OxonWoods Man

Tag: romance

  • Ode to Fingering

    O delicate dance of fingers on skin,
    A journey begins where her breath grows thin.
    Soft folds invite with a trembling plea,
    A touch to unlock what yearns to be free.

    The rhythm unfolds, a pulse to explore,
    Each curve and each crest a map to adore.
    Her warmth is a guide, her sighs a sweet song,
    A cadence of pleasure that carries along.

    Slow circles trace where her secrets reside,
    A tender invasion, no need to hide.
    Her hips rise to meet the gentle caress,
    A silent confession of pure excess.

    The slickness grows with each careful glide,
    A river awakened by passion’s tide.
    Fingers become both artist and muse,
    Painting her bliss in the hues she’ll choose.

    A deeper plunge where her core ignites,
    Her gasps are stars in the velvet night.
    The walls clench tight, a welcoming grip,
    A sacred bond in each fingertip.

    The pace quickens as her voice ascends,
    A symphony builds where control bends.
    Her thighs a frame, her center the stage,
    A story of longing on every page.

    Two fingers curl to a hidden delight,
    A spot that sparks with a shivering bite.
    Her moan is a hymn, both wild and devout,
    A secret revealed that she can’t live without.

    The tempo shifts, now soft, now bold,
    A tale of desire in each fold told.
    Her body speaks what words cannot say,
    A language of touch in sweet disarray.

    Her breath catches sharp, the edge draws near,
    Fingers persist through trembling fear.
    A crest approaches, a wave to ride,
    Her pleasure blooms where the soul resides.

    The climax breaks, a shuddering flood,
    A pulse of release in her racing blood.
    Fingers stay steady, they cradle her fall,
    A tender anchor through ecstasy’s call.

    As waves subside, a glow remains,
    Her softness hums through sated veins.
    The touch slows gentle, a soothing art,
    A bridge from rapture back to her heart.

    O sacred act, this gift bestowed,
    Fingering her where passion flowed.
    A woman’s bliss, a moment divine,
    Forever etched in touch’s design.

  • Sam’s Bliss being Tasted

    I’ve always found something deeply satisfying in the way Richard gives himself to me, especially when it comes to the intimacy of oral. It’s not just the act itself, though that’s undeniably exquisite, but the way he pours himself into it, making me feel like the center of his universe. For me, Samantha, Sam to those who know me best, those moments with Richard are a blend of vulnerability and power, a dance where I let go and he takes me somewhere extraordinary.

    It starts quietly, almost imperceptibly. A look passes between us, or his hand brushes mine, and the air shifts. I can feel the anticipation building, a slow burn that ignites something in me. Richard never rushes; he savors the buildup, and I love that about him. His fingers trace my skin, my hip, my thigh, and I feel the tension coiling inside me. It’s not just about what’s coming; it’s about knowing he’s fully present, that he’s already lost in the idea of pleasing me.

    When he kneels before me, there’s this moment of reverence that takes my breath away. I’m laid bare, not just physically but emotionally, and yet I feel safe. Richard knows me, my body, my reactions, like a map he’s memorized but still explores with wonder. The warmth of his breath against me sends a shiver up my spine, and I can’t help but react, a slight arch, a soft sigh. He starts slow, teasing, and I feel the world narrow to just us. The texture of his lips, the deliberate way he moves, it’s intoxicating, and I’m caught between wanting to savor it and needing more.

    There’s a thrill in how he takes control, not over me but for me. I trust him completely, and that trust lets me surrender in a way I rarely do elsewhere. He plays with rhythm and pressure, reading me like a book. A slow sweep of his tongue pulls a moan from deep within me, and a sudden flick makes me gasp. I can tell he loves my responses, every sound I make seems to spur him on, like I’m giving him cues in a language only we understand. My hands find his hair, gripping or guiding, and I feel this electric connection, a loop of desire that flows between us.

    The physical sensation of oral is overwhelming, his mouth warm and soft against me, the way my body tenses and releases under his touch. But it’s more than that. It’s the way he makes me feel seen, cherished, like my pleasure is his mission. I can hear my own breath quicken, feel my pulse racing, and there’s this rush knowing he’s the one driving it. When he finds that perfect rhythm, I lose myself, my voice rising, my body trembling. It’s almost too much, and yet I crave it, letting him push me toward that edge.

    When I finally tip over, it’s like a wave crashing through me. My release is raw, unguarded, and I can feel Richard’s pride in it, his arousal mingling with mine. He doesn’t pull away; he stays with me, drawing out every last shudder, and I feel this profound connection in the aftermath. It’s not just my pleasure, it’s ours, something we’ve built together. As I catch my breath, his head resting against me, I can feel the echoes of it still rippling through me, and I’m struck by how much he gives me in those moments.

    Lying there, I look at him, and his quiet smile says everything. Oral isn’t just a physical act with Richard; it’s a gift, a way he shows me I matter. I feel it in the way his eyes soften, in the gentle touch that follows. I know some might not get it, might see it as one-sided or utilitarian, but for me, it’s a privilege to receive from someone who finds such joy in giving. Every time, I feel closer to him, more attuned to the way he reads me, anticipates me.

