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…)