The Absence of Measure

I can’t be measured. I can’t be measured with you. Not with you.

I try, I do try, but I fail miserably, each and every time. In the face of you, my carnality, my sensuality rises up, forcing its way through my skin, tearing at my flesh, dizzying my mind, shredding the seams of my impatience, my rationality, my experience of time. In the face of you and your body and your passions and your words, I am aflame.

In the end, it is this flame, this fire, my fury, my fervour that has burnt us right up for the very last time. And in its wake there is nothing but the need to guard and shield and hide this woman, this heart, this vulnerability away, to paper over the fissure of desire you cruelly and tenderly tore open wide, to find my way through the tears and this pain to the love and the lust and the home of man I hunger and crave.

HNT: Seventy-seven

With you

I want everything

With you

I want it all

With you

I want as never before

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

Love’s Cartography

If I coaxed your body down with my sweet words, with this sultry voice, if I ran my clear blue gaze along your naked craving flesh, if I confessed my need with desire and with honesty, with the blinding ache you so easily inspire, would you allow me to chart your flesh, to trace and map, to feel you, to fuck you, to make love to you, to grasp the ins and outs of you, to know you with lightness and precision, with soft lips and trembling fingers, with the warmth of this fair skin, with the deep, hot kiss of my velvet cunt?

Would you indulge me, darling lover, this sensual quest, this erotic exploration, would you offer up the man of passion I yearn for as no other?

HNT: Seventy-six

These hands are tied

There is no choice

But to relinquish, to willingly surrender

This desiring body

This inquiring mind

This heart of yearning and of wonder

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

I Need You

I need you, baby, I need you. Right now. I need you to take me, to make me yours. Right now. I need you inside me, I need your naked cock buried deep inside this sweet little cunt. Right now. I need to glide you between my lips, I need to taste the pearls glistening on your head. I need to savour you, devour you, give everything I am to you. Right now. I need to hear you come, your mouth pressed against my ear, your seed splashing hot and hard. Right now. I need to wrap myself around you, my skin and yours as one. I need your gaze, your touch, your kiss, I need that soft, warm wetness that leaves us shivering, reaching for more of this perfecting bliss.

I need you, baby, I need you. Right now, I need all of this.

HNT: Seventy-five

Out of the shadows

She steps

Into the rays of the sun

Into the warmth of his arms

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

In The Crowd

I see you everywhere.

I see you in the city crowd, around each bustling corner, in the sea of men dressed in their finery, moving swiftly, sauntering languidly, meeting in cafes, waiting at lights, recognising your eyes, your mouth, your gait, your frame, the heady mix of your cologne and your freshly showered skin.

I see you in flashes and grabs in these strangers before me, I hear your voice somehow through theirs, your voice deep and accented, your voice hoarse with desire, your voice erotically soft, your voice drifting through the wintry breeze, taunting me, calling me, summoning my body, impelling me to follow it, to follow you through the suited throng to a quiet little place, a quiet modest room, a room with a bed and a window and an unassuming view, a room to christen with the libations of our frenzied coupling, a room to fill with the sounds of our sensual union, a room for just us two.

I see you. I see you everywhere in the crowd, on the street, in this bright, shiny city of mine.

Guide

The slender, delicate fingers belie her strength and lascivious greed, looping, twining around his thick, eager shaft, stroking, stroking, oh so slowly stroking his pulsing, throbbing uncut meat, pressing his now streaming cockhead into the smooth, full, beckoning lips, guiding, nudging his hardness past that maddening, mouth-watering point of resistance, pushing him, thrusting him, taking him in, taking him all the way in, in, in, into the deep, clutching moistness of her hot honeyed little cunt.

HNT: Seventy-four

On velvet plush
This kitty cat
Mewls and purrs
Prowls and slinks and wriggles
Trailing behind
The thin black line
For you to trace and kiss
And follow

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

(Re)Call

This body, this relentlessly craving, whimpering body, it calls to you, calls for you, night and day, day and night, through the light of the sun and the beam of the moon and the soft tick and the deafening tock, it calls and begs and pleads for you, for you and your hands and your touch, it whispers, it howls, it calls to savour your lips, it calls for a taste of your kiss, it calls and recalls in a dizzying and ruthless act of remembrance your face, your eyes, your mouth, the sweet rumble that brings me to my knees, your body, your body, you, you, you there and here, you then and now and soon after, facing me, beside me, pressed sensually, firmly into me, hovering above, spread out for our unbounded pleasure beneath.