    The pleasure I take from Richard’s oral is layered, there’s the raw sensation, yes, but also the intimacy, the trust, the way he makes me feel powerful even as I let go. It’s in the buildup, the release, and the quiet afterglow when I’m still catching my breath and he’s still there, grounded in what we’ve shared. For me, Sam, it’s a celebration of us, of my body, his devotion, and the unspoken bond that grows stronger each time. I give him my trust, my reactions, and in return, he gives me a piece of himself, reflected back in every tender moment we share.

    Read more of my story with Richard at farnhollow.com, it starts slow but he soon awakens my desires, and is starting to meet them,

  • Ode to Missionary

    Timeless Union

    In missionary’s warm and classic frame,
    Her body rests, his above the same.
    She feels his weight, a comforting press,
    His breath on her neck, a soft caress.
    Each thrust a ripple through her core,
    A steady rhythm she can’t ignore.
    Her hands trace his spine, his warmth her guide,
    In this embrace, where love resides.
    The closeness fuels her rising heat,
    A tender dance where two hearts meet.

    Legs Entwined

    Her legs wrap tight around his hips,
    A shift that deepens as she grips.
    She feels him fuller, a thrilling stretch,
    Each motion sharp, each breath a catch.
    Her pelvis tilts, a perfect fit,
    Sensations spark where nerves are lit.
    Her fingers clutch, her sighs take flight,
    In this variation, pure delight.

    Shoulders Bearing Ankles

    Her ankles rest upon his shoulders high,
    A bold exposure beneath his eye.
    She feels the plunge, so deep, so grand,
    A forceful wave from his command.
    Her body bends, her limits test,
    Each thrust a surge within her chest.
    The stretch ignites a primal hum,
    Her gasps escape, her senses numb.
    Vulnerable yet strong she lies,
    In this position, passion flies.

    Elevated Arch

    A pillow lifts her hips just so,
    An angle new, a downward flow.
    She feels his stroke ignite her flame,
    A pressure sweet, a whispered name.
    Her sweetest spot now takes the lead,
    Each thrust fulfills a growing need.
    Her moans crescendo, soft then loud,
    In this adjustment, she’s unbound.
    The lift refines their shared ballet,
    Her pleasure blooms in bright array.

    Winged Spread

    Her legs flare wide like wings in bloom,
    He holds them firm, fills all the room.
    She feels the entry, slow and deep,
    A tender pulse she longs to keep.
    The openness, a daring gift,
    Her power grows with every lift.
    Her hands may reach or simply rest,
    In this wide stance, she feels her best.
    The rhythm sways, her heart takes wing,
    A butterfly in passion’s spring.

    Friction Dance

    Aligned with care, their bodies sync,
    His pelvis high, her edge to brink.
    She feels the grind, a teasing rub,
    Her clit alive, a pulsing hub.
    Each thrust a spark, a growing fire,
    Her breath turns sharp with pure desire.
    Her legs entwine, pull him near,
    In this sweet friction, bliss is clear.
    The buildup hums, a steady climb,
    Ecstasy shared in perfect time.

    Sideward Clasp

    They shift to sides, yet face to face,
    A missionary twist with grace.
    Her leg hooks over, soft and sure,
    She feels him glide, both calm and pure.
    The thrusts are gentle, deep, and slow,
    A soothing tide, a loving glow.
    Her hand caresses, chest or jaw,
    In closeness, passion’s quiet law.
    The intimacy wraps them tight,
    Sensations bloom in softest light.

    Inner Reach

    He angles sharp, seeks depths unseen,
    Her core alight, a hidden sheen.
    She feels him tap a secret place,
    A jolt of joy across her face.
    Each thrust a call, a rich reply,
    Her body sings, her spirit high.
    The fullness grows, a trembling thrill,
    Her voice escapes, she can’t keep still.
    The depth consumes, her senses reel,
    In this pursuit, all pleasures heal.

    Knees Held Close

    Her knees draw up, pressed to her chest,
    A tightened space, a lover’s quest.
    She feels the grip, the depth increase,
    Each move a burst, a sweet release.
    Her breath grows short, her pulse races,
    Pleasure builds in hidden spaces.
    Her hands may cling or sheets entwine,
    In this tight fold, she’s all divine.
    The angle sharpens every beat,
    A climax fierce, a victory sweet.

    Lingering Tease

    In missionary’s base, he slows his art,
    A teasing pace to stir her heart.
    She feels each glide, deliberate, fine,
    A tension coiled, a drawn-out line.
    Her body begs, her whispers plead,
    Yet he delays, plants passion’s seed.
    The wait ignites a desperate ache,
    Her senses bloom with each intake.
    When release comes, it shatters through,
    A flood of bliss, both old and new.
    In this slow tease, her world expands,
    A testament to loving hands.

  • Seen in Black and Green

    At 5:03 a.m., the world is still cloaked in the quiet of predawn, and she wakes with a rare, buoyant energy humming through her. It’s not the usual groggy stumble toward coffee that marks her weekdays, but something lighter, a flicker of self-assurance that pulls her from bed. The house is silent save for the soft, rhythmic snores of her husband, still lost in sleep. She doesn’t mind; this moment is hers alone. Padding across the room, she slides open her dresser drawer, fingers grazing over neatly folded sets of underwear. Her hand pauses on a particular one, black with lime green accents, a bra, knickers, hold-up stockings. a bold, playful combination, and as she lifts it out, she feels a quiet thrill. The lime green, vibrant and fresh, mirrors the season outside her window, where spring is just beginning to tease the earth with its first shoots of growth. It’s a color that speaks of renewal, and in her hands, it feels like a secret she’s about to claim.

