Stifle

It is his cock that stifles her scream.

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.

HNT: Sixty-four

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…)

The Rhythm of Desire

Want
Want
Want
Want

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.

Want
Want
Want
Want

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.

Want
Want
Want
Want

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.

Want
Want
Want
Want

HNT: Sixty-three

Through the dark of night

Across skies and lands and seas

I'll be your star

I'll be your light

I'll guide your way

Back here

To me

(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to wish him a Happy 6th HNT Anniversary
and to see this week’s gorgeous players…)

Fuck The Words

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  

HNT: Sixty-two

 

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…)

Cover Girl

I have a confession to make.

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…

Minx x

(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…)

Stay

Don’t go.
Stay.

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.

Don’t go.
Stay.

Stay. Stay. Stay. The outside world can wait…

HNT: Sixty-one

Wrap yourself

In cotton crisp

In feathers fine

In woman wanting, warm and willing

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

I Want...

I want your cock. I want it as no other, hunger for it as never before.

I want your cock. I want to rouse it from its slumber, tease it to hard, thick, glistening life. I want to feel it pulsing in my hand, in my mouth, in my cunt, in my rosebud.

I want your cock. I want to rouge my lips blood, shiny red and stain your shaft with my sultry kiss. I want to open the hot, wet tunnel between these lips, sliding you in, gliding you down, tasting, devouring the very essence of man.

I want your cock. I want the cock of the gentleman seasoned and contained, the cock of the teenage boy on the very edge of his self-control. I want to bury your uncut meat so deep inside me your body growls and soars, your searing cream spilling forth urgently, violently to mark my soft fair skin, my bright clutching walls.

I want your cock. I want it all to myself, selfishly taking and feasting on the flesh and the come and the man yearned for by so many. I want to please and pleasure it, charm and beguile it, captivate it, claim it as my very own.

I want your cock. Yesterday, today and tomorrow. Your cock is all I want.

Free Fall

In that moment, she loses herself completely.

In that moment when his seductive body finally kisses her supple flesh, when his hands sensually travel along the curve of her hips, the taut line of her abdomen, when his lips and tongue circle the tender swell of her breasts, rousing the pale halos into aching peaks, when his mouth urgently devours her glistening sex, taking her to the very edge and back again, when his fingers mercilessly tease the rosebud with promises maddening, when his hard cock slowly invades her sweet, enveloping tightness, when his pulsing meat is buried so deep he cries out her name, when his molten gaze fixes, melts into the blue, she free falls into the abyss, drowning in its primal darkness, basking in its blinding light, floating on the quotidian jetsam at long last a faint and distant memory.

HNT: Sixty

In the end, it is her very own hand that betrays her: it is the vein rippling her ordinarily fair, silken surface; it is the blood, slick and fiery, coursing with a maddening need; it is the slight tremor of the slender digits curved in aching readiness to caress the skin crying out for his flesh, screaming out for release; it is her perpetually desiring body that offers her up, proving to him, beyond a shadow of a doubt, she is his present, she is his past, she is his seductively sweet and carnal hereafter.

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

e[lust] #25

 Photo courtesy of Sadie

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. And in this edition you can read all about the best sexuality conference of the year (ever?), Momentum, in a one-time-only Editor's Choice anomaly: I couldn't choose just one, so I chose them all! Want to be included in e[lust] #26? Start with the rules and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Where We Are - It was only supposed to be about the fucking. I don't know how I convinced myself that it could be. I fretted before we began, about how I could ever possibly separate sex from emotion.

The Edible Slut - His hand made an audible crack as it connected with her ass, loud in the dim bedroom. Did he really sink his hand into her hair, turn her head to face him, and shout, “Stop being such a brat!”

Beyond Bisexual - I don’t identify as bisexual, because I am interested in so many more people than just two of the variety of sexes or genders out there. Except, that is a word that a lot of people understand.


