep inside, as my tongue licks and laps at your slippery head, as I fuck your pulsating cock with my mouth.

Hands tenderly fixing ties that fasten and bind, marking my form with the signs of possession for which I yearn and long.

Hands speaking their sensual passion, recording the rise and fall of my breath, the rhythmic, thudding beat in my chest, committing to memory the body laid bare before them. 

Hands, hands, his glorious hands, weapons of worship and hungry invasion.

The hands holding me down, the hands setting me free.

The hands touching, taking, giving all that I need.

HNT: Twenty-one

As the rain lashes against the window on this blustery night, he surveys the woman before him, his eyes caressing the pouting flesh of the creature who has tortured him with her desires, who has inspired a hunger and frustration foreign to him until now.

While he aches to reach out and take hold, his body shivering, his thick uncut meat throbbing as the pungent scent of their mutual arousal fills the room, he restrains himself. On this night, there will be no giving in to her. Not easily or swiftly, at any rate. For on this winter’s night, he longs to hear the confession of her own desperation, yearns for the sweet, whispered appeals for his weight, his skin, his kiss, his cock, his come.

Once she surrenders herself with the very words that drew him in, once the fevered need rises up and breaks over her supple form, once he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt her tight little cunt is flowing the nectar most craved, he will scale the metal barrier and join with her; arms snaking, hands exploring, mouth devouring, possessing, partaking and worshiping with his entire being.

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

Plea/d

Please, please. It’s all I want. It’s all I need. It’s all I truly long for.

Please, please. Take me, fuck me, kiss my flesh with your glorious cock. Drive your thrust softly, roughly. Come with me, come for me, come hard, come loud, come all over me. Cover my lips, my breasts, my tongue.

Please, baby, please. Seize me, possess me, bend me to your will. Fuck me, fuck me, come deep inside me. Come deep, deep inside this sweet aching cunt.

Please, please, please.

HNT: Twenty

The cocktail has been the symbol of their eventual meeting from the very beginning. Shaken or stirred, vodka or gin, olive or twist, their preferences were duly noted. In their countless communiqués, it was the object that not only held the tentative promise of a certain time and place, but also the means to draw one another out, to tease and taunt and play with words, to express the intensity of an attraction and desire that increased with each passing day.

Now as they stand in the low lit room together at last, velvet night blanketing the sky, the oily slick in their glasses rests barely sampled, the words spoken surprisingly scant. Together at last, alone at last, they have no need for either. Raspy breaths fill the silence, eyes wander and roam, slowly and deliberately consuming at a practiced remove one final time as they linger on the precipe.

But once his fingers lightly brush an errant curl aside, their achingly desperate bodies leave them no other choice than to plunge headlong, zippers urgently gliding and hissing, skin and heat merging, hands caressing, arms winding, around her waist, around his nape, their lips brushing, locking, tongues dipping, tasting, hungry mouths seeking, devouring, their flesh fusing and binding, passions igniting and possessing in this dizzying moment of perfect firsts.

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

Bronze

Standing at ease against the cool of the white stucco, gaze bright, smile wicked, he is a breathtaking vision. Of bronzed nakedness, of imposing strength, of profound masculinity, of sexual audacity. Of sheer perfection.

Settling into the plush chair located in the shadowy corner, she allows herself the freedom to take in his detail, her eyes languidly travelling along the terrain of sculpted muscle and wiry curls, along the hot skin deeply kissed by the sun to the cool, milky pale of his hips and thick uncut flesh.

It is the contrast between the heat radiating from the russet glow and the freshness of irresistible cream that ultimately awakens a gnawing hunger, watering her mouth and sex in equal measure. It is the contrast that beckons her to him, that lures her semi-clad form to close the space between them, that draws her delicate hands to his tensing arms, her slender fingers to the legs tantalizingly splayed, her fiery nails to graze the line of the torso well defined, her moist, sensual lips to his raspy breath, her eager tongue to the mouth desperate for her kiss, her fair suppleness to his intoxicating potency, her slick velvet cunt to the glisten of his raging cock. 

HNT: Nineteen

Keep your diamonds, sapphires, rubies and your pearls
Save your metals precious, your luxury divine
Shield your glistening decadence that all too often blinds

Give me instead their imitation
Dress me rather in their muted relations
In exchange for the most desired of treasures

Grant me his alluring flesh and mind celestial
Offer up the touch, the kiss that sears this passion upon me
The man, the body, the one lover who travels my fair form as no other

 (click)

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

At This Very Moment

All I want right now, right at this very moment is your body, your desire, your touch.

