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.

He makes slaves of us all.

With his hands, with his voice, with the mouth that worships pussy. With the striking words that leave us shivering, wet, dizzy. With the hard, searing cock that fills, opens and possesses with its volatile bliss.

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…)

His face, his body, his voice have captured her imagination with a dizzying speed. As his piercing gaze flashes through her mind, as the deep accented drawl echoes in her ears, as he courses and flows through her slight form, she wonders about the man a world away from her own and the compelling lure of him.

She wonders about his hands, their touch, the scent of his skin, his expected force and his astonishing sensuality, his energy and stillness, his heat, his physicality, the view of his overwhelming frame looming over her.

And as she allows her mind to wander and meander along his body magnetic, she slavishly follows, her own scorched, electrified flesh achingly reaching out for one more rapturous union.

In the end, there seems to be nothing but a whisper separating us all. Difference, otherness, foreignness seem to be nothing but fast crumbling notions from a history long past.

In the end, we all seem to want and long and yearn for the very same things, need the very same things. No matter our time or place. From the mind, from the spirit, from the body.

Passion. Pleasure. Acknowledgement. Wisdom. Connection. Independence. Knowledge. Mystery. Discovery. Submission. Domination. Control. Freedom. Wonder. Bliss.

Desire. Desire. Desire.

And Love.

Darkness and light.
The shades of grey in between.
Sultry poetry and gruff demands.
Delicate touch, bruising possession.
Primal desire and tender caring.
Electric exploration, engulfing recognition.
Sexual and sensual, artistic and intellectual.
Man, woman, singularity, multiplicity.

The breathtaking possibility.

The sultry, seductive moan of the jazz trumpet winds its way into the cosy room as the muted lamp light casts its enveloping glow. Awaiting his arrival, she takes pleasure in the sensations of the here and now: the plush throw caressing her freshly bathed skin; the faint aroma of a favourite scent clinging to the curve of her neck; the soft lace tickling her hips; the delicate fingers drawing sensual circles on her bare flesh; the butterflies taking flight in and across her electrified body; the steady pulse beginning to thud out its addictive rhythm in her awakening sex.

Surrendering herself to the moment of solitude, she wonders if the demure yet wanton picture she has painted will please him, if the waiting gift will sate his hungry longings, if the familiar woman before him has retained something of her novelty, her mystery.

Snapping her back to the present, the trembled gasp from the doorway dissolves her uncertainty in an instant. Standing tall in the small threshold, a visible shudder rippling through his muscular body, his eyes are simultaneously thankful and greedy, his gaze travelling with a deliberate slowness, consuming every last detail of the scene, of the woman, of the feminine hands skimming the fair terrain, of the heated breath escaping her glistening mouth, of the aching thighs and hips and breasts all straining toward him and his touch.

And just as she can endure the distance between them no longer, he is beside her, shedding his outer fabric layer, joining her warmth, his hands meeting hers in their exploration, his lips lightly taking hold of her silky peaks, his tongue languidly tasting and savouring her own, his strength bearing down upon her fragility, his passion seeking out her velvety essence, their flesh fusing, melting, merging in a timeless lover’s embrace.

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

It is a body that wants, a lust that gnaws, a desire that eats away at the fabric of her everyday, a carnality that overtakes her in shattering waves, dizzying her mind, dissolving her boundaries. No matter how much or little it receives.

In the light of day, in the dark of night, it incessantly reaches out for more, hungry for masculine flesh new and familiar, ravenous for the manly exotic in its infinite variety, famished for domination and possession, starved for submission and surrender, longing for words and deeds and lips and hands and cocks and come.

The body, this body, her body.

This body that is mine.

You are my hungry want incarnate
My need made flesh and blood
My carnality made juices, sweat and come

When my eyes sweep down along you
Imposing, muscular and strong
I see a man aching to release, submit, surrender

Intoxicating at close distance
Your scent a heady, lethal mix
Compels mind and body to thoughts primal and impure

Take, possess, command you
My slut, my toy, my whore
I will use you and exploit you for my pleasure

Strap you roughly, bind you crudely
To the base of the platinum bed
My body looming in tall spikes of shiny leather

Body splayed wide open
I will tease and taunt and feel
The arousal as it screams up from your core

Spend and mark and bruise you
My own cunt slave you will be
Here and now and forever more

She knew in an instant she wanted them both. She knew in mind, in body, in slick throbbing sex she needed them both. In sweet succession. In pleasurable togetherness. In painful separation.

As she slips her hands under the table and begins to caress their inner thighs, her fingers progressively working their way to the rock-hard erections pulsating in their groins, she motions for them to lean in and listen.

With cheeks lightly flushed and tongue nervously moistening her rosy lips, she admits in a raspy murmur the thoughts, fantasies and desires rushing through and overtaking her.

The desire to consume the dark-haired submissive and blue-eyed dominant sitting beside her. The desire to make one her slut while the other makes her his.

The desire to be filled, stretched, torn open wide by cocks and mouths and hands rough and smooth. The desire to bind her submissive to the bed, use him, make him her cunt slave, graze his firm flesh with fingers and nails, ride his cock slow and deep, hard and fast, denying him the ecstasy of release until she is ready and sated.

The desire to be kissed and licked and sucked and marked with tender care and piercing abandon. The desire for her master to fuck her mouth as she is impaled on the other, his hands in her curls, hips thrusting, her hands on his balls, wound around his arse pushing him deeper into the back of her throat, the sounds of desire, the flooding desire from her cunt and mouth filling the room.

The desire to be taken and possessed, defiled and debased. The desire for her blue-eyed man to take her away to the wall, to support her slight body with his large frame as he fucks her roughly, passionately, the small of her back slamming into the stucco, bruising fair skin, their tongues clashing, lips urgently devouring, her tight velvet clamping around his thick, throbbing hardness as her clit brushes against his abdomen and they plunge headlong into their thunderous climax.

The desire to be seen and savoured, worshipped and adored. The desire to look over at her beautiful slut, dark eyes watching, immobilised body waiting, his spent cock finding new life again as he takes in the view.

The desire to be, all at once, in control and utterly surrendered.