Wrap yourself
In cotton crisp
In feathers fine
In woman wanting, warm and willing

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

I want your cock.

I want it as no other, hunger for it as never before.

I want your cock.

I want to rouse it from its slumber, tease it to hard, thick, glistening life. I want to feel it pulsing in my hand, in my mouth, in my cunt, in the tightness of my rosebud.

I want your cock.

I want to rouge my lips blood, shiny red and stain your shaft with my sultry kiss. I want to open the hot, wet tunnel between these lips, sliding you in, gliding you down, tasting, devouring the very essence of man.

I want your cock.

I want the cock of the gentleman seasoned and contained, the cock of the teenage boy on the very edge of his self-control. I want to bury your uncut meat so deep inside me your body growls and soars, your searing cream spilling forth urgently, violently to mark my soft fair skin, my bright clutching walls.

I want your cock.

I want it all to myself, selfishly taking and feasting on the flesh and the come and the man yearned for by so many. I want to please and pleasure it, charm and beguile it, captivate it, claim it as my very own.

I want your cock.

Yesterday, today and tomorrow. Your cock is all I want.

In that moment, she loses herself completely.

In that moment when his seductive body finally kisses her supple flesh, when his hands sensually travel along the curve of her hips, the taut line of her abdomen, when his lips and tongue circle the tender swell of her breasts, rousing the pale halos into aching peaks, when his mouth urgently devours her glistening sex, taking her to the very edge and back again, when his fingers mercilessly tease the rosebud with promises maddening, when his hard cock slowly invades her sweet, enveloping tightness, when his pulsing meat is buried so deep he cries out her name, when his molten gaze fixes, melts into the blue, she free falls into the abyss, drowning in its primal darkness, basking in its blinding light, floating on the quotidian jetsam at long last a faint and distant memory.

In the end, it is her very own hand that betrays her: it is the vein rippling her ordinarily fair, silken surface; it is the blood, slick and fiery, coursing with a maddening need; it is the slight tremor of the slender digits curved in aching readiness to caress the skin crying out for his flesh, screaming out for release; it is her perpetually desiring body that offers her up, proving to him, beyond a shadow of a doubt, she is his present, she is his past, she is his seductively sweet and carnal hereafter.

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

Breath
Sultry and hushed
Mapping, beseeching

Breath
Fiery and raspy
Insistent, deafening

Breath
Dancing on silken skin
At one with the knowing kiss

Breath
Whispered into the glisten
Exhaled into this suffering flesh

Breath
Taunting and merging
Your breath
Forever I am craving

The hat?
It stays put.
But every other thread is negotiable.

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

I don’t want to rush. Not tonight. Not tonight.

Tonight, I want to linger, I want to stop time. I want to seize it, bend it, break it wide open, charging each endless moment with you, losing myself in fulfilling every one of your deepest, darkest desires.

I don’t want to rush. Not tonight. Not tonight.

Tonight, I need to feel and touch, caress, absorbing and consuming, venerating and possessing, my hands on your torso pressing you back gently into the wall, my hands gliding up along the soft, sweet curve of your neck, my hands travelling down spreading you wide, your thighs now mine, releasing the binds, the buttons, the prison keeping you hidden from my sight, my hands sliding, languorously stroking the eager thickening shaft, sliding, sensually weaving through the curls on your heaving chest, sliding, seductively curling around the tensing muscles of your nape, sliding, beguiling, captivating the space that cruelly separates, sliding, luring, finally delivering your lips, your breath, your groan, your kiss.

I don’t want to rush. Not tonight. Not tonight.

Tonight, I yearn to drown in your scent, to taste and feed on your flesh, devour the heat rising up through your skin, the passion simmering your mind, your very soul. I yearn to bury my nose in deep, inhaling the pungent perfume of your maleness, the tip tickling, tracing each smooth, perfect, willing hollow, the tip teasing, taunting, feather lips and tongue soon after follow, my mouth tormenting with its lightness, with the silken peaks so new and familiar, my mouth sating with its gluttony, with the urgent deepness of its swallow, my mouth, my lips, my tongue roaming, exploring, gorging on the meat throbbing, aching, on the pearls nestling, on the cockhead dripping, on the jewels, on the feast, on the shine with a freedom, with a hunger, with an addiction abandoned, enslaving.

I don’t want to rush. Not tonight. Not tonight.

Tonight, I crave our merging, our melting, our nakedly intimate union, our bodies bathed in shadows of sepia enigma, enveloped in hushed, sultry tones, our bodies seeking, questing, opening, giving, taking as I sink down onto your hard waiting flesh, as I take you deep into my tight velvet cunt, as I moan with the ecstasy of your life force pulsing inside me, as you groan with a power that steals the rapid heartbeat, as I ride you with languid undulation, as I ride you with fevered concentration, my hips swirling, flowing, my swollen clitoris pressing, rubbing, your glans filling, stretching, your cockhead straining at my limits, my sex grasping at your own, your hands mapping, caressing the fairest of thighs, the pert swell of my breasts, your body soaring, ascending, my fingers digging, branding, our gaze locking, eyes glowing with the fire, with the hunger for release, for that sweet and violent release, for the cream, for the flood, for the come that will mark you as mine, for the come that will mark me as yours, for the liquid heat, for the scolding libations longed for as no other, eyes glowing with the longing and the want and the need and the yearning and the craving for more, for more, for more … evermore.

I don’t want to rush. Not tonight. Not tonight.

Let me be
The pink
The state of your purest pleasure

Let me be
The one
The temptress in your mirror

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

Into your mouth
I exhale
The words of my lust
My lascivious greed

Into your skin
I release
The craving to taste
My kiss all-consuming

Into my cunt
You feed
Your thick eager shaft
The flesh which perfects me

Into the night
We make love
The sensual merging
Our unique carnal union

His gaze. His gaze. His gaze.

It transforms light into shadow, shadow into dark molten desire. It compels her to offer up her flesh for sacrifice, for worship, for debasement. It strips her bare, destroys her inhibitions, shreds every last vestige of her naked shame. It whispers, it speaks, it screams at her, to her, with a recognition that possesses the wanton terrain. It lures her to him time and again, tempting the woman, enticing the lover, binding the whore, caressing the erotic longings on her very surface, grasping the carnality buried deep within.

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