    She slips the set on, the fabric cool against her skin, and stands before the mirror. The contrast is striking. During the week, she’s the woman in overalls, managing a small team of engineers with a steady hand and a sharp mind. Her days are filled with problem-solving, grease-streaked blueprints, and the hum of machinery, a world where her competence, not her curves, defines her. But here, in the dim glow of her bedroom, the lingerie hugs her body, accentuating every line and dip. It’s not a rejection of the woman in overalls, but a different lens on her, a softer, sensual one that she rarely allows herself to linger in. She feels feminine, desirable, and powerfully herself, as if this quiet act of dressing up stitches together parts of her identity she keeps compartmentalized.

    Her phone sits on the dresser, she sets it to timer mode. She experiments with poses, head tilted, hip cocked, a half-smile playing on her lips, until the shutter clicks on something that feels right. The images capture her in a way she doesn’t often see, not the manager, not the wife, but a woman reveling in her own skin. She uploads a few to X, the platform where she’s carved out a small, anonymous corner for herself. The replies roll in quickly, a mixed bag she’s come to expect. Some are short and crude, with no effort, “Bang it,” “Sxy,” and she skims past them with a smirk. A few come from men she admires, accounts whose wit or insight she’s followed for months, and their blunt appreciation makes her grin widen. But then there are the others, the creepy ones that linger too long on details, and those she skips entirely, a faint unease prickling her spine.

    It’s the longer replies that draw her in. A man writes about the elegance of her pose, the way the green pops against the black, and she feels a warmth bloom in her chest. Another, from a woman, praises her confidence, the way she owns the frame, and it lands differently, less about desire, more about recognition. These words, from strangers who see only this sliver of her, amplify the feeling she’d chased when she chose the set from her drawer. They make her feel more feminine, more complete, as if their gaze validates something she’s only half-articulated to herself. She sips these compliments like a fine wine, letting them linger on her tongue, surprised by how much they matter.

    The clock catches her eye, 6:45 a.m. and reality nudges her back. She slips out of the lingerie, folding it carefully before tucking it away, and pulls her nightie back on. Climbing into bed, she listens to her husband’s snores, steady and familiar. He hasn’t stirred, oblivious to her private ritual, and she’s glad for it. This wasn’t about him, not directly, though it circles back to him in a way she’s only now piecing together. She’s not seeking sex with another man, not chasing some illicit thrill. The online attention, the act of dressing up, the photos, it’s a spark she’s kindling for herself, a way to feel alive and seen in a skin that spends most days hidden beneath practicality. And yet, as she nestles against her husband’s warmth, she knows it’s more than that. This quiet rebellion, this reclaiming of her sensuality, doesn’t pull her away from him. It draws her closer.

    She thinks about the nights that follow these mornings, how she’ll turn to him with a renewed hunger, how the confidence she’s tasted here will spill into their sheets. It’s not infidelity, not even close. It’s fuel. The men and women on X don’t know her, don’t own her, but their words stoke a fire she brings home. She smiles into the dark, amused by the paradox, a handful of strangers, a lime green bra, and an early morning whim making her a better lover. The thought settles as she closes her eyes, the snores beside her lulling her back to sleep, content in the knowledge that she’s more than any one lens can capture.

  • Emma – 04 – Dawn and Deer

    Dawn in the Woods: Deer and Desire

    The first light of dawn crept through the canopy of the Oxfordshire woods, casting a soft, golden glow over the forest floor. Emma and Richard had spent the night in the woods after their bat survey, their bodies tangled together on a blanket under the stars, the warm August air lulling them into a light, dream-filled snooze. They’d woken intermittently, their hands roaming each other’s bodies, but exhaustion from their late-night activities had kept them from doing more than sharing soft kisses and whispered words. Now, as the sky began to lighten, the air was cool and fresh, carrying the scent of dew-kissed leaves and the faint musk of the earth.

    Emma stirred first, her body still bare beneath the blanket, her skin warm from Richard’s proximity. She sat up, the blanket slipping down to reveal her breasts, her nipples hardening in the cool morning air. Richard stirred beside her, his brown eyes blinking open, a slow smile spreading across his face as he took in the sight of her in the dawn light. “Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, and Emma leaned down to kiss him, her lips soft against his, the taste of him familiar and intoxicating.

    “Morning,” she whispered back, her hand sliding down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin. “We should go look for those deer. They’re often seen at dawn in that clearing we talked about.”

    Richard nodded, his hand brushing her hair back from her face, his touch tender but laced with the same desire that had been simmering between them all night. They dressed quickly, pulling on their clothes from the previous evening, Emma in her thin blouse, skirt, and panties, Richard in his shirt and trousers, but they left their jackets and shoes behind, the grass soft and warm beneath their bare feet. They grabbed their cameras, small digital devices they’d brought for the conservation project, and set off through the woods, the dawn light guiding their way.

