It is here I crave you most.

In this room, in these clandestine spaces on high, the cityscape framed in glass cool, clear and brazen.

It is now I need you most.

Within these four walls, the ultimate stage for our fusion, for the possession of this flesh as you press my rose-peaked breasts into our grinding reflection, your thick shaft dripping with a hunger at one with the molten heat between my thighs, and our eyes searching, searching, between each furious and animal thrust, for the veiled and desiring gazes that will feast on the vision, our unbridled exhibition.

The clock strikes eight
and the temptress in me rises
your allumeuse arched, awaiting
our sensual and carnal exploration.

~o~

Another year has somehow flown by and I’m here again marking the beginnings of Love Hate Sex Cake – a space that has granted me the freedom of erotic and emotional expression, a virtual home that has enriched my desire and creativity beyond my wildest imaginings.

While 2017 has been marked as another period of sporadic posting, I am truly thankful for my muse and the moments of inspiration that – I hope continue to – breathe life and give voice to the force of my sexuality and the intensity of my passion.

Eight years has seen many a change in the sex blogging landscape, but the one constant that never fails to leave me grateful and humbled is you – my friends and readers. It is your time, your gaze, your communion with the prose and portraiture, these sighs and syllables, the frames and tones, these shadows and illuminations, that has encouraged me to push boundaries, that has sharpened my senses, that has enriched this woman and this place.

~Minx x

Tell me…

Do you still dream about the melding of our flesh?

Do you crave the possession of my soft and yielding need by your hard and gleaming hunger?

Do you ache for a taste of the wanton desires that melt my sweet cunt, that drench the nylon and lace?

Even as I’m spent and weathered and worn, your touch makes me feel newfound, reborn.

If only I had pressed my lips together, paused to draw a breath,
to exhale this fervour as a surge, as the rush inspired by your mind and flesh,
I would be touched now by your hand, I would be caressed by something other than this regret.

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.

Baby, slide in deep and ease me
into the blushed morning.

I confess.
This is my kind of travel selfie.

I wonder if you’ll ever know the depth, the breadth, the force of my yearning for your touch at first light.