This flesh, this skin, this feminine suppleness, this subtle warmth turned blazing fire, this breathy, sultry song, this cunt, my cunt, your cunt, the cunt belonging, the cunt longing, the cunt pulsing, swelling, blooming, shining bright, it weeps its want, it drips its desire, it instinctively pours its honeyed pungency fusing silk and satin and lace to this ache, it calls, it overwhelms this space, this place, this room, hoping to find you, hoping to steal you away, to lead you back to me, instinctively leading you by this imperceptible thread, guiding your hunger awakened and unsated, bringing you to my fair, lean legs spread wide, hips pushed deep into the bed, the crisp cotton already listless under the damp heat of my lust, my breasts heaving, nipples hard and darkened peaks, one arm stretched taut grasping, grasping, reaching for the blood and muscle and bone and hard, urgent fleshly throb of your seductive force, stroking the slick, stroking your thick uncut cock, the other nestled along the curve of my arching form, its hand, its fingers parting my folds, circling my nub, two fingers familiar sinking right in, two fingers transformed under the darkness of your gaze, two fingers fucking, two fingers crooked, fingering, fucking the streaming depths of this sex, fingering, fucking with vigour and strength, fingering, fucking, my body on the brink, my body shivering and frayed and torn open, released to you, exposed, bared, in screaming shreds.

This woman, this woman of appetites primal, of sensual yearning, this woman in the glass, this woman that is me, she calls to you, she calls for you, though her language deficient and incomplete, she calls for you, I call for you, for your mouth to feed and mine to swallow, for the tangle of limbs and lips and tongues, for the body of man, for his flesh, for the flesh, oh God, your flesh, for the hard and muscular, highlighted with shadows of curls wiry, for the masculine in scent and line and tone, for the infinite possibilities you inspire, for the possibilities decimating all rational thought, for your love making on a rainy, winter’s afternoon, for our clothes tugged aside as we fuck against the cool of a wall, for the alleyway and movie theatre, for the car speeding down the straight, smooth, glowing highway, for the insatiable hunger that thrusts, that binds us together, for my slight body astride, my thighs tight around your torso, your pulsating shaft parting the lips, nudging the portal of life, your meat stretching and perfecting the velvet so willing and tender, for the moan, for the groan as you fill me to the brim, for the bodies in sync, in rhythm, in dance, for the sounds of my rising and falling, rising and falling and slipping under your spell, for your dominance to sweep and assault, for your hands to force and grind this cunt ever nearer, for your hips to slam and pound the climax clear and blinding right out of us, for my hands around your head bringing you closer, closer, ever closer to the want and the need, to these sweet, whispering lips, to the mewl and the breath and the pure, base affirmations as I come, as you come, as we come, as your seed and my glisten, as your man and my woman become one.

Ode to Thievery

Are you worthy of a sonnet, prose or poem or quotation?

Are you worthy of the words composed for lovers near and close, afar?

Are you worthy of the sentiments fashioned from my erotic longings, from my fair body glowing, from my flesh naked in the dark?

Are you worthy of this moment, of this space, of this here pity for your turn of phrase clearly wanting, your pen bone dry, your keyboard useless, rusty?

Are you worthy of the interest, of the fame, renown, the limelight, of the beam created from my pure, white-hot contempt?

Are you worthy of this carnality, this intense, soft femininity, this sensuality overwhelming, this woman unique?

Are you worthy? Are you worthy? Are you worthy?

Dear thieving, pilfering plagiarist, I fear that you are not.

HNT: Seventy-three

I need you

In the night
When my craving

Overtakes me
When thoughts of you
Will not leave me be

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

Be...

Be the warmth, be the breath, be the kiss on my soft lips, be the mouth swallowing my rapture, feeding from this shiny bliss.

Be the touch, be the hands, be the fingers weaving through these tresses, be the body I reach out for, the flesh pressed against my suppleness.

Be the smoke, the flame, the fire, be possession and surrender, be the one who gives and takes with softness, lightness, with hard, deep, growling intent.

Be the brave, the unafraid, the being you yearn and need to be, the easy and the intricate, the erotic and the carnal, be that man with me.

Be my junk, be my jones, be my everlasting addiction, the obsession that shatters, slays, destroys me, the passion that revives, refines, perfects.

