Once your hands find me, flaunt me
Once your flesh fills me, owns me
The world becomes golden

It is here,
in the stillness, in the quiet,
in the muted light of a sultry afternoon,
that I return to my centre, that I find my peace.

~o~

Wishing you all a safe, happy and sensual holiday season.

~Minx x

It is here I crave you most.

In this room, in these clandestine spaces on high, the cityscape framed in glass cool, clear and brazen.

It is now I need you most.

Within these four walls, the ultimate stage for our fusion, for the possession of this flesh as you press my rose-peaked breasts into our grinding reflection, your thick shaft dripping with a hunger at one with the molten heat between my thighs, and our eyes searching, searching, between each furious and animal thrust, for the veiled and desiring gazes that will feast on the vision, our unbridled exhibition.

Tell me…

Do you still dream about the melding of our flesh?

Do you crave the possession of my soft and yielding need by your hard and gleaming hunger?

Do you ache for a taste of the wanton desires that melt my sweet cunt, that drench the nylon and lace?

Even as I’m spent and weathered and worn, your touch makes me feel newfound, reborn.

If only I had pressed my lips together, paused to draw a breath,
to exhale this fervour as a surge, as the rush inspired by your mind and flesh,
I would be touched now by your hand, I would be caressed by something other than this regret.

I wait for you, yearning
to be bent to your
erotic will.

She shields herself, concealing from view the succulence owned and possessed by him, the naked and molten epicentre of the desire that exists for his eyes only.

As she poses and revels in the display of her scantily-clad form to the unseen eyes beyond the picture window, the wetness flows white-hot as she recalls an altogether different image – the photograph created for his carnal and bespoke tastes of her rear encased in the same diaphanous mesh, the suspender straps draw tight, their lines the ideal frame for the sweet cunt sodden with wanton need for the grip of his hands, the power of his thrusts, the seed buried deep by his thick hard perfecting flesh.

I meet the dawn tearing at the threads, the need to expose my wanton flesh to the low light too great, to the walls that have borne witness to our carnality, your marks lustrous on my skin, your seed and my lust the fire on the lips between these legs, our forbidden hungers screaming again through my veins.

A word. A breath. An intonation.

A similarity so slight most would barely rate it a thought or mention.

But for this woman, every hint, every likeness, every resemblance is a trigger, a spark, an enabler that leads me back to the voice unforgotten, to the accented utterance of my name by the man kneeling at my feet, his mouth pressed into the molten fire of my cunt, each ravenous flicker and devouring kiss driving my desire and body and the pleas falling from these lips to the edge, the brink, our precipice.