    The clearing was a short walk away, a wide, open space surrounded by dense trees and underbrush, known to be a regular haunt for a herd of Roe deer. The air was still, the only sounds the soft rustle of leaves and the distant call of a wood pigeon, the forest waking slowly around them. Emma and Richard moved quietly, their steps careful to avoid snapping twigs, their eyes scanning the clearing as they approached. They crouched behind a cluster of ferns at the edge of the clearing, the fronds providing a natural screen, and waited, their cameras at the ready.

    The dawn light painted the clearing in shades of gold and pink, the grass shimmering with dew, the air alive with the hum of insects beginning their day. Emma’s heart raced, not just from the anticipation of seeing the deer, but from the proximity of Richard, his body pressed close to hers, his breath warm against her neck. She could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of his skin mingling with the earthy aroma of the woods, and her body responded, her pussy growing wet with a familiar ache.

    Richard’s hand found hers, his fingers intertwining with hers as they waited, but the tension between them was too much to ignore. He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, and whispered, “I can’t stop thinking about you.” His voice was a low growl, sending a shiver down her spine, and Emma turned to him, her lips finding his in a hungry kiss.

    The kiss deepened quickly, their tongues tangling as their hands roamed, the cameras forgotten in their laps. Emma’s hands slid under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin, while Richard’s fingers deftly unbuttoned her blouse, pushing it off her shoulders to bare her breasts to the cool morning air. She moaned softly into his mouth, her nipples hardening as his thumbs brushed over them, the sensation sending a jolt of heat straight to her pussy.

    They moved quickly, their need too urgent to wait, the dawn light casting long shadows around them. Emma stood, pulling her skirt up around her waist and slipping her panties off, the fabric damp with her arousal. Richard shed his trousers and shirt, his cock springing free, thick and hard, the foreskin partially retracted to reveal the glistening tip. He stepped behind her, his hands gripping her hips as she bent forward, bracing her hands against a nearby tree, her ass lifted in invitation.

    Richard entered her from behind, his cock sliding into her pussy with a slow, deliberate thrust, the angle perfect for filling her completely. Emma moaned, her voice soft but echoing in the quiet woods, the sensation of him stretching her exquisite in the early morning light. He began to move, his thrusts deep and steady, his hands gripping her hips as he fucked her standing doggy style, the tree bark rough against her palms. The warmth of the August morning wrapped around them, the air heavy with the scent of their arousal, and Emma felt a primal thrill at the thought of being so exposed, the clearing their only shield from the world beyond.

    She was close to coming, her pussy clenching around him, the pleasure building in waves, when a movement at the edge of the clearing caught her eye. A Roe deer stepped into view, its slender legs moving gracefully, its coat a rich reddish-brown that glowed in the dawn light. Emma’s breath caught, her body tensing, and she pulled away from Richard, her pussy feeling empty without him as she grabbed her camera, her voice a frantic whisper. “Richard, look a deer!”

    Richard groaned softly, his cock throbbing with need, but he followed her lead, grabbing his camera as they moved closer to the ferns, their naked bodies crouching low to avoid startling the deer. More deer emerged from the trees, a herd of eleven Roe deer of different ages, adults, yearlings, and fawns, grazing and moving through the clearing with a quiet grace that took Emma’s breath away. They clicked their cameras, capturing the moment, their nakedness forgotten in the wonder of the scene before them.

    The herd consisted of three adult does, their coats sleek and glossy, their movements calm and deliberate as they nibbled at the grass, their large, dark eyes scanning the clearing for any sign of danger. Two adult bucks followed, their antlers small but elegant, covered in velvet, a sign of the late summer season. The bucks moved with a quiet confidence, occasionally lifting their heads to sniff the air, their ears twitching at the faintest sound. Four yearlings, their coats a slightly lighter shade, stayed close to the does, their movements more playful, darting between the adults as they explored the clearing. Two fawns, born earlier in the summer, trailed behind, their spotted coats blending with the dappled light, their steps tentative but curious, their small ears flicking as they took in the world around them.

    Emma watched in awe, her camera clicking softly as she captured the herd’s behavior, her heart swelling with wonder at the sight. The does grazed methodically, their teeth tearing at the grass with a soft, rhythmic sound, their tails flicking occasionally to ward off flies. The bucks were more alert, one of them pausing to rub his antlers against a small sapling, marking his territory with a faint scraping sound that echoed in the still air. The yearlings bounded playfully, chasing each other in short bursts, their hooves barely making a sound on the soft grass, their energy a stark contrast to the calm of the adults. The fawns stayed close to their mothers, nibbling at the grass but often pausing to look around, their large eyes wide with curiosity, their small bodies trembling with the excitement of the new day.

    Richard’s hand found hers again, his fingers squeezing gently as they shared the moment, their naked bodies pressed close in the ferns, the warmth of the dawn light bathing them in a golden glow. “They’re incredible,” he whispered, his voice filled with awe, and Emma nodded, her eyes never leaving the deer, her camera clicking as she captured a fawn taking a tentative step away from its mother, its small nose twitching as it sniffed the air.