~ Featured: Momentum Conference Posts (Lilly’s Picks) ~

An Extraordinary Gathering (and a Gathering of the Extraordinary)

 Finally! A Real Momentum Post

 Inspired by MomentumCon

 #mcon Rehash

 Momentum

 Momentumcon, Part One


~ e[lust] Editress ~

To Be or Not To Be....Anonymous, That Is - If you’re out or decide to be out….you’re not just outing yourself. You’re outing them all. And did they give their consent? Probably not, I’d guess. And even if they did give their consent could they even have a clue what consequences there will be?


All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Thank you, and enjoy!


Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

A Bump In The Road - A Swinger Party Goes Bad

 Bridging the Gap (Between Swinging and BDSM)

 con-sent

 Eating Pussy

 Jane Says: What Does Sex Feel Like For A Man?

 Let's talk about food

 Safe Word

 S&M And Abuse

 The Rules, Revisited

 The Wet Patch

 Who Cares About Your Open Relationship

 Where There's Smoke...


Kink & Fetish

BDSM Advice: Nipple Clamps

 bloodfucking

 Communicating by touch

 Consent [Violated]

 Debasement

 getting ready...

 He mixed pleasure and pain, and my body responded to it all

 Invitation

 Stolen

 Safety Scissors

 Topping From the Bottom: An Ode

 Wantonly Restrained

 You Can Make It Feel So Real


Erotic Writing

3. Wrath

 Cunt Licking

 Definition of Inspiration

 Linger

 Miss Me?

 My Sex Life: The Journey Continues, Part 2

 Silk Memories

 Sexy Dance-Ing

 teacher sweaters and the cock that haunts me

 The Casino

 The miseducation of Ms. Mullins

 Wow. Confession #558

 When I come

 WWWednesday

 You Want This

Breath

Breath
Sultry and hushed
Mapping, beseeching

Breath
Fiery and raspy
Insistent, deafening

Breath
Dancing on silken skin
At one with the knowing kiss

Breath
Whispered into the glisten
Exhaled into this suffering flesh

Breath
Taunting and merging
Your breath
Forever I am craving

HNT: Fifty-nine

The hat?

It stays put.

But every other thread is negotiable.

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

Linger

I don’t want to rush. Not tonight. Not tonight.

Tonight, I want to linger, I want to stop time. I want to seize it, bend it, break it wide open, charging each endless moment with you, losing myself in fulfilling every one of your deepest, darkest desires.

I don’t want to rush. Not tonight. Not tonight.

Tonight, I need to feel and touch, caress, absorbing and consuming, venerating and possessing, my hands on your torso pressing you back gently into the wall, my hands gliding up along the soft, sweet curve of your neck, my hands travelling down spreading you wide, your thighs now mine, releasing the binds, the buttons, the prison keeping you hidden from my sight, my hands sliding, languorously stroking the eager thickening shaft, sliding, sensually weaving through the curls on your heaving chest, sliding, seductively curling around the tensing muscles of your nape, sliding, beguiling, captivating the space that cruelly separates, sliding, luring, finally delivering your lips, your breath, your groan, your kiss.

I don’t want to rush. Not tonight. Not tonight.

Tonight, I yearn to drown in your scent, to taste and feed on your flesh, devour the heat rising up through your skin, the passion simmering your mind, your very soul. I yearn to bury my nose in deep, inhaling the pungent perfume of your maleness, the tip tickling, tracing each smooth, perfect, willing hollow, the tip teasing, taunting, feather lips and tongue soon after follow, my mouth tormenting with its lightness, with the silken peaks so new and familiar, my mouth sating with its gluttony, with the urgent deepness of its swallow, my mouth, my lips, my tongue roaming, exploring, gorging on the meat throbbing, aching, on the pearls nestling, on the cockhead dripping, on the jewels, on the feast, on the shine with a freedom, with a hunger, with an addiction abandoned, enslaving.

I don’t want to rush. Not tonight. Not tonight.