Your intensely masculine flesh nestled firmly against me.
My rosy peaks teasing the muscular line of your back.
Your breath catching as my kiss finds the curve of your neck.
My fingers weaving through the mane of your sun-kissed chest.
Your shudder as my hand finds the glory of a hardening shaft.
My sweet, flowing arousal glistening in the low light.
Your seductive groan as I part my pink, shiny lips.
My mouth longingly reaching out for its first taste.
Your digits sensually weaving through fiery curls.
My tongue swirling and skidding across your salty passion.
Your knees weakening at the force of my devouring greed.
My fair form streaked in the cream of your pleasure.
Our desperately yearning bodies softly, savagely fusing together.

All I want right now, right at this very moment is you.

e[lust] #17

Photo courtesy of Elle from Kink Unleashed

Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #18? Start with the rules, check out the schedule and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

Editor's Note: A little change in how things are done for this edition - you'll notice there are no "Top 3" picks - due in part to the holiday I ended up being extremely short on judges and I didn't have enough for fair voting. So instead, I expanded my "Featured Post". (If you'd like to volunteer to be an occasional judge for e[lust], just email me, Lilly, at questions.e.lust @ gmail.com) Also, please be sure to check out the new summer schedule in effect until the 20th edition.

~ Featured Posts (Lilly’s Pick) ~

Why Pride is Still Important - When someone tells me that they don’t think Pride is necessary, I can’t help but believe that they go through life with tunnel vision. I live in New York where for the most part I can walk around being a big ol’ queen and I’ll make it home alive, but there are people who live in places where they can’t. Even here in New York you’ll get called a faggot from time to time by passing cars or groups of punks, and even here in New York I hear stories of people getting the shit kicked out of them just because they were gay.

Fantasies and Condoms - Our culture has created a narrative in which sex only feels good and looks sexy if no one is protected. We’re all suffering from this narrative, but sex workers are probably suffering the most.

~ e[lust] Editress ~

Some days we need a little hope - I encourage you to practice random acts of kindness that could be worthy of inclusion on the site (GivesMeHope.com). Be nice, be caring, let your heart open up just for the sake of bringing someone some happiness or comfort. Do you know how good it feels to just give?

See also: Pleasurists #83 and #84 for all your sex toy review needs.

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Kink & Fetish

An Anal Adventure
Bound in the Night
Being a Tart
Danger may explode without warning
Found It: Pearls for the Submissive Wife
Morning Rituals
Shoe Slut 
(another!) Shoe Slut
Spanking my ass while fucking so he feels every wiggle
Submission is impossible in the absence of humanity
Strip, boy
Swallow Falls
The Trigger
The Beast with Three Backs

Erotic Writing

A long hot day

And then we kissed...

A Picture of Lust

Ass Plug

'Come For Me...'

Depths

Exchange II

Forbidden Fantasy

Fucking Mika for the first time

Good Things Come To Those Who Wait

Getting Off...On The Road

Katie's First Time

Master Class

My Favourite Waste of Time

Microfantasy Monday, week 84: Addiction

Picture to Word 2

Sociable

Saturday Night Plans

Safe Sex

The Train

Thunderstorms are Sexy

Teaching Respect (Part 1)

You First

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Adventures in Birth Control
Erotic Awakening: A Swinger’s Comments
Friends With Benefits His Lush Behind!
Getting Started - Hotel Parties
Greetings From The Deep End - Swinging and Openness
How To Have Multiple Orgasms
Mr. Strong
Play Safe. Stay Safe. Get Tested. Be Protected.
Political Cuddling: Asking, Talking, Touching
Reflections on Glass
Something I Wish I'd Had 10 Years Ago
Sex: A required part of the college curriculum
Shades of Grey
Three's Company
Ten Life Lessons I’m Learning from Enslavement
Uncomfortable
Walk of Shut The Fuck Up

Sex News, Interviews, Politics and Humor

Interview with Scarlett Chaos aka Essin'Em
The Media is Not Responsible for Your Poor Body Image
To Shave or Not to Shave

HNT: Eighteen

His commanding hands persuade her lithe body to recline as they trace the contour from her breasts to her silk sheathed legs, registering the barely visible tremble working its way across her electrified form. Sliding between the soft warmth of her thighs, palms and fingers teasingly graze the available creamy skin before decisively splaying them wide across the expanse of the sofa’s arm.