    For an hour, they watched the herd, their cameras documenting every movement, their wonder growing with each passing minute. The deer moved through the clearing with a quiet grace, their behavior a perfect blend of caution and curiosity, their presence a reminder of the wild beauty of the world around them. The bucks occasionally let out soft grunts, communicating with the does, while the yearlings continued their playful antics, one of them leaping over a small patch of wildflowers, its hooves kicking up tiny droplets of dew that sparkled in the light. The fawns grew bolder, venturing a few steps away from their mothers, their spotted coats glowing in the dawn, their small tails flicking with excitement.

    As the sun rose higher, the deer began to move off, their forms disappearing into the trees on the far side of the clearing, their departure as graceful as their arrival. Emma lowered her camera, her heart still racing with the thrill of the sighting, and turned to Richard, her eyes bright with excitement. “That was amazing,” she said, her voice soft but filled with emotion, and he nodded, his own camera lowering as he smiled at her, his expression mirroring her wonder.

    But as their eyes met, the tension between them flared back to life, the memory of their interrupted passion rushing back. Emma’s gaze dropped to his cock, still hard and jutting out from his body, the sight of it making her pussy clench with need. “You’re still hard,” she murmured, her voice a sultry whisper, and Richard chuckled, his hands reaching for her as he pulled her close.

    “I can’t help it,” he growled, his lips brushing hers. “You do this to me.”

    They moved back into the trees, the ferns providing a natural screen as they returned to their blanket, their naked bodies warm in the dawn light. Emma bent forward again, bracing her hands against the same tree, her ass lifted in invitation, and Richard stepped behind her, his hands gripping her hips as he entered her, his cock sliding into her pussy with a slow, deliberate thrust. The sensation was exquisite, her pussy still slick from their earlier encounter, and they both moaned, their voices soft but echoing in the quiet woods.

    Richard resumed his rhythm, his thrusts deep and steady, his hands gripping her hips as he fucked her standing doggy style, the tree bark rough against her palms. The warmth of the August morning wrapped around them, the air heavy with the scent of their arousal, the memory of the deer adding a primal edge to their passion. Emma came quickly, her pussy clenching around him, her cries muffled against her arm as waves of pleasure crashed through her, intensified by the beauty of the morning. Richard followed soon after, his hands tightening on her hips as he thrust deep, his hot cum filling her pussy as he groaned her name, the sound mingling with the soft rustle of leaves around them.

    They collapsed together on the blanket, their bodies slick with sweat, their breaths mingling in the warm dawn air, the scent of the woods and their arousal heavy around them. Emma lay in Richard’s arms, her head resting on his chest, the memory of the deer and their shared passion filling her with a deep satisfaction. The sun continued to rise, the golden light filtering through the trees, and Emma knew this moment, like the others they’d shared, would stay with her forever, a testament to the wild beauty of both nature and their desire.

    Emma – 05 – Work of Desire

  • The Digital Frame

    I post my form in stark relief,
    A line of muscle, shadowed chest,
    The screen ignites a bold belief,
    A sensual self, both raw, expressed.
    Not Safe For Work, this daring show,
    A flex, a curve, a quiet roar,
    It stirs my pulse, it bids me grow,
    And cracks the shell I wore before.

    The crude rush in, their barbs fly fast,
    A grunt, a jeer, a shallow cut,
    But through their din, I hear at last,
    The voices rising from the rut.
    A man might say, “Your strength is art,”
    A woman, “Confidence in view,”
    These words pierce deep into my heart,
    And light a spark I never knew.

    The lens I wield, it frames me whole,
    Not flaws to hide, but truth to claim,
    Each shot I share, it frees my soul,
    Unshackles doubt, rewrites my name.
    My body, broad, or lean, or mine,
    Becomes a tale I dare to tell,
    No more a cage, but redefined,
    A sensual hymn where I can dwell.

    Replies cascade, a jagged stream,
    Some rough, some lewd, a fleeting bite,
    Yet others pause, their words redeem,
    A lift, a glow, a guiding light.
    “Your poise is power,” one declares,
    “Your form’s a fire, bold and true,”
    These threads weave through the digital airs,
    And wake the sensual me anew.

    It’s not for sex, this open stand,
    Not casual thrills, nor cheap desire,
    But something vast, a firmer land,
    A mirror held to my own fire.
    The scars I bear, the weight I lift,
    The cock I show, the skin I’ve grown,
    Each frame becomes a sacred gift,
    A pride in self I’ve never known.

    A man chimes in, “I feel that strength,”
    His echo builds a brother’s bond,
    A woman writes, “Your truth at length,”
    And suddenly, I’m far beyond.
    The crude may snarl, their noise may clash,
    But these replies, so warm, so wise,
    They cloak me in a tender sash,
    And lift my sensual spirit’s rise.

    I scroll my posts, a living thread,
    A gallery of me, unbowed,
    Each image fuels the life I’ve led,
    Each like a cheer, both soft and loud.
    No longer do I duck or shrink,
    The flesh I own, I now embrace,
    This platform, raw yet laced with ink,
    Uplifts me to a higher place.

    The screen’s my stage, a boundless span,
    Where I stand tall, where I am free,
    The chains of shame dissolve, unman,
    Replaced by eyes that truly see.
    “Your courage shines,” they say, and mean,
    “Your body’s bold, a work of grace,”
    This sensuality, once unseen,
    Now claims its rightful, steady space.