Tonight, I crave our merging, our melting, our nakedly intimate union, our bodies bathed in shadows of sepia enigma, enveloped in hushed, sultry tones, our bodies seeking, questing, opening, giving, taking as I sink down onto your hard waiting flesh, as I take you deep into my tight velvet cunt, as I moan with the ecstasy of your life force pulsing inside me, as you groan with a power that steals the rapid heartbeat, as I ride you with languid undulation, as I ride you with fevered concentration, my hips swirling, flowing, my swollen clitoris pressing, rubbing, your glans filling, stretching, your cockhead straining at my limits, my sex grasping at your own, your hands mapping, caressing the fairest of thighs, the pert swell of my breasts, your body soaring, ascending, my fingers digging, branding, our gaze locking, eyes glowing with the fire, with the hunger for release, for that sweet and violent release, for the cream, for the flood, for the come that will mark you as mine, for the come that will mark me as yours, for the liquid heat, for the scolding libations longed for as no other, eyes glowing with the longing and the want and the need and the yearning and the craving for more, for more, for more … evermore.

I don’t want to rush. Not tonight. Not tonight.

HNT: Fifty-eight

Let me be

The pink

The state of your purest pleasure

Let me be
The one
The temptress in your mirror

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

Into the Night

Into your mouth
I exhale
The words of my lust
My lascivious greed

Into your skin
I release
The craving to taste
My kiss all-consuming

Into my cunt
You feed
Your thick eager shaft
The flesh which perfects me

Into the night
We make love
The sensual merging
Our unique carnal union

HNT: Fifty-seven

His gaze. His gaze. His gaze.

It transforms light into shadow, shadow into dark molten desire. It compels her to offer up her flesh for sacrifice, for worship, for debasement. It strips her bare, destroys her inhibitions, shreds every last vestige of her naked shame. It whispers, it speaks, it screams at her, to her, with a recognition that possesses the wanton terrain. It lures her to him time and again, tempting the woman, enticing the lover, binding the whore, caressing the erotic longings on her very surface, grasping the carnality buried deep within.

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

Altered State

You’ve changed me. You’ve changed me and my desire.

No, no. You’ve done more than that.

You’ve ruined it and me. You’ve ruined us, spent and consumed us. Unknowingly, unwittingly. Softly, slowly, sensuously. Ruthlessly and callously.

And even as I continue to want you, even as the thought of you has my cunt dripping its sweet nectar, even as that glisten fuses my bright flesh to the pink girlish cotton, even as I seek out my sex and come hard and loud with a speed that leaves me violently breathless, I hate you a little for that.

HNT: Fifty-six

Tell me
Show me
The way to relinquish, to resist you
The way to stop the lingering need to press your body close

Tell me
Show me
The way to deny the ache, the maddening yearning
The way to refuse my flesh as it calls you with each new dawn

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

Autumnal Yearning

All of a sudden, the new season is here. As the dusk settles behind the threatening rain clouds, it smells and feels and sounds like autumn at last.

And right at this very moment, the only thing I yearn for is your kiss, our mingled breath, your muted moan, our bodies in a sensual tangle, skin on skin, warmth on softness, man and woman, the music of our love making merging with the soundtrack of the world shutting itself in.

HNT: Fifty-five

You craze
You burn
Transform me

You melt
You forge
Create me

With white heat
With platinum fire
With a piece of your blinding sun

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

Utterance

Daddy.

Her lips purr the word with an ease that sends a violent ripple through her slight body, the shudder registering in his imposing, cowering form, in the thighs clenched tight along her torso, in the powerful hands loosely wound around the base of her slender neck, in the thick straining flesh pressed firmly into her softening mound. 

Daddy. Daddy.

The phrase now spills forth straight into his expectant mouth, swallowed up as a breathy hymn, as a whispered mantra, her clear eyes widening and moistening with each syllable, her cunt quickly following suit, flowering and glowing despite the shock, glistening and flowing from the relief, the release, from the sheer purity of this abjection.

Please, Daddy. Please.

Her murmurs turned pleas ring throughout the quiet room as he weaves his fingers through the tangle of auburn curls, sliding his eager shaft along the cleft of her brightness, his hips gliding, grinding, mesmerizing her gaze, his hips gliding, grinding, her fever rising up through her skin, his hips gliding, grinding, possessing her with his will.