Hardening flesh now pressed firmly into her nook, his hungry digits work their way beneath the delicate lace, gliding along her slippery plumpness, urgently sinking into the depths of her velvet heat, stroking in and out with sensual force, circling and fondling the core of her purest pleasure. And just as her bliss begins to crest and overtake her, his large frame leans in, eager mouth at the ready, desperate to grasp the sweet sound of seduction escaping her lips.

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

Through the Word

We give of ourselves through the word, through the prose, on the screen, on the page, through the lips and the tongue murmured sweetly into the waiting ear.

We give of ourselves through the word, through the needed expression of the ache, through the fissures of pain and of bliss, in the bright of day, in the veil of the night.

We give of ourselves through the word, through the turn of the phrase that inflames, through the writing that arouses desires on the surface and hidden deep within.

We give of ourselves through the word, through verse as skin and bone and as flesh, longing to be sensually touched and caressed, yearning to be savagely fucked and set free.

And as we give of ourselves through the word, we give of ourselves through the body. The body, my body, his body. The bodies that give, the bodies that take, the bodies that lust and merge and devour.

The bodies that ardently follow the word.

HNT: Seventeen

Footsteps echo on the wooden boards once her suede stilettos hit the stage. Peering out into the dimmed empty theatre, she surveys the vacant velvet rows longing for her audience. Of one.

Stepping into the golden shimmer of the spotlight, she lowers her eyes and surrenders her mind to the music, relinquishing body to the guiding melody, immersing herself in the sensuality of the physical, bending, spinning, stretching, testing her limits.

Even though alone in the cavernous space, she performs for the man never far from her thoughts. Flesh now alive, hungry, electrified, she performs for his phantom presence, for the eyes taking in her teasing movements, for the exhilarated, masculine form absorbed and distracted by the woman on show.

(click)

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

Exchange II

It’s been too long.

Yes. It has.

I’ve been thinking about you.

Is that right?

Yes. Right thoughts, wrong thoughts. Filthy, depraved thoughts.

I never would have guessed.

I know I’m a bad man for neglecting you, darling. Do you think you could ever forgive me?

I might be able to forgive you. “Might” being the operative word, there.

I’ve been reading your words.

You’re forgiven.

And looking at your photos.

Now, you’re definitely forgiven.

In the name of research, of course.

“Research.” Of course.

They are…  You are… You still are…

What?

Delectable. Exquisite.

I am?

You always have been. To me.

Oh.

I have a confession to make.

You don’t like the photographs after all.

I’ve been stroking my cock to them.

Oh god.

Oh yes, darling. I’ve been a dirty voyeur reading your words, looking at your body. I look at you while I stroke myself, taking my stiff cock to a hard, leaking missile, thinking about all of the things I want to do to you, thinking about the other men that might be getting off on you.

Fuck.

You’ve had that effect on me from the very beginning. You know that.

I wasn’t so sure there for a while.

I bet there are quite a few of them out there jerking off to you.

You like that idea, don’t you?

Yes.

You always have.

Yes, yes.

My lips, my mouth, my pussy, my tight little hole being taken and possessed by other men and used for their pleasure.

Oh. Fuck. Yes.

And their mouths and hands and cocks taking pleasure, giving pleasure, giving me pleasure, more pleasure than I’ve ever known, more pleasure than I can physically bear, more pleasure than…

Say it. I want you to say it. I need you to say it.

More pleasure… More pleasure that you can possibly ever give me on your own.

Fuck, fuck.

It turns you on even as it makes you a little crazy, doesn’t it, baby?

Oh fuck, yes. I’ve been thinking about you, thinking about this so much lately. I can’t get it, and you, out of my head. And those other men that want to fuck you. I get so hard knowing there are other men that want to fuck you just as much as I want to fuck you, as urgently, as savagely, as completely as I want to take you, fuck you, use you, mark your fair, pretty skin.

Actually, there are a few contenders.

There’s my little slut. Will you tell me about them?