    It’s not the chase, the fleeting fuck,
    Of skin on skin, a passing dare,
    But how I mend my own ill luck,
    And find a self worth laying bare.
    The crude may bark, their words may fade,
    But others rise with gentle care,
    And in their light, I’m newly made,
    A man sensual, strong, and rare.

    Ten verses weave my tale to close,
    Of X’s wild, untamed domain,
    Where NSFW can shift repose,
    From doubt to sensual refrain.
    The few may scoff, the many muse,
    Their words a balm, a soft ignite,
    Through this, I’ve learned I can’t refuse,
    My body’s worth, my soul’s delight.

  • To Be Adored

    The room was dimly lit, shadows swaying languidly across the walls, cast by the trembling flame of a single candle perched on a weathered wooden table. The air hung thick, almost oppressive, saturated with a tension that seemed to hum in her ears, as if the space itself knew what was about to unfold. She paused at the threshold, one hand resting lightly against the doorframe, her breath catching in her chest like a trapped bird. The weight of the moment draped over her shoulders, heavy and warm like a velvet shroud, pulling her into its embrace. Her pulse quickened, a staccato rhythm against her ribs, as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. And then she saw him.

    He stood across the room, his silhouette cutting a sharp line against the soft, amber glow, a figure carved from shadow and desire. But it was his eyes that seized her, pinning her where she stood. They roamed over her, slow and deliberate, a gaze so piercing it stripped away every layer of fabric before she’d even taken a step. It wasn’t subtle, it was raw, primal, an animalistic hunger so blatant it sent a shiver racing down her spine, prickling her skin with gooseflesh. His jaw tightened, a muscle flickering beneath the stubble, and his lips parted slightly, as if he could already taste the salt of her skin. In the lines of his face, she could read every wicked intention he harbored for that night, promises of touch, of heat, of a collision that would leave them both undone. Two souls, caught in a meeting so fierce and unyielding that the outside world dissolved into nothingness, no streets beyond the walls, no stars above, no sound but the thrum of their shared gravity. It was as if the universe itself whispered through the silence, “I don’t have to sell my soul, he’s already in me,” the words of The Stone Roses threading through her mind like a dark, velvet ribbon.

    Her body reacted before her thoughts could catch up, a traitor to her composure. A warm ache bloomed deep between her thighs, a slick heat that pulsed in time with her racing heart, spreading outward like wildfire. Her breasts felt heavy, straining against the confines of her dress, the fabric brushing against her skin until her nipples tightened into aching points, as if they knew what was coming, as if they were already reaching for him. It was that sensation the charged stillness just before lightning tears the sky apart, when the air crackles and the hair on her neck rises in anticipation. She felt it building, that prickly, atmospheric energy coiling tighter with every second, wrapping around her like a lover’s breath. Her fingers trembled slightly as she smoothed them over the curve of her hip, grounding herself in the texture of the fabric, the last barrier between her and what lay ahead.

    She took a step forward, her movements slow, deliberate, each one a quiet declaration of intent. The wooden floor creaked beneath her bare feet, a sound swallowed by the thick silence. Her fingers found the hem of her dress, the soft cotton cool against her heated skin, and she began to lift it, inch by tantalizing inch. The rustle of fabric was deafening in the stillness, a whisper that seemed to echo off the walls, and his eyes tracked every motion, drinking her in with a greed that made her pulse stutter. She let the dress slide over her hips, past the dip of her waist, revealing the lace beneath, a delicate black web that clung to her like a second skin. Each discarded piece, first the dress pooling at her feet, then the lace slipping down her thighs, stoked the fire in him. His chest rose and fell faster, his hands flexing at his sides, knuckles whitening as if it took every shred of his will to stay rooted where he stood. She could smell it now, that animal scent rising between them, musk and heat and desire so thick it coated the back of her throat, a primal perfume that promised everything. It was the smell of sex, of what was about to happen, and it sent her head spinning, her senses drowning in its potency.

    She stood bare now, nothing left to shed, her skin kissed by the faint warmth of the candlelight. The cool air brushed against her, raising the fine hairs on her arms, but it was his gaze that made her shiver. He moved then, sudden, decisive, a predator closing in. He crossed the room in three strides but stopped just short, mere inches from her, his breath ragged and uneven as he took her in. His eyes swept over her, lingering on the curve of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, the shadow between her thighs, as if she were a masterpiece unveiled for the first time. She saw it in his expression, a reverence, a hunger, an adoration so fierce it stole the air from her lungs and set her heart pounding against her ribs. He reached out, his fingers hovering an inch from her skin, trembling slightly as if he needed a moment to memorize her, to let the sight of her sink deep into his bones. She’d never been so seen, so worshipped, like a rare and priceless treasure laid bare before him, something he couldn’t believe he’d been granted the privilege to behold. “I wanna be adored,” she thought, the lyrics of The Stone Roses swelling in her chest like a hymn, and there it was etched into every line of his face, that exact devotion she’d yearned for, a mirror to the song’s aching plea.