Fuck me, Daddy. Fuck me, Daddy. Fuck my little cunt.

His own arousal surges, ferocious and untamed, with the words he has also longed and craved to hear, with the words that unconsciously kick her legs open wide, with the words that send his mouth to feed brutishly from her cream, with the words that have him urgently plunging his cock into her depths, with the words that compel him to fuck and to pound her, with the words that incite him to seize and to mark her, to fuck and to pound her, to consume and to blind her, to fuck and to pound her, to fill and to take her, to fuck and to pound her, to desire and to see her, to fuck and to pound her, to know and to love her, to fuck and to pound her, to know and to love his sweet, beautiful little girl.

HNT: Fifty-four

Although her demeanour calm and the slide of the snug denim measured, her breath quickens, heart races, her sex beats its slick, steady pulse at the thought of his powerful hand stroking the aroused flesh, at the thought of his voyeuristic gaze drinking in her near nakedness from across the thinly curtained way.

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

Sense

It makes little sense this passion for you; this hunger that marks my days and my nights, this craving that racks flesh yielding and soft, this torrent of carnality, sultry sensuality, this yearning that shakes me through to the core.

It makes little sense.

And yet, it makes little sense without you; this desiring body at home with your touch, this woman of longing at peace in your kiss, this being familiar, this figure estranged reflected in the glass back at me. It makes little sense. She makes little sense.

I make little sense without you near.

HNT: Fifty-three

Come to me
Come here to me
Hear my whispers
Heed my pleas

Come to me
Come here to me
Melt into this velvet fire
This hungering need

Come to me
Come here to me
Lose yourself in woman
In desire darkly divine

Come to me
Come here to me
Come make me yours
Come make yours mine

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

Drip-Dry

She notices their fast stride easing to a meandering gait once they spy her up high on the small balcony. Even though she continues to busy herself taking no obvious interest, she can not help but smile slyly at the flirtatious laces and gauzes of ivory and blushing pink, at the seductive silks and satins of ebony and midnight black which have caught their attentions so effortlessly.

With the suspender belts and stockings, corsets, panties and brassieres dripping their perfect diamond droplets in the glittering sun, her mind drifts to other men, to another man, to the man whose erotic desires are fuelled by these very garments, to the man whose eyes have lingered upon the lines drawn tight across her reclining body, to the man whose digits have fingered the fine mesh then pulled the gusset aside to sink his hard naked cock into her voracious sex, to the man whose hands possess her hips while he fucks her with deep thrusting strokes that cause her to cry out, to call out his name over and again.

And as she ponders the man and his alluring flesh, the light breeze in her hair, the autumnal sun warming her skin, her throbbing cunt drips and floods and soaks yet another lacy wonder with the precious glisten of her pervasive lust.

HNT: Fifty-two

The show’s over
Its lustre fading
Into the sultry dead of night
All I have now
Are these raven feathers
Feeding, sating, lustful longings
With touch aching, with caresses light

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

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.

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…)

(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

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.

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…)

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. 

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…) 

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.

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…) 

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 façade 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.

Without Apology

Kiss my flesh

Drive in deep

Surrender the body

Give up the meat

Devour
Greedily
Grind
Savagely

Fill me

Take me
Fuck me
Fuck me

Without mercy

Without apology

HNT: Forty-seven

The platinum summer rays tenderly envelope the curves stilled by slumber, the crisp cotton leaving its own unique and intimate trace. Yet in her dreaming, it is her lover’s light which swathes her fairness, it is his maddening touch, his butterfly kiss, his blissful heat, which possesses her, which sets her free.

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

Impossibility

The words will not come. The body will not follow. There is only numbness in their place. There is only the contrary longing to exorcise this desire while clinging to it for dear, electrifying life. There is only the bittersweet craving for a man whose intensity and magnetism, whose complex eroticism excites, revives, terrifies. There is only the dull, aching recognition of an impossible possibility.

