Do you search for me by day, your gaze scanning each bustling and haunting scene, your eyes hunting for a glimpse, roaming to the rhythm of the hunger coursing in your throbbing flesh and pounding veins?

Do you wake in the dead of night, your gleaming body sculpted from our monochrome dreams, yearning to find my sensual softness by your side, longing to feel my wanton desire arching back into your heat?

In the hush
We are chained
To desires unspeakable

Tell me…
Can you think of a better way to while away the hours on a grey and blustery Sunday?

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Once upon a time, his gaze studied every inch of my fair body, as if it were a wonder born in a bygone era, a curiosity fashioned from canvas and brushstrokes and oils, worthy of the gallery wall, the hungry crowd, deserving of his centre stage.

Once upon a time, his hands roamed with passion, urgency and fervour, as if these curves were chiselled from cold and unyielding marble, this skin and flesh brought to fiery life by desire and her sculptor, softening under his touch, melting on his lips and tongue, reaching and begging for his own thick hard need to claim them.

Once upon a time, he yearned to feel, devour, remember, the woman beyond this creation, the being beyond mere pixels on the screen.

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Near or afar, you are with me always
In the arc and the sigh and the wanton desire
To know the depth of your hunger, to taste your flavour

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He is here.

At last.

Waiting in the wings, on the threshold, on the verge of the utterance of those three little words in the native tongue of his darkly compelling lust, in the accented rumble that brings me to my knees and strips me bare effortlessly, completely.

But I linger out of view, sliding softly into the light only once he parts his lips to speak, to etch into the ether his arrival, to transform the biting chill of the autumnal breeze with the warmth of his breath, with his musk and his cologne, with the sensual and carnal promises that live in his touch and his kiss, in the hard and ravenous heat between his legs, in the primal need that screams on his skin, in the yearning that tempts me back to him, that arches my back, melts my sweet cunt, marks my body with his possession, his homecoming.

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He reads and fingers me
like a (filthy little)
book.

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Bind my sight
Plunge me into darkness
Mark me with your sin

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It 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…