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.

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