HNT: Forty-six

She walks into his touch, his kiss 

Needing the scalding burn, the heat 

Uncaring of the scars 

The marks upon her skin 

Longing only to feel the spin 

The delirious desiring force 

Longing only to feel the union

Reducing flesh to earth, to ash, to dust 

Longing only to feel the strength 

The man against her woman 

Longing only to feel, to feel, to feel

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

Nightmare

I woke startled and frightened, with the room enveloped in darkness. I woke alone and afraid, my skin glowing with a chilling sheen. I woke with the vivid imagery of my dreaming flashing before me, playing in my head, its afterimages seared on my eyes.
I woke with the phantoms, their menacing scowls and glistening blades stepping out of the shadows, their cruelty, coercion and horror following me through the night. I woke calling out his name, calling out your name, calling to you, my body calling out for you.

As I lay in bed, eyes on the white ceiling, ears listening to my shallow, recovering breath, hands registering the heartbeat thudding through my chest, I longed to be held and soothed by you, longed for the safety of your strong arms, the sweetness of your tender kiss, I longed for you to hush the gentle cries and drink away my salty tears.

e[lust] #22

 Photo courtesy of Lady Grinning Soul

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] #23? Start with the rules, check out the schedule and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Erotic asphyxiation: treatments of kink in therapy and the media - Kink and BDSM practitioners often come to an enhanced understanding of their own desires through the emphasis on personal boundaries and communicative consent which arises from a responsible approach to power and pain play.

Mirror, mirror - I found myself back there again, perched on the edge of the white expanse, spreading myself shamelessly in front of the glass

Worry - I’ve been thinking about rape culture more than ever before. On the outside, much of K’s and my play looks like sexual abuse. It’s not, because consent is always central.


~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

gender and misogyny: responsibility and erotic writing - I spent a good portion of my adult life being gender fluid myself ..., and have partnered with several gender fluid folks as a top. Creating representation of us and our eroticism feels so vital to me, so important.


~ e[lust] Editress ~

Help End the Backlog - Speaking out works. Taking action works. Silence doesn’t. Politicians on every level need to hear your voice saying “this is unacceptable”. 76%. 3/4. That’s how many rapists get away with it on a national level.


See also: Pleasurists #111 and #112 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!


Erotic Writing

A Tryst By The Car

 Compliant

 Fantasy: Brand New Day

 First-Time Sex: How I Lost My Virginity

 Happy New Year

 Hysteria

 Indiscretions Vol. 1: Caught And Wild Chlid

 Like Mother, Like Daughter (part two)

 Loving her, Mounting her, Owning her

 Merry Christmas Baby

 O/One

 Should Have

 The Starlet

 Undiscovered

 Wax Off

 Whenever I'm Alone With You

 Yeeees. Date Night


Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Breaking Up, Polyamory Style

 Computer Sex

 Douchebagopolis - When Communication Fails At A Swinger Party

 Epiphora's best and worst sex toys of 2010

 Good Head

 Hormones & Biological Clock Ticking

 Lockets, Sins and Ink

 Off My Chest

 Swing Shift Volume 39- One and Only

 Semi-Rant Part Two


Kink & Fetish

Barely Cooking Christmas Party

Camp Smack That Ass!

 Fucked in bondage

 Fucking bitch

 How He Does It

 Master's Good Medicine

 Paddled and Fucked

 Parodies and Pizza Boys

 Photographer

 School Girl Night

 shes and me...

 You Know It Was Good When...

HNT: Forty-five

Believe me
Trust me
When I whisper
When I press this gossamer softness to you
When I reach out for the flesh, the man before me
I am here
To soothe, to sate, to offer
I am here
Your seclusion, refuge, haven

 

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

There's No Denying

There's no denying his aroused flesh.

There's no denying the shaft, thick and hard and leaking, straining against the pinstripe suiting, the strong fist taking hold, stroking the pulsing meat, the nose flooded with the scent of sex and desire as it rises up through the layers, as it drifts up from between her splayed and lean legs, from the full lips spread wantonly wide open, from the pungent, flowing glisten painting the cunt fair and smooth and eager.

