Yesterday was something of an oddity for me.
For the first time since the inception of Love Hate Sex Cake seven years ago, I genuinely didn’t feel its anniversary worth marking or celebrating. Lately, I’ve been musing about its quality, its purpose, my creative and sexual drive, and whether this site will be anything more than the repository of the yearning I feel each and every day. Much like the woman before you. A body that houses a craving for more – for intimacy, connection, love and passion, for the erotic fusion of mind, body and soul.
And yet here I am observing its beginnings once again, but mostly to extend my heartfelt thanks and gratitude for your unerring support and your communion with the words and imagery during a year of sporadic posting and diminished time and inspiration. Language will never quite express how much it means to me. The ability to touch, to inspire, to soothe, to excite, through whispers and cries, through pixels and light, through shadow and colour and monochrome tones is one I will never take for granted.
Was it your mind, your body, your desire, your face?
Was it the deep and accented voice laced with carnal passion and erotic yearning?
Was it the connection, our chemistry, the way my diminutive curves always felt the most perfect complement to your overwhelming presence and strength?
Was it the soft brush of your mouth, followed quickly by our sensual and ravenous kiss?
Was it the trail of my tongue along the curve of your neck and throbbing line of your cock, eager to taste a uniquely masculine scent and warmth?
Was it your command for me to hook my thumbs through the ebony straps, exposing myself to you with a complete and wanton brazenness I’ve only ever imagined and dreamed?
Was it your fingers teasingly charting the fullness of my dripping lips before filling my sweet cunt to the hilt and fusing with molten fire our need?
Was it the slow reveal that left me breathless at every turn, that left me aching and sodden from the very beginning, that has me craving to this day, that has me wondering through each long and lonely night?
Was it one or the other? Was it our every moment together?
Was it – and is it – your all?
Your commanding grip.
The decadent silk strip nestled against your chest, whose arrowhead invariably directs my gaze to the virile need hardening between your legs.
The pungent leather that bears your scent plus mine. The alluring danger of its glistening clasp.
The cashmere that moments ago clung to the soft slope of my shoulder and kissed the delicate swell of each creamy breast.
Use it all to bind me, to shroud my sight, to plunge me into your dark hunger.
Then use me.
Take and possess every inch of skin, every morsel of flesh, every moan and tremble, every ravenous hole and dripping slit you have craved to fill and ravage and mark.
Lover, use me and make me yours.
I can almost feel your hand replacing mine between these thighs. I can almost feel your thumbs circling the yielding softness above the stocking tops.
I can almost feel your finger tracing my jawline with a subtlety that leaves me struggling for breath, before you tilt lightly my chin to feed the hunger blistering my tongue with your kiss and your burnished flesh.
I can almost feel your shaft thicken and harden in my delicate palm, just as I can almost hear your body groan the syllables of my name.
I can almost feel your knees easing my legs wide apart. I can almost feel your beard marking each trembling curve and hollow with the gleaming fire from my sweet cunt.
When I sit here watching the day’s fading light, I can almost feel every stroke, every thrust of your savage need, every cry from my own body as you take me, as you fuck me with your carnal darkness.