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.

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.

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…)

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.

Standing at ease against the cool of the white stucco, gaze bright, smile wicked, he is a breathtaking vision. Of bronzed nakedness, of imposing strength, of profound masculinity, of sexual audacity. Of sheer perfection.

Settling into the plush chair located in the shadowy corner, she allows herself the freedom to take in his detail, her eyes languidly travelling along the terrain of sculpted muscle and wiry curls, along the hot skin deeply kissed by the sun to the cool, milky pale of his hips and thick uncut flesh.

It is the contrast between the heat radiating from the russet glow and the freshness of irresistible cream that ultimately awakens a gnawing hunger, watering her mouth and sex in equal measure. It is the contrast that beckons her to him, that lures her semi-clad form to close the space between them, that draws her delicate hands to his tensing arms, her slender fingers to the legs tantalizingly splayed, her fiery nails to graze the line of the torso well defined, her moist, sensual lips to his raspy breath, her eager tongue to the mouth desperate for her kiss, her fair suppleness to his intoxicating potency, her slick velvet cunt to the glisten of his raging cock.

All I want right now, right at this very moment is your body, your desire, your touch.

Your intensely masculine flesh nestled firmly against me.
My rosy peaks teasing the muscular line of your back.
Your breath catching as my kiss finds the curve of your neck.
My fingers weaving through the mane of your sun-kissed chest.
Your shudder as my hand finds the glory of a hardening shaft.
My sweet, flowing arousal glistening in the low light.
Your seductive groan as I part my pink, shiny lips.
My mouth longingly reaching out for its first taste.
Your digits sensually weaving through fiery curls.
My tongue swirling and skidding across your salty passion.
Your knees weakening at the force of my devouring greed.
My fair form streaked in the cream of your pleasure.
Our desperately yearning bodies softly, savagely fusing together.

All I want right now, right at this very moment is you.

We give of ourselves through the word, through the prose, on the screen, on the page, through the lips and the tongue murmured sweetly into the waiting ear.

We give of ourselves through the word, through the needed expression of the ache, through the fissures of pain and of bliss, in the bright of day, in the veil of the night.

We give of ourselves through the word, through the turn of the phrase that inflames, through the writing that arouses desires on the surface and hidden deep within.

We give of ourselves through the word, through verse as skin and bone and as flesh, longing to be sensually touched and caressed, yearning to be savagely fucked and set free.

And as we give of ourselves through the word, we give of ourselves through the body. The body, my body, his body. The bodies that give, the bodies that take, the bodies that lust and merge and devour.

The bodies that ardently follow the word.

Bound to the chair behind her, his chest rising and falling, erect cock glistening in the low afternoon light, he has no other option than to watch as she climbs onto the bed and begins the task of shedding the ebony lace from the fair body trembling with unexpressed desire.

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

As my transfixed gaze took in the detail of the garments suspended in the glass case, I wondered about the women who had inhabited their forms, the bodies once swathed in fabrics coarse and refined. I wondered about their curves, their skin, their scent, their sensuality, desires and cravings, my eyes absorbing the shapes and textures, attempting to place my fair flesh within them and within that time and place.

Standing in the shadowy museum light, I willed them to speak their secrets, their stories of love and lust and loss. I willed them to whisper the tales of these women. If only to reassure me of my own place in the world. If only to reassure me that my voracious and often limitless carnality is not merely a product of the here and now, but rather a hunger we carry, we bear, we release through each and every lifetime.

Cosseted indoors at last away from the rainy chill of the night, he moves toward me in a gesture to take my coat. Silently refusing, I languidly slink to the narrow passage illuminated by the glow. Up against the wall, my steely blue gaze meeting his, gloved hands begin to ease, unfasten and release, revealing stockings, corset and little else. Pushing aside the warm woollen layer, soft leather fingers graze the silky mound of my hip, slithering their way to the heat radiating from my naked, eager sex.

And as the hush in the room is broken by our raspy breath, his lustful advancing body, his lids heavy with desire, his hands roughly tugging shirt collar and leather belt, speak to me of only one sure, beautiful thing.

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