Be the throb, the ache, the pain, be the cure, the panacea, be my relief, be my remedy, be my medicine.

And I’ll be yours.

HNT: Seventy-two

In your darkness

I see the light

In your light

True, pure desire

 In your desire

The home for which I long

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

Ignorance’s Bliss

In the hours and days and weeks that slide imperceptibly away, in the grip of his fire, in the face of his presence, in the space of his absence, in the past tense of his desire, she realises with an almost painful clarity that this is no longer a game. She realises that he is unlike any other, that he is the man of flesh and blood and word and passion, the man ideal, the man flawed that she has always longed to meet. He is the man, he is that man, the one who inspires thoughts profound and profane, who speaks to her erotic and carnal longings, who pierces a place deep inside her she can barely acknowledge, let alone articulate.

She knows this now; knows it her bones, in her cunt and her heart and her soul.

She knows this just as she knows she will soon be forgotten, replaced, leaving the barest whisper of a trace. She knows this just as she knows she will never be that woman for him, he will never want her as she wants him, he will never want in the inquisitive, complex and complete ways that overtake her as the sun shines bright, that taunt her in the darkness, in her dreaming even as she prays to forget, that sweep over her petite form as she splays her legs wide, as she grinds her hips, her palm into her throbbing sex, as she nudges the flimsy cotton aside and spreads her bright lips to circle the nub of her purest pleasure, as she pushes in one digit, then two, then three, as she fingers, as she fucks with animal abandon, with feminine sensuality, her moans, her raged breath bringing him back to life once again, her moans, her murmurs placing him right before her eyes, by her side, her moans, her murmurs, her call to him flooding her ears with his voice, her mouth with his kiss, her senses with his skin and weight and burning need, her moans, her murmurs, her call, her cry binding, enslaving, plunging her headlong into the abyss shadowed and blinding.

As the sheen on her bare, shivering body glistens in the low, winter light, she knows this; she knows all of this. And how she wishes instead for ignorance’s bliss.

This Life

“This is it. This is all there is. And I feel like it’s slipping through my fingers like a handful of sand.”

                                  Don Draper, Mad Men 

HNT: Seventy-one

Float away with me

On a soft, white cloud

Of dreams

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

Seduction

With each utterance, with each exhaled breath and lingering look, with each touch aching, light, caress bruising, possessing, with each brush of your lips, each languid, searching kiss, with every inch of your body pressed into my nakedness, with every plunge, every thrust, every stroke of your thick aroused flesh, with every whisper, every groan, every pulse, every beat of the muscle in your broad, heaving chest, you draw me in, you hold me tight, you drown me in your danger, you seduce me anew. 

The Book: 'Sinfully Sensuous'

I’ve been a busy minx of late: busy with pen, busy with lens, busy dressing up and then dressing … all the way down.

As I hinted a little while back, this flurry of activity has resulted in a book, and a very specific one at that: a collection of self-portraits and erotica titled Sinfully Sensuous (adopted from a memorable tag most generously bestowed by the swoon worthy Shibari).

The book, which takes its inspiration from the HNT posts here on the blog, brings together over 80 photographs and vignettes including a variety of favourites as well as more than 30 new images designed specifically for the page.

Available in soft cover and hard bound versions from Blurb, Sinfully Sensuous will be a way to have and to hold – and hopefully enjoy – a little piece of me and my creations. And that, I must confess, leaves me feeling very sinful and sensuous indeed…

Minx x

Sinfully Sensuous by Cheeky Minx | Make Your Own Book

HNT: Seventy

It takes all of her strength not to reach out to him.

It takes every ounce of her self-control not to arch up to meet the hand adorned by the crisp, white cuff and platinum link, not to give her body over to his touch familiar and new, possessing and sweet. It takes all of her restraint, all of her will not to give in to the urge to trail her slender fingers over the smoothness of the gleaming leather, to run her hands up along the warmth radiating through the charcoal Italian wool, to map the muscular calves, the tensing thighs, to tease and stroke then devour the throbbing hardness nestled between his legs, to splay herself, open herself, reveal her fiery brightness to the flesh that perfects her. It takes everything she has, everything she is not to instinctively surrender to the passions, the impulses, the carnality this man inspires with little effort and action.

It takes everything, all things, this desire for him. It takes, it strips, it breaks, it pieces her back together again.

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