There's no denying his possession, his domination, the commands rumbled into her ear, his longing to feel and trace her burning need, to delicately touch the tip of his tongue to her clitoris, licking with a maddening slowness and softness, demanding of her body the release of more of its liquid lust, lapping and drinking at her font of pure pleasure, his fingers tracing distracted circles on her creamy thighs, his mouth taking her closer, closer, ever closer, to the edge, to the brink before cruelly pulling back.

There’s no denying his loss of control, the moment he becomes her own toy for the taking, his cock throbbing and lurching, threatening to spill prematurely, his large frame suddenly upon her, his glans sliding and gliding, poised at her portal with the low, sultry confession, the unblinking yet whispered admission, it is this very scene she has played in her mind for as long as she can remember, masturbating to the thought since she was a nothing but a girl, her inflamed sex finding regular release through fingers and mouths and cocks, through men strange and familiar, through the sunlit morning and the dark, starry night.

There's no denying the groans and the moans as he plunges in completely, her velvet heat stretching, filling, clinging to dear thudding life, the bodies grinding, writhing, the lips begging and pleading, the screams of base, carnal abandon, the slap of his hips, the sound of his slick rod slamming, pounding, fucking her back into the sweetest dripping submission.

No, no. There's no denying his aroused flesh. There's no denying.

HNT: Forty-four

Gazing out onto the thundering summer storm, her reverie takes her to another time, another place, another age of men where the voracity of her passion, the nuances of her femininity, the intricacies of her heart, mind and body, her very soul, are craved, caressed and loved.

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

Hit

She vows it will be the last. She vows and promises it will be her final hit as she plugs herself into the slim silver box nestled in her palm, her body resting gently against the window of the crowded bus, the landscape a blur of rose-tinted shopfronts, flickering neon lights and a beeline of traffic winging its way homeward.

With the lightest touch of her delicate finger, the cable of pure white cocoons her in the voice deep and accented, transporting her to his room where he is lying in bed naked, his cock oiled and very hard, his hand stroking the flesh that has been aroused by her body, by the woman, by the desiring eyes captured for him and him alone, by the need to feel her warm skin, his fingers gliding and moving, registering the transition from lace to nylon to her soft and yielding flesh, by the overwhelming urge to fill her, fuck her, to come deep, deep inside her, the walls of her velvet heat absorbing every last drop of his seed.

And even though her face betrays very little, the only movement her eyes, darting and snatching the odd detail as the vehicle picks up speed, her body screams and shouts, riots, the blush blooming on her fair skin, the prickling mist merging with her perfume, the black silk triangle fusing to her cunt with each beat of its slick and needy rhythm, the full mouth involuntarily parting, the pink lips even now aching to swallow the ragged breath, the groan, the very essence of the man half a world away.

A New Year

May 2011 shine its light

Healing, loving

Prosperous and bright

To all my readers, consuming in the light, devouring in the dark,

I wish you a very Happy (and cheeky) New Year.

Minx x

HNT: Forty-three (Twenty-three Redux)

Desire. Passion. Lust.

The kind that dizzies your mind, ignites your flesh, that has you reaching out for his body in thought, in dreams, in waking, that seizes and bends and breaks time wide open, that has you longing to charge each endless moment with him, that has you yearning for the maddening lightness of his touch, his heady kiss so all-consuming, that leaves me aching, craving, needing after all these months for that one dark-eyed man.

(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players
and their favourite HNT of 2010…)

I Wake with You

I wake
With you
The warmth of your flesh
The flavour of your skin
Lingering still on these soft lips
Your heady musk
Your masculinity, your being
Overwhelming, engulfing my senses

I wake
With you
This supple body craving
Instinctively seeking, curving
Ever reaching
For your sleeping form
Your touch
Your kiss

I wake
With you
I wake
With you
I wake
Without you near

HNT: Forty-two

With each new dawn
It is your name on my lips
It is your body on my mind
It is your passion coursing through my veins

(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players
and their Christmas gifts and wishes…)

HNT: The Gift of Giving

Jas and JM

I realise this is something of a cheat since Jas and JM are talented individuals in their own right. But how could I possibly resist a joint affair for the sexiest Aussie couple du jour? I couldn’t.

