Tagged: Self-portrait

Echo

78_EchoIt is your voice, your voice that shakes me from my dreaming; it is the voice hot and urgent that returns long before you appear to claim me. It is your voice, your voice, its rich accent, its echo, that sinks deep into the sensual curve gasping in rapture and ecstasy, that fills the place inside me where you should be, that enslaves then tears this woman here to cruel and easy shreds.

Slink in to see this week’s delectably sinful players…

Sinful Sunday

Trouble

77_troubleFrom the moment his eyes fell upon her, he knew.

From the moment the heady blend of her scent and perfume overwhelmed the room, the very air he drew deeply into his lungs, her clear yet provocative gaze holding his as introductions were swiftly dispensed, her full, wanton lips unsealing themselves initially with a sultry sigh before she casually spoke her greeting and his name, from the moment she shook his hand with a firmness at odds with the sensual eroticism of the parting gesture that saw the slender forefinger of her delicate hand trail its way from the centre of his palm to the fleshy tip of his middle digit, eager to electrify his body, reluctant to break away from his strength and his touch, he knew.

He knew she was nothing but trouble.

She was the kind of trouble he had conjured in his daylight reverie and those visions he couldn’t help but indulge as his hard cock ached during the long and lonely night, his unfulfilled fantasies coming to vivid, sensate life to create an insatiable ideal, a truly rapacious woman whose passions would rival and ultimately overshadow his own, whose hunger and cock lust tore at her slight body as the clock struck his hour of the wolf, compelling her to wildly caress the naked gleam of her skin, to clutch at her pert breasts, to tease open her lips and sink two fingers into her sodden cunt so deep she cried out like an anguished animal in the dark.

Now as she stands before him, her back pressed hard into the office wall, her aroused nipples spot lit in the afternoon sun in a way that leaves him craving to take each into his mouth and kiss and lick and suckle until she finds herself prematurely on pleasure’s edge, he wants and needs everything, every single desire rushing through his mind, plucking at his ravenous body, he wants and needs everything and nothing more than to slide himself selfishly into her clutching velvet depths, to fuck her hard and fast against the cold stucco with her legs wrapped tight around his waist until she screams his name, to cover her entire naked body in kisses light and playful, forceful and bruising, to make love to her with a sensuousness that will curve her supple form into an ecstatic arc, that will leave her breathlessly shivering for more, to have her come hotly over of his naked cock, to scorch his glans with her lust, to stain the suiting as a reminder of her presence in the here and now, he wants and needs nothing more than to relinquish all control, to damn caution and consequence.

And so he does just that.

With his throbbing shaft in hand, he slowly closes the space between them, each step surrendering him to the trouble completely.

The Futility of Resistance

76_Resistance

It begins on this night.

It begins on this night with a word, with a look.

It begins with one syllable, more growled exhalation than utterance coherently spoken, released from your lips in a way that ignites the crisp air hanging low, that has me struggling to contain my desire, my need to reach out and merge this soft, slippery heat, that has my lithe form silently trembling, betraying every craving on its surface, every passion deep within, my heart pounding hard against my breast, my nipples straining at the cups of the ebony lace, yearning for your kiss to trace, to taste, to take hold and feast.

It begins with your gaze dark and molten, with the savage, rapacious carnality that penetrates this sexual soul to the core, that unveils this flesh for you and you alone, sliding off the weight of the velvet shielding my scant nakedness, compelling my hand to snake its way down the tautness of my belly, down the skin prickled and aching to the lattice of silk already sodden, to the darkening fabric and liquid lust scorching the skin of my smooth mound, this breath sharply taken as my delicate fingers ease away the threads to expose my gleam to the light, to your sight, to tease the clitoris scarlet and throbbing, sinking with a moan and a whimper into the hot, clutching depths that will soon be perfected by your thick, hard, voracious cock.

It begins with the fever, with the need in our bones, with the hunger screaming for the blood and the pulse and the skin and the heat of the other, with the crazed awareness of the futility of resistance, with the knowledge this passion will live and feed and transfigure, with the knowledge this moment will endure, will never truly end.

It begins on this night. It all begins on this night.

Filigree

75_Filigree

She meets his eye and only then begins her sultry serpentine recline; her glowing skin roused and somehow soothed by the plush velvet cord beneath, her body a delicate and supple arch slowly, deliberately sinking, laying bare her lust, playing out an enduring seduction, an attraction that has her flesh open and ready, always wanting and awakened.

Yet all the while she yearns, hungers for him to shatter this erotic measure, to take and possess her in a way that erases all lingering doubt about the certainty of his desire, to have him push her back a little roughly, his urgency rising as he tears to easy shreds the lace adorning the modesty throbbing, aching to be anything but, his mouth greedily devouring the slick of her pouting sex, his beard lightly scrapping a path up the feminine line for his lips to suckle violently on the hard, rosy nipple before entering her with a groan and fucking her with hard, deep, steady strokes that leave her breathless, trembling as each successive orgasm strikes through her like a bolt, his own release deferred until she cries she can take no more, until he unlocks his gleaming naked uncut cock from her embrace and anoints the lips of her cunt and the tautness of her belly with his searing come, the rained pattern of his seed the only filigree, the only adornment she truly craves and needs.

The Red Curtain

74_The Red CurtainAs I stand here, my desire pulsing, throbbing slick between my legs, as I stand here imagining the warmth of your dark gaze in place of the cold, hard stare of the lens, as I stand here breathlessly aching, a sheen of lust and impatience prickling my fair skin, I wonder, I wonder, I wonder if you realise what you do to me, if you know your true effect.