There are five men, five very different men with radically different bodies and personalities and sexual desires. Five men that make me thump, that make me wet, that make me want sweet things, dirty things, downright debased things. Five men I want so intensely I fuck myself softly, brutally, passionately. Thinking of them, fantasizing about them leads my hands to my cunt no matter where I am or what I’m doing. It leads one, then two, then three fingers into my dripping slit, it leads my thumb to my needy, swollen nub, it leads my hands to my hot aching flesh, to my breasts, to my hard rosy peaks.

And this insatiable hunger and need will lead me to them. To all of them.

Oh, fuck. Fuck. You made me shudder. You’re making me shudder. My hands are shaking.

I’m so glad, baby. I like making you shake. It excites me like you wouldn’t believe knowing I have that effect on you. I’m dripping wet knowing my greedy appetite has that effect on you.

It does. You do. My throbbing cock and the precum smeared all over my stomach proves you do.  

Oh, that’s quite the delicious picture, lover. And you’re quite the exceptional man. Trembling, leaking, salivating, feeding off my perversity, off my need for men in their multiplicity. Off my need for you to be my filthy little voyeur.

Oh, I do. I do. With you, I do. I’m hard in an instant thinking of them taking you, spreading you open, filling every hole, roughly pounding your cunt, your ass, your mouth and throat, painting your petite body in rivers of their cream, you moaning and screaming from the extremity of a pleasure you have lusted after for so long.

I’m hard now imagining…oh fuck…picturing a big, thick shiny dick sliding out of your well-fucked cunt, come slowly oozing, dripping, coating your inner thighs and your ass as he straddles your face and your lips and tongue lick him clean.  

You’re such a dirty slut.

Yes, I am.

I like having you as my slut.

Oh fuck.

You like being my slut, don’t you?

Yes.

I can’t hear you, slut.

Yes, yes, yes.

That’s better. Shall I tell you, then, what I have in store for you, my slut, my whore, my beautiful little fucktoy?

Oh. Fuck. Yes. Please.

I like hearing you beg.

Oh fuck. Please, please.

I can’t quite hear you, slut.

Please. Please. Please.

That’s much better.

I’ve decided I want you there for the first of them. To see me with the one man I want the very most. The one who makes me throb and pulse and thump at the sheer thought of his hands, his mouth, his cock, his overpowering body. The one who sets off my starvation with the sound of his deep voice. The one who sets my cunt salivating with a single piercing look. The one who will eat me and fuck me and take me as no other has ever done before.

Oh god.

And all the while you’ll be tied to the chair by the bed, your painfully erect, uncut man-meat leaking delicious nectar onto your beautiful caramel skin, begging for touch, for my touch, begging for my mouth, my lips, my cunt, my hole as you watch him use and control me.

As you watch him make me his dirty little slut.

Oh, god. Fuck. No. Yes. Yes.

Yes, my darling, you will be there to witness it all. To witness the possession and domination of a body you know so well. To witness another man’s voracious cunt love being sated by me and me alone. To witness his lips and tongue devouring my clit, my kitty, my arse. To witness his hard cock filling me to the brim, his rock ramming, pounding, fucking my pussy, his hands searing my skin, grabbing at my flesh. To witness his thick, pink flesh penetrating the tight little hole I’ve only ever wanted possessed by you until now. To witness this big, strong hulk of a man smearing his face, his chest, his cock, every inch of his skin with my flowing juices, branding himself as my new lover.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And once he’s done, once my spent, fucked, stretched, marked body has been his, after he is done making me his slut, I’ll proceed to make you mine.

Oh god. Oh god. Yes. Yes.

I’ll proceed to wreak my revenge on your body, a tender and brutal revenge I know you crave more than anything else.

Oh, fuck. I do. I do. I don’t know why but I do.

I care not why you do, my darling slut. I merely care to give you what you need and desire most.

Oh, fuck.

I know, I know. The dance is on, lover. Yet again.

It’s been too long.

Yes. It has.

HNT: Sixteen

Bound to the chair behind her, his chest rising and falling, erect cock glistening in the low afternoon light, he has no other option than to watch as she climbs onto the bed and begins the task of shedding the ebony lace from the fair body trembling with unexpressed desire.

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

Satin Skin

As my transfixed gaze took in the detail of the garments suspended in the glass case, I wondered about the women who had inhabited their forms, the bodies once swathed in fabrics coarse and refined. I wondered about their curves, their skin, their scent, their sensuality, desires and cravings, my eyes absorbing the shapes and textures, attempting to place my fair flesh within them and within that time and place.