    “Do you know what you do to me?” he murmured, his voice rough, almost fractured, as if the words had clawed their way out of him. His hand finally brushed her skin, a featherlight touch along her arm that sent a jolt through her, igniting every nerve. And there it was, the look she’d craved, the one that declared she was everything, that she was adored. It washed over her in waves, intoxicating, a high so pure and heady she could have lived in it forever. Confidence surged within her, a quiet courage she hadn’t known she possessed, rising like a tide to meet the moment. She stepped closer, closing that final gap, her bare skin pressing against the rough fabric of his shirt, the heat of him seeping into her. Their bodies collided, a spark catching flame, and she tilted her head, her breath grazing his neck as his hands found her waist, pulling her tighter against him.

    The world beyond the room ceased to exist, no time, no space, just the two of them locked in this orbit. His fingers traced the curve of her spine, mapping her like a cartographer charting sacred ground, while her lips brushed the hollow beneath his ear, drawing a low, guttural sound from him that vibrated through her. Their scents mingled in the air his sharp and earthy, hers soft and sweet blending into something new, something that belonged only to this moment. She could feel the tension in him, the barely restrained need, and it mirrored her own, a wildfire roaring beneath her skin. And in that instant, she understood: if you could bottle this feeling, this perfect, primal union where “I wanna be adored” wasn’t just a song but a truth carved into her very being, you’d never want for anything else. It was a sensation so profound, so complete, that it should be a birthright, a gift every soul deserved to claim at least once in their lifetime.

    The candle flickered, casting their entwined shadows against the wall, and she let herself sink deeper into him, into the certainty of what they’d become. This was more than desire, it was a reckoning, a moment that would linger in her blood, bold and unshaken, for the rest of her days. She’d found it, that intoxicating adoration she’d dreamed of, and as his lips finally found hers, she knew she’d carry it with her always, a fire that would never fade.

  • Her Light on X

    On X’s wild stage, he found her light,
    A spark of her, both bold and shy,
    Her words, her frames, they stole his sight,
    A sensual soul beneath the sky.
    She doubts her form, her face, her grace,
    Yet through her posts, he sees her truth,
    Each line she shares, each tender trace,
    Reveals a beauty born of truth.

    That image haunts, black bra, black lace,
    She leans to view, a gift unfurled,
    The cups pulled low, her breasts embrace,
    Fantastic curves that shift his world.
    She calls them flawed, unsure, unwell,
    But he deems them perfection’s art,
    A vision where his heart would dwell,
    A marvel carved by life’s own heart.

    Her thighs, they call, a silken plea,
    Inviting fingers to explore,
    Their fullness stirs a need in he,
    A touch he’s dreamed of, and much more.
    Her knickers hug her mound so tight,
    A tease of secrets held within,
    He ponders joys in that delight,
    What pleasures bloom beneath her skin.

    Her face, she claims, feels out of place,
    Awkwardness she’s learned to scorn,
    Yet X has shown, in every space,
    A chorus lifts where doubt was born.
    “They say her eyes are stars,” he hears,
    “Her smile’s a dawn,” they softly sing,
    He nods, her features banish fears,
    An art, a queen, a sacred thing.

    He’d start with her, so slow, so sure,
    Undressing her with reverent care,
    Her lovely neck, a path so pure,
    He’d kiss and linger, warm and bare.
    Downward then, his lips would roam,
    Past breasts that rise, past mound’s sweet swell,
    To legs he’d trace, his hands a home,
    Exploring all her form would tell.

    Outside her thighs, his fingers glide,
    A tender map of flesh and grace,
    His mouth would follow, side by side,
    Each inch a shrine, a cherished place.
    Upward then, her legs would part,
    An invitation, soft and free,
    He’d answer with his beating heart,
    To show the want she stirs in he.

    First fingers, gentle, seek her core,
    A dance of touch, a slow caress,
    Then mouth descends, to taste, adore,
    Her warmth, her wet, a sweet excess.
    His tongue would weave, his lips would play,
    Each sigh she gives, his guiding star,
    He’d worship her in every way,
    To prove how perfect that they are.

    Their bodies then would slowly meld,
    His cock would glide, a tender fit,
    In her, his love, his soul compelled,
    A fire where their passions lit.
    They’d move as one, a rhythm sweet,
    Her thighs around him, tight, alive,
    Each thrust a vow, each breath complete,
    A union where their spirits thrive.

    She doubts her shell, her mirrored gaze,
    But he sees all, her soul, her skin,
    Perfection lies in all her ways,
    A beauty fierce, a glow within.
    On X she blooms, and he’s her muse,
    Entranced by every post she shares,
    His heart, it knows it can’t refuse,
    A woman wondrous, bold, and rare.

    These verses sing his heartfelt plea,
    Of her, his dawn, his muse, his night,
    Her body, face, her sensuality,
    Are treasures bathed in purest light.
    No flaw he sees, no fault to mend,
    Just her, unveiled, a perfect sight,
    Their passion’s start, its blissful end,
    A love ignited, burning bright.

