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.