Standing in the shadowy museum light, I willed them to speak their secrets, their stories of love and lust and loss. I willed them to whisper the tales of these women if only to reassure me of my own place in the world. If only to reassure me that my voracious and often limitless carnality is not merely a product of the here and now but rather a hunger we carry, we bear, we release through each and every lifetime.

Master

He makes slaves of us all. With his hands, with his voice, with the mouth that worships pussy. With the striking words that leave us shivering, wet and dizzy. With the hard, searing cock that fills and opens and possesses with its volatile bliss.

HNT: Fifteen

Cosseted indoors at last, away from the rainy chill of the night, he moves toward me in a gesture to take my coat. Silently refusing, I languidly slink to the narrow passage illuminated by the glow. Up against the wall, my steely blue gaze meeting his, gloved hands begin to ease, unfasten and release, revealing stockings, corset and little else. Pushing aside the warm woollen layer, soft leather fingers graze the silky mound of my hip, slithering their way to the heat radiating from my naked, eager sex.

And as the hush in the room is broken by our raspy breath, his advancing body, his lids heavy with desire, his hands roughly tugging shirt collar and leather belt, speak to me of only one sure, beautiful thing.

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

Capture

His face, his body, his voice have captured her imagination with a dizzying speed. As his piercing gaze flashes through her mind, as the deep accented drawl echoes in her ears, as he courses and flows through her slight form, she wonders about the man a world away from her own and the compelling lure of him.

She wonders about his hands, their touch, the scent of his skin, his expected force and his astonishing sensuality, his energy and stillness, his heat, his physicality, the view of his overwhelming frame looming over her.

And as she allows her mind to wander and meander along his body magnetic, she slavishly follows, her own scorched, electrified flesh achingly reaching out for one more rapturous union.

HNT: Fourteen

Cheeks flushed with simmering desire
Lips rosy soft, twin aching peaks
Hands, fingers tracing, gliding, mapping
Forever longing
For the kiss, for the bliss
Of your touch

(click)

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

In the End

In the end, there seems to be nothing but a whisper separating us all. Difference, otherness, foreignness seem to be nothing but fast crumbling notions from a history long past.

In the end, we all seem to want and long and yearn for the very same things, need the very same things. No matter our time or place. From the mind, from the spirit, from the body.

Passion. Pleasure. Acknowledgement. Wisdom. Connection. Independence. Knowledge. Mystery. Discovery. Submission. Domination. Control. Freedom. Wonder. Bliss.

Desire. Desire. Desire.

And Love.

Possibility

Darkness and light.
The shades of grey in between.
Sultry poetry and gruff demands.
Delicate touch, bruising possession.
Primal desire and tender caring.
Electric exploration, engulfing recognition.
Sexual and sensual, artistic and intellectual.
Man, woman, singularity, multiplicity.

The breathtaking possibility.

HNT: Thirteen

The sultry, seductive moan of the jazz trumpet winds its way into the cosy room as the muted lamp light casts its enveloping glow. Awaiting his arrival, she takes pleasure in the sensations of the here and now: the plush throw caressing her freshly bathed skin; the faint aroma of a favourite scent clinging to the curve of her neck; the soft lace tickling her hips; the delicate fingers drawing sensual circles on her bare flesh; the butterflies taking flight in and across her electrified body; the steady pulse beginning to thud out its addictive rhythm in her awakening sex.

Surrendering herself to the moment of solitude, she wonders if the demure yet wanton picture she has painted will please him, if the waiting gift will sate his hungry longings, if the familiar woman before him has retained something of her novelty, her mystery.

Snapping her back to the present, the trembled gasp from the doorway dissolves her uncertainty in an instant. Standing tall in the small threshold, a visible shudder rippling through his muscular body, his eyes are simultaneously thankful and greedy, his gaze travelling with a deliberate slowness, consuming every last detail of the scene, of the woman, of the feminine hands skimming the fair terrain, of the heated breath escaping her glistening mouth, of the aching thighs and hips and breasts all straining toward him and his touch.

And just as she can endure the distance between them no longer, he is beside her, shedding his outer fabric layer, joining her warmth, his hands meeting hers in their exploration, his lips lightly taking hold of her silky peaks, his tongue languidly tasting and savouring her own, his strength bearing down upon her fragility, his passion seeking out her velvety essence, their flesh fusing, melting, merging in a timeless lover’s embrace.

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