When I began to consider the perfect gift for this pair, my mind wandered into the usual territory: sex. (Can you blame a girl after reading some of their delectable swinging tales?) What better gift than a playmate or two? Oh yes… The perfect Adam and Eve… Bodies, soft and sensual, tall and masculine. Minds, thirsty and playful and intensely engaging. Appetites, lustful and eager, adventurous and sensitive.

But then I stopped and considered these two, reflecting on the true love they have for one another, the kind of soul connection many of us continue to search for, the type of love that sees them through the often complex negotiations of extended and blended families and aching times and Christmases apart.

For these two wondrous and beautiful people, I give them the gift of travel, with yours truly as baby sitter. (It’s the least I can do, no?!) I give them the gift of Hong Kong as it is not only an easy eight-hour flight from home but also one of the most enchanting places on this fine planet. I give them the gift of a family getaway with plenty of alone time to reconnect (and weave into delicious blog posts), to shop (oh, the shopping…), to eat, to wander, to gaze at a skyline that leaves you marvelling at the harmony between lush, natural wonders and man-made feats of glass and steel.

Merry Christmas, Jas and JM.
xxx 

Green Eyed Frenchy

For those of us lucky enough to be acquainted with this delectable French morsel will know Green Eyed Frenchy has been a little quiet on the HNT front of late having had (among other things) her camera stolen in a break-in.

The obvious gift would be a camera, but as I suspect she’s already shopping around for one which will allow us all to rejoice once more in the sumptuous photographs of her luscious form, I have been thinking along slightly bigger lines.

The past year has been a life altering one for Frenchy. She has been an example of style, of grace, of daring. In response to the way she embraces life, this is probably more wish than gift. For Frenchy, I want to give the gift of breathlessness. I wish for her a year of new experiences and adventures so good, so dizzying, so great, her breath will be taken clear away. In the best possible way, of course!

(If I was being more material, I’d be buying Frenchy a ticket to balmy Sydney to escape the snow and cold. Actually, that’s a very good thought. Now, where’s my piggy bank…)

May your Christmas be merry, Frenchy!
xxx


13 Messages

13 Messages is a man, a photographer, a blogger, I have admired for quite some time. I lurked in the shadows marvelling at his photographs and heartfelt words alike, often astonished at how instinctual, visceral and primal his imagery can be. In truth, his talent leaves me rather awestruck.

For 13 Messages, I also give the gift of a wish, that of a talent spotter: an individual who will be fortunate enough to stumble across the self-portraits that set the bar for us all, that school us in framing and mood, that teach us about dark and light and the shades of grey in between, that shows us the versatility of the wondrous masculine form, that demonstrate the (erotic) potential in everyday spaces.

As this is a talent that should be shared more broadly with the world, I call on the many to appreciate and marvel alongside the rest of us already in the know.

Merry Christmas, 13 Messages.
xxx

(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players and their Christmas gifts and wishes…)

Mirror, mirror

I found myself back there again.

I found myself taking in the image I long for you to see once more, taking in the detail of the white shirt chaotically tugged open, the lace of my demi cups darkened by the peaks scarcely hidden beneath, the black pencil skirt bunched around my waist, the pull of my suspender belt gently marking my yielding flesh, the midnight nylon sheen kissing the legs raised up stiletto high.

I found myself back there again, perched on the edge of the white expanse, spreading myself shamelessly in front of the glass, easing the damp, ebony silk away from my sex, teasing the softening folds, my nipples, my breasts, caressing the bright, plump lips, the abdomen lean and fair, cupping the mons so eager, my hips sensually grinding against the hand, my body, my cunt, silently demanding their much needed release.

And as I found myself there again, as I slid in two digits and crooked to find that sweet, little spot, as I fingered and fucked, as I circled and strummed the blushing nub, as I tightened and clamped and released my glistening lust, as I relished the wanton reflection of the woman pleasuring herself, moaning so loud the neighbours would most certainly hear, I wondered just how long you’d be able to resist me if you found me just this way.

