You must know. You must.
You must know by now just how my body craves you, just how maddening and intense my hunger for you.
I hear your voice, my gaze falls upon your face and your body, and my cunt betrays me each and every time, releasing the flood with the sound of your sigh, with your slightest touch, with the revelation of your cravings, with your deep and devastating kiss.
You don’t believe me?
Inch up my skirt. Spread wide my legs. Trail your hands up the trembling softness of my thighs. Bury your fingers inside.
Tell me, can you feel my heat? Can you feel the molten desire soaked into the ebony lace? Can you feel the wetness as you slide your thumb along the fine filigree from my mons to my cleft, as you slowly ease the fused fabric from my obscenely smooth and scarlet flesh to taunt me, to stroke my pouting lips, to tease the throbbing ache of my clitoris?
Can you feel it? Can you feel me? Can feel and smell my need?
Bring your hand to your nose, to your lips. Lick your fingers. Inhale the scent.
How do I taste? Am I just as heady, just as blistering, just as sweet as I was the other day when I came hotly in your mouth, moaning and writhing and pleading for your cock, for you to fuck me, as you fed off the succulence of my tight little cunt like a starved and merciless beast?
How do I taste? Do I taste like your wanton lover in heat? Like your perfect submissive? Like your sublime cock whore? Do I taste like I’m yours?
You must know. You must.
And if you still doubt me, all you need do is glide your hard, thick, dripping disbelief along every curve of my naked and ravenous body for the proof.
Watching the rays of fading light on my glistening body, I see only pathways made for your palms and fingers, I see only the silhouette that belongs in the grip of your strong hands, the sensual trail yearning for your kiss, your prints, your markings, the scarlet violence dripping, crying, begging for your groans, your thrusts, your ravenous cock, our carnal devastation.
Move in close
Press your pulse to my lips
Feel the heat of my whispers
The five sighs of this pleasure
To my readers, friends and muses, my sincerest and heartfelt thanks and gratitude for your unerring support, your glittering inspiration, your communion with the words and imagery,
for the glorious gifts you continually bestow upon me.
Thank you all for a truly unforgettable five years.
I think of you.
I think of you and crave the warmth of your fingers trailing across the coolness of my skin, my body yearning to draw deep into my bones your heat, to have you wind yourself about me, your strong arms around me as we slide together gently into the shadows and the night, into dreams, into sleep.
I think of you and your teasing caress, the one that cruelly stops short of touching my aching sex, the one that merely toys with the periphery of this ivory lace as my thighs are splayed wide before you and my arousal soaks the filigree pressed tight into the scarlet smoothness of my throbbing clitoris and these plump lips.
I think of you and my heartbeat quickens, my cunt throbs at the memory of your dominance, the way you took hold and seized me, the way you carried me to the table like a rag doll made expressly for your carnal bidding, pressing your hand into the small of my back as I lowered my naked breasts and left cheek to rest upon the gleaming mahogany, my body trembling, mind racing, the anticipation prickling your skin, our breath, hot and raspy, one moment in synch, in the other out of kilter, and the rush of air that grazed the curve of my flank once you finally raised your hand, the hand that hovered suddenly with unaccustomed patience, the hand plotting in mid-air the first sweet point of contact, the hand ready and hungry to reprimand my defiance, the fingers and palm itching to mark my pouting buttocks, my entire body as yours with stinging strikes, with bruises and bites, with your uniquely blushing possession.
I think of you and long to feel, to feel your aroused glans straining, fighting against the confines of the inky denim, its pulsating hardness brushing the backs of my legs as you sweep aside my curls and kiss deeply the curve of my nape, your mouth sensually mapping the path from my delicate shoulders to the rosy prints on my fair skin, from the freckles adorning my hip to the intimate flesh pounding, dripping its sin, the tight honeyed succulence silently weeping its need to drench your beard, to come hotly on your lips and your tongue.
I think of you. I think of all of this. And more. But mostly, I think about our fusion, our melting and merging and the stillness of our bodies as your hard, thick cock is deep inside me, all the way inside me, as your ravenous flesh is buried to my breathless limit, so that every millimetre of my cunt can feel you and know you, can grasp and claim and devour each glorious vein and ridge and pulse and morsel of your burnished shaft as if it’s belonged there always, as if it’s an absent part of me returned and home again.
Here and now, there’s only you and me, the fading light, this warm, spring breeze, an intensity of desire that brings us both to our knees, the worship of glowing skin and aching flesh as each stitch and thread is languidly teased away, the kisses luxurious, hungry and deep, an indulgent sensuality that inscribes onto our very souls each gasp and whisper and tremble, every groan and mark and shiver as you lay me down on crisp, white cotton, as you glide your flawless hands along this imperfect skin, as my fingers trace the hollow of your hips, as my lips and tongue find the racing pulse on your neck, as you spread me open and strip me bare, as my body yearns for your mouth and its unique caress, as you slowly ease your hard, dripping cock inside me to the hilt, as my sweet, hot cunt takes you, feels you, sheathes you, milks every drop of your come, as you claim me and fuck me and love me, as I possess you as master and man, as we fuse with a tenderness and carnality that leaves us breathless, complete, undone.
… Voting season, that is.
This year, the gorgeous Sweet Rori from Between My Sheets has introduced a companion competition to the Top Sex Bloggers – the Sex Blogger Post of the Year. There are three nominating categories, including Erotica Post of the Year, with nominations closing 1 October 2014. If you’ve enjoyed anything here this year, particularly my erotica pieces or the sensual self-portrait posts with a little more (word) meat on the bone, I would greatly appreciate a show of support.
Additionally, the fabulous folks over at Kinkly are calling for your Sex Blogging Superhero votes. While I’m not one for a mask and cape – although the idea is certainly growing on me – I would dearly love for you to slip in your ballot if the taste of my cake is to your liking.
My warmest thanks to you in advance, sweet, sexy, pretty things…
This lucky minx and her Love Hate Sex Cake have been placed at #79 on Kinkly’s Top 100 Sex Blogging Superheroes of 2014.
Thank you for the support and nominations.
The growled utterance shatters resolutely the silence.
These four little letters, this singular word is all I need to sense the force of his desire, the complex ways in which I tempt him, here and now in the gloaming, dressed in nothing more than nylon and pearls and the heat of my own maddening craving, the pulsating ache between my fair thighs, the sex scarlet and sodden crying out for his mouth to kiss me soft and deep and long, for his tongue to enslave me, to drink down this sweet, fragrant nectar, for his thick, hard flesh to fill me, unleash me, tame me, possess and fuck my tight honeyed cunt with a sensual measure that leaves my entire body trembling and these lips whispering their hunger for more.