Her gasp shatters the silence with the realisation it is her raspy voice, her desperate desire that have hardened his flesh, that have compelled him to show and record the intensity of his lust. Stroking his thick cock slowly, deliberately, silently, glimpses of his profile, his muscular arm, his creamy hip, his shiny head, tease and tempt, inciting her passion, watering her mouth and cunt in an instant.

Listening to the familiar accent speak of the yearning to press her nakedness against his, to have him feel her heated whispers in his ear, her lips on his mouth, trailing down his neck, his chest, his hips, his thighs, sliding around his throbbing shaft, her body grinds in time with his as she sinks three fingers into the velvet heat longing, aching for his touch.

But it is only once he throws his head back and murmurs to the witnessing silver box just how much he wants it too, just how much he wants her too, that her orgasm crashes over her so hard, so loud she calls out his name.

Take me.
Touch me.
Taste me.
Caress then shred my cover.

Do you want?
Do you dare?
Do you dare to want me, lover?

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

As we gradually shed the veil, as we bare ourselves through the word and glimpses of skin, as our desire collides, fuses, coincides, as our urgent, carnal passions threaten to swallow us both, as our need to merge and fuck and devour overtakes the rational mind, it is your longing to kiss me, caress me, savour me, to make love to me, soft and slow and lingering, that trembles this fair body, that sets the fevered ache, that carries my breath clear away.

He lingers in the doorway, his muscular chest rising and falling, his thick meat progressively hardening, as he drinks in the woman craved as no other, as he takes in the sensual curve of her mouth, the heady scent of her perfume, the shiver rippling through the flesh wordlessly calling out for his touch.

And as he crosses the threshold, his arms encircling her waist, his eyes gazing into the deep, their bodies finally merging as one, she exhales his name along with her heat, her yearning finding its voice, her desire finding its mate, her passion finding its home.

(click)

I woke with you on my mind, with the vision of your body hovering over me, with the urge to feel our warm nakedness entwined in the low morning light, with your heated murmurs on my neck, your wiry curls tickling my breasts, with your eyes firmly locked on mine.

I woke with you in my body, with my flesh reaching out for your all, with our aching desire igniting my skin, with our yearning to merge inflaming my form, with your slippery hardness sinking right in, your lips tracing the curve of my mouth, with your seductive moans crashing over us both.

And as I woke with you on my mind, in my body, in my thoughts and sensations sultry and sweet, I wondered if you did just the same.

Every minute is an hour
When you’re not by my side
When my flesh calls out for you
And only you

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

With an effortless double click, his reflection is before me: eyes framed, expression pensive, lips full and inviting, he is the picture of suave sophistication in the tailored cloth of black.

As my gaze travels the length of his form, seeking out the nuances of his handsome face, noting the strong hand resting easily on his thigh, taking in his caramel skin pallid under the glow of the artificial light, I realise just how very much I have missed him.

Round midnight
Bed waiting, sleep calling
Little enticement without you here

Without your strong arms entwining
Without the murmur of words seductive, electrifying
Without your heady kiss so all-consuming
Without the man of passion who sates my yearning

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

Strong, masculine hands seizing their craving, their want, their desire.

Coarse, powerful hands sweeping, grazing womanly skin silky and fine.

Commanding hands mapping the line of my back, lifting me high, spreading me wide, sating the ache that all but consumes me.

Hands, fingers, dexterous and greedy, that tease my clit, that work my slit, that crook to find my sweet little spot, that fill my tight cunt to the brim.

Hands caressing my face, my neck, the soft mounds of my breasts, vice-like grip on my hips as his thick shaft glides in to the hilt, as it savagely pounds my slick velvet heat.

Hands in my hair, on my head, digits mapping the curve of my lips as I slide your glans deep, deep inside, as my tongue licks and laps at your slippery head, as I fuck your pulsating cock with my mouth.

Hands tenderly fixing ties that fasten and bind, marking my form with the signs of possession for which I yearn and long.

Hands speaking their sensual passion, recording the rise and fall of my breath, the rhythmic, thudding beat in my chest, committing to memory the body laid bare before them.

Hands, hands, his glorious hands, weapons of worship and hungry invasion.

The hands holding me down, the hands setting me free.

The hands touching, taking, giving all that I need.