Would you resist me? Would you resist?

Would you stand in the doorway relishing the sight, unbuttoning your shirt collar, discarding your tie, grabbing then rubbing your aroused flesh through the fabric, your raspy breath the only indicator of your voyeuristic presence?

Would you move over to me, stand before me, so close your scent overwhelms my senses, so close I can feel the heat blistering off your muscular body, so close my watering mouth can almost taste you, so close I can see the first perfect drop of precum nestling in your cockhead?

Would you extend your teasing torture, liberating your throbbing shaft, your fingers delicately drawing back the foreskin, your fist sliding back and forth, back and forth, your hips gliding along with it, back and forth, back and forth, positioning your body between my open thighs, back and forth, back and forth, your glans now intermittently brushing the tender skin of my breasts, back and forth, back and forth, your thumb smearing your shine along the curve of my neck replacing the fragrance of my favourite perfume?

Would you step closer still, winding your fingers through these tousled curls, your dark gaze locking on the deep blue of my eyes as you feed your thickness into my mouth, as your fingers join mine down below, as your digits transition from lace to nylon to skin hot and moist, as my tongue licks and laps, as my lips voraciously engulf, as I suck you like a woman starved and denied, as my mouth fucks your cock and your fingers fuck my cunt, our orgasms rushing headlong to meet us?

Would you torment me cruelly, deliciously with the meat most desired, running yourself along my cleft, coating your hardness in my flowing juices, circling my clitoris with your glans, your kiss finally finding mine, our lips sensually devouring through my whimpering pleas for your cock, through the ragged cries to “Fill me, fill my cunt, fill me, oh God, please, fill me, fill me, fuck me, fuck me”?

Or would you simply take what you want, what is rightfully yours, just as you did that night, wrenching open your zip, pushing me back on the bed, your suit jacket thrown off and onto the floor, my legs instinctively splaying themselves wide, your hand releasing the glans hard and eager, guiding then nudging momentarily at my need, before plunging, sinking into the depths of my velvet heat, your mouth, your kiss swallowing my mewl, your hands a vice on my hips, mine grasping for your shoulders, your back, your arse, the sound and smell of our lust overpowering the room as you fuck me with passionate abandon, as you relinquish that control, as you leave the imprint of your shaft on my most intimate flesh, as we come loud and hard, our urgent desire screaming over this skin, melting these bodies together, as I come loud and hard, my cunt milking you from within, as you come loud and hard, splashing your seed deep, deep inside me, as we come loud and hard with the reflection of our merged bodies beamed back at us in the low afternoon light?

I wondered. I wonder. Would you resist me as I sit at the mirror?

HNT: Forty-one

Sultry Christmas night
Twinkling tree of lights
Wishing on a star brightly glowing
For peace and joy and lots of play
For red stocking filled with lingerie
For inspiration, guiding muses
For seductive passion, delicious teases

(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players
and their Christmas themed delights…)

Four Walls

These four walls behold
These four walls bare witness
Absorbing, greedily drinking
Our heat, our sweat, our libations
This abandon, this savagery
Our maddening sensual passion

HNT: Forty

 

Let me lead you
Away
Astray

Let me lead you
Night
Day

Let me lead you
Body
Mind

Let me lead you
Take you
Make you
Mine

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

Writing Desire

Words are not enough. My words are not enough. They pale in the face of yours, in the face of you. They are small, paltry, shamefully inadequate. My mind, it can not tame them, it can not craft them; it can no longer articulate the excess, the intensity, the passion that threatens to consume, to corrupt, to craze.

All that remains, all I have left is my body. This flesh, this blood, this bundle of nerves, this collection of freckles dotted along fair skin. This body. My body. The body that writes my desire. The body that longs to speak its own language, its truth, that aches to merge its nakedness with your own, that begs for your possessing touch, that calls for your seductive kiss, that screams for your sweet invasion, that seeks to know you, know of you, about you, as it has known and written of no other.

HNT: Thirty-nine

All it takes is just one look
All it takes is just one touch
All it takes is just one taste
And she is his
And only his

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