Do you know I want and crave and need you in more ways than words can ever dare express? Do you know how I yearn to trail my soft lips over and about you, to devour every pulsing vein, every smooth hollow and wiry curl, every inch of your glistening skin and flesh? Do you know how I long to draw the scarlet drapes and cosset our naked bodies away, to fuck you and make love to you in this secluded and timeless cocoon, far from the world we know, far from the personas we assume, to fuck you with the passionate intensity running hot and oily through these veins, to arch myself over your imposing form, to come with a scorching rush over your greedy cock, to milk the seed my velvet heat covets, to feel your body tremble and shudder as you possess me as yours, as I scream your name? Do you know how I hunger to take you, expose and bare you in the full glare of the light, the curtains drawn back, this room our stage, the prying eyes on the street, the curious gazes watching raptly, consuming our entwined bodies, the sight of the carnal beast who lurks within you impaling my sweet little cunt from behind, the pounding of flesh, your fingers digging into my hips, your shaft emerging gleaming and bright, my moans, your groans ringing out through the hush and their silence, your fist in my curls, your mouth finally seeking my kiss as you drive into my soul, into my molten depths as no man has done before this moment of bliss?

Net

72_Net_originalWith one hand around her hip and the other travelling the length of her delicate back, he eases her down, his head crooked to the left, affording his gaze the opportunity to drink in the sight of her bare breasts framed by the black shrug and the crimson peaks instantly hardened as they make contact with the cool gleam of the wood.

But just as his fingertips leave the base of her spine, brushing the crevice dividing the cheeks he aches to grasp, kiss and taste, he stops, suspends his touch and the maddeningly measured caresses, drawing back and away.

He retreats to pander completely to the voyeur inside him, to commit to memory the vision of the woman he has desired from a painful distance for an age, to watch her body’s rise and fall, to listen to her breath – short, sharp, on the verge of tortured – to listen and watch and deeply inhale the scent of her bloom, the body tamed and yearning and waiting, waiting for the moment he will part the slender thighs pressed tight and begin to finger the web of netting nestled against her smooth, dripping sex, waiting for the moment he rends that mesh without ceremony, overtaken at last by the urgency of his hunger and need to reunite their flesh, the need to bury his naked uncut glans into her cunt so deep from behind his cockhead kisses her womb, his balls fusing themselves to her plump, throbbing clitoris, so deep she will cry out, invoke the almighty, whimper his name and her pleas, so deep she will be possessed once again, reclaimed rightly as his, taken back at long last from another, taking her back to every moment, every whisper and groan, every utterance and devouring kiss, every bond, every bind, every decisive thrust and perfecting stroke, every minute they have fucked like animals in heat, every hour they sensually attended to their love in the dark, every glide of his shaft, coated with her glistening come, every clutch of her cunt, dreading the loss of his lust, every drop of his scorched rain, painting her skin, every surge of his come inside her, inside her, deep, deep inside in the place where it belongs.

Muse

71_MuseOnce his gaze falls upon her, once his touch maps the limits of her form, once his lips whisper their kisses into naked feminine warmth, she is changed, transformed.

No longer purely woman, she is more.

Muse, creation, force, she is the sigh, the moan, the roaring pulse, oil on canvas, the sensual delicacy of his brushstrokes, light and shade, the camera eye, shutter click slicing through the night, the sweetest skin, the honeyed come, voluptuous pixels aching to transcend the screen, the erotic words composed in fluorescent virtuality, the desire etched into the throb of her glistening velvet, the lustful yearning written on the body with tip of devouring tongue, with the artist’s hand, with the need of man, with the slide of thick, throbbing flesh, with the seductive scratch of the writer’s nib.

Silk and Lace

Draped in silk and lace, I wait.

This body prone, craving, vulnerably anticipating your incendiary lust, the desires whispered, growled hotly into my waiting ear, the words exhaled into the curves trembling even now for the lightness of your touch, the words murmured along the straps drawn so tight you physically ache to tear the hooks, to rend each delicate fibre, to devour every morsel of my perfumed skin and glistening flesh, your mouth lapping at my streaming cunt, your tongue raking the sweetest pleasure of my clitoris, your lips suckling

70_Silk and Lace

on each plump petal of my throbbing sex until the first orgasm screams up from my bones, until your beard is sodden with my essence, until you drink down the passion you effortlessly inspire, until these walls drip with my pleas, my moans for your hard naked cock, for you to fill me, for you to fuck me, for you to take me at long last, for you to make me your wanton lover, your woman, yours and yours alone.

Draped in silk and lace, draped in this cruel, unerring need for you, I wait.

Out of the Past

69_Out of the PastHe stalks her in the night, in the hour of the wolf, rising up out of the past to taunt her, to inflame her irrational desires, her unyielding obsession for him, her hunger for possession, for the rough kiss of masculine flesh, for the hands that will pin her to the frame with the slightest effort, for the fingers that will part the softness of her thighs, for the burnished glans that will fill her and fuck her so completely, so savagely she will cry out, curse his very name, her body releasing the flood, her cunt clutching, coming hotly over his naked cock, her juices flowing over his shaft, saturating the ebony suiting, her scarlet nails digging, drawing the blood on his back, marking his flesh with the passion, the hatred that courses even now through the woman shattering the dark silence.

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