Category: Autoportrait

HNT: In the Doorway

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.

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

HNT: Silver

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.

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

HNT: Cocktail

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The cocktail has been the symbol of their eventual meeting from the very beginning. Shaken or stirred, vodka or gin, olive or twist, their preferences were duly noted. In their countless communiqués, it was the object that not only held the tentative promise of a certain time and place, but also the means to draw one another out, to tease and taunt and play with words, to express the intensity of an attraction and desire that increased with each passing day.

Now as they stand in the low-lit room together at last, velvet night blanketing the sky, the oily slick in their glasses rests barely sampled, the words spoken surprisingly scant. Together at last, alone at last, they have no need for either. Raspy breaths fill the silence, eyes wander and roam, slowly and deliberately consuming at a practiced remove one final time as they linger on the precipice.

But once his fingers lightly brush an errant curl aside, their achingly desperate bodies leave them no other choice than to plunge headlong, zippers urgently gliding and hissing, skin and heat merging, hands caressing, arms winding, around her waist, around his nape, their lips brushing, locking, tongues dipping, tasting, hungry mouths seeking, devouring, their flesh fusing and binding, passions igniting and possessing in this dizzying moment of perfect firsts.

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

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