A look, a word, a touch. The switch flicked. My mind and desire taken from demure to wanton in three short beats, each gesture melting away my reticence and modesty, spreading me shamelessly wide open to our erotic game. With every sensual thought and carnal fantasy growled from your lips, my
body cries its hunger, my scarlet need drips its craving for revelation, for consummation, for my tongue on your burnished heat, for the grind of your hips, for the taste of our ravenous kiss, for your seed buried deep, for your breath as it etches pathways across this fair skin to my most licentious and sinful want.
Category: Short Form
Amethyst Dreaming
By day, I don’t see the world that surrounds me through rose-coloured glasses.
But once I fall into the night and its darkness, once I slide slowly into my dreaming, our entwined bodies are bathed in an amethyst lustre so intense and absolute that my lips and tongue physically yearn and hunger to reach out, to taste its warmth, its richness, its flavour, all of your sensual and carnal secrets, straight from your hard and naked flesh.
Chained
Lustre
Dusk
Second Skin
When our bodies kiss, when they at long last meet, my skin is no longer hers, yours no longer his.
When we come together, when we are lost to the world but found to each other, when our passions are as one, this second skin of sweat and of fire and of glistening libations, this second skin of man and of woman, of limbs entwined, of uncontrolled pulsation, this second skin conceived of the fever, the hunger, our erotic abandon, this second skin born of the night devoured, the flesh for the taking, this second skin hard and fixed, silken and yielding, this second skin delivers the sweetest possession, the cruellest of freedoms.
Guide
The slender, delicate fingers belie her strength and lascivious greed, looping, twining around his thick, eager shaft, stroking, stroking, oh so slowly stroking his pulsing, throbbing uncut meat, pressing his now streaming cockhead into the smooth, full, beckoning lips, guiding, nudging his hardness past that maddening, mouth-watering point of resistance, pushing him, thrusting him, taking him in, taking him all the way in, in, in, into the deep, clutching moistness of her hot honeyed little cunt.
HNT: Chart
On his command, her hands will chart the path from her neck to her breasts to her hips, delicate fingers teasing, finally easing the ebony netting past fair pouting flesh as she bends deeply at the waist, exposing her glistening sex to the light, to his gaze, to his hunger.
(Remember to knock on Osbasso’s door to see this week’s gorgeous players…)
Impossibility
The words will not come. The body will not follow. There is only numbness in their place. There is only the contrary longing to exorcise this desire while clinging to it for dear, electrifying life. There is only the bittersweet craving for a man whose intensity and magnetism, whose complex eroticism excites, revives, terrifies. There is only the dull, aching recognition of an impossible possibility.
Trace
As they crash over her one after the other, as they roar up through the petite body flushing her fair skin and swelling her dripping sex, as they come in quick and thunderous succession intermittently driving out the breath from her lungs, she exhales the sweet syllables of his name, longing for his liquid lust, yearning for his scorching seed, aching to be filled with the cream of his climax, needing above all else, the tangible trace of his desire.