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.

When your gaze finds me, travels along my naked and yielding body, the flesh arched and aching and hungry only for you, what does it see?

What do you see?

Do you see a woman worthy of the lips that speak your true intentions?

A being in step with the intensity of your complex passion?

Do you glimpse in her the free spirit also in need of your arms and their embrace, the skin and heat that feel and taste just like home?

A body, a soul, a mind, a heart, a sweet and wanton cunt deserving of your sensual kiss, your ragged breath, the cock, the thrusts, the grip, the molten come that will mark her indelibly as yours?

My body aches for you, breaks
for you in untamed ecstasy
and trembling wonder.

I have always been more than simply woman.

I am – and forever will be – a creature born in the last throes, at the close of days, weeks, months of blistering fire and overwhelming heat.

I am summer’s love child.

With the flavour of the sun in my flesh, with the dawn and dusk indelibly etched on my skin, with its wanton passion, its sensual caress in the curve of my hip, in the breath between my lips, with its sultry nights and lustful promises deep in my bones, flowing through my veins.

Imagine.

Imagine taking a chance – risking it all – on a woman like me.

A woman whose desire for you burns through the years, reduces thousands of miles to inches with the sultry utterance of your name.

A woman whose delicate frame arcs as your breath meets her skin, whose intimate flesh gleams with sensual hunger and carnal yearning as you bring her to life each day with your dawn kiss.

A woman who aches for the man in his entirety, who longs for his curiosity, the mystery, the knowing, the complexity, the mess, their fusion and untamed, erotic depths.

I wonder if your imaginings would dare conjure such a creature, if they would scream for fantasy to give birth to a new reality, if they would allow time and space and fate and fortune to bend, break, meet.

If they could inspire your hands to reach out, to gift her with the touch you can no longer bear to keep to yourself.

“Think of my cock, deep, pulsing nakedly, marking you.”

Do you know or even sense that I can think of little else?

Can you feel the way my body aches at the mere suggestion of your naked flesh, nothing between us, the promise of our fusion, the primal hunger for your seed filling my cunt, dripping from my womb, streaked hotly across my lips and tongue and blushing skin?

Do you know or even sense how I crave you and this possession as no other?

Can you see the need that wrenches me from the peace of my sleep and dreaming, forcing me to prematurely greet the day, spreading my thighs, arching my back, leading my hands to impatiently and crudely tug at the satins, the silks, the laces, my bare need exposed, my luscious sex gaping, desperate for the completing thrust of your hard, thick cock?

Do you know or even sense that this one thought, these nine words, have overtaken my erotic imagination and yearning so absolutely?

Down
but not out,
still hanging on.

~o~

Yesterday was something of an oddity for me.

For the first time since the inception of Love Hate Sex Cake seven years ago, I genuinely didn’t feel its anniversary worth marking or celebrating. Lately, I’ve been musing about its quality, its purpose, my creative and sexual drive, and whether this site will be anything more than the repository of the yearning I feel each and every day. Much like the woman before you. A body that houses a craving for more – for intimacy, connection, love and passion, for the erotic fusion of mind, body and soul.

And yet here I am observing its beginnings once again, but mostly to extend my heartfelt thanks and gratitude for your unerring support and your communion with the words and imagery during a year of sporadic posting and diminished time and inspiration. Language will never quite express how much it means to me. The ability to touch, to inspire, to soothe, to excite, through whispers and cries, through pixels and light, through shadow and colour and monochrome tones is one I will never take for granted.

~Minx x