  • Ode to Positions

    Missionary

    For him, it’s the weight of her gaze, locked tight,
    A rhythm he sets with hips pressed close,
    Her warmth beneath, a cradle of light,
    Each thrust a pulse through veins verbose.
    Her legs part wide, a welcoming frame,
    He feels her breath, her whispered plea,
    Control is his, a steady claim,
    Yet tender in her arms he’d be.
    For her, it’s his strength above, a shield,
    His chest a wall, his eyes a fire,
    She pulls him in, her body yields,
    A dance of trust, a shared desire.
    Her hands explore his back, his strain,
    Each move a wave that rocks her core,
    She’s grounded here, yet free to reign,
    A union deep, an ancient lore.
    His pace can shift, from soft to bold,
    Her sighs a guide, a rising tide,
    Together they meld, a tale retold,
    In closeness where their worlds collide.

    Doggy

    He grips her hips, a primal hold,
    Her curves align, a sight to chase,
    The angle deep, the thrust so bold,
    A rush that floods his every space.
    For him, it’s power, raw and free,
    Her arch a gift, her sway a call,
    He drives with force, yet feels her glee,
    A rhythm wild that conquers all.
    For her, it’s surrender, yet control,
    Her knees dig in, her back a bow,
    Each push ignites her deepest soul,
    A spark that only he can sow.
    She feels him fill her, stretch her wide,
    A heat that builds from root to crown,
    Her hands grip sheets, her voice a tide,
    A storm where she can’t help but drown.
    He loves the view, her form displayed,
    She revels in the feral play,
    Together they’re a beast remade,
    In shadows where their passions sway.

    Cowgirl

    For her, it’s reign atop his throne,
    She rides his length, a queen in stride,
    Her hips dictate the tempo’s tone,
    A power surge she can’t subside.
    She grinds or bounces, sets the pace,
    His hands on her, a guiding touch,
    Her pleasure blooms across her face,
    A freedom he can’t love too much.
    For him, it’s her, a vision bold,
    Her breasts sway free, her eyes alight,
    He’s hers to use, to have, to hold,
    A thrill beneath her ruling might.
    He feels her clench, her warmth descend,
    Each roll a wave that pulls him in,
    She takes him deep, a rising trend,
    A dance where both can only win.
    Her breath grows sharp, her rhythm wild,
    His groans a hymn to her command,
    She leads them both, a fiery child,
    In union forged by her own hand.

    Reverse Cowgirl

    She turns away, a daring twist,
    For her, it’s freedom in reverse,
    Her hips still rule, her wrists assist,
    A grind that makes his senses burst.
    She feels him hit a hidden spot,
    A curve that sparks her inner flame,
    Her back to him, she calls each shot,
    A thrill where she’s the one to tame.
    For him, it’s her silhouette in view,
    Her spine a line, her ass a prize,
    He thrusts below, a force anew,
    A heat that climbs between his thighs.
    He loves the mystery, her sway,
    She moves with grace, a backward dance,
    His hands can grip or fall away,
    A ride that builds in sweet expanse.
    Her cries ring out, her pace her own,
    His pulse aligns, a mirrored beat,
    Together they’re a wild unknown,
    In flipped delight where passions meet.

    Spooning

    For him, it’s closeness, skin to skin,
    Her back to chest, a tender fit,
    He slides inside, a gentle win,
    A slow burn where their bodies knit.
    His arm around, he holds her near,
    Each thrust a nudge, a soft caress,
    He feels her sigh, her warmth so clear,
    A peace in love’s own quiet press.
    For her, it’s safety, wrapped in him,
    His breath on neck, a whispered song,
    She melts into his every whim,
    A place where she can just belong.
    The angle’s soft, yet deep enough,
    Her hips tilt back, a subtle plea,
    She feels his care, his steady bluff,
    A bond that flows so naturally.
    His pace is calm, her heart at ease,
    They rock as one, a gentle tide,
    In spooning’s glow, they find release,
    A warmth where souls and flesh reside.

    Standing

    He lifts her up or bends her low,
    For him, it’s strength, a bold display,
    Her body pressed, a vertical show,
    A rush that sweeps his breath away.
    The wall a brace, her legs a grip,
    He thrusts with force, a standing claim,
    Each move a jolt, a heated trip,
    A fire stoked in passion’s frame.
    For her, it’s thrill, the upright dare,
    His hands support, his power near,
    She feels the air, the wild affair,
    A surge that drowns out every fear.
    Her back may arch, her thighs may wrap,
    A dance defying gravity’s pull,
    She rides his strength, a sudden snap,
    A storm where both their senses mull.
    He loves the challenge, she the height,
    Together they defy the norm,
    In standing’s rush, they find their might,
    A clash of flesh in fervent form.

    Lotus

    For him, it’s her upon his lap,
    Legs crossed, a seat of tender grace,
    He pulls her close, a loving trap,
    Her eyes a mirror to his face.
    Each thrust is short, yet deep and true,
    Her chest to his, a heartbeat’s blend,
    He feels her pulse, her warmth anew,
    A union where their spirits mend.
    For her, it’s intimacy’s embrace,
    His thighs a throne, his arms a nest,
    She rocks with him, a sacred space,
    A closeness pressed against his chest.
    Her legs entwine, her hips align,
    A slow grind builds their shared delight,
    She feels his breath, his soul’s design,
    A bond that glows in softest light.
    His hands caress, her sighs respond,
    They sway as one, a lotus bloom,
    In stillness fierce, they forge beyond,
    A love that fills the quiet room.

    Sixty-Nine

    He lies beneath, her taste so near,
    For him, it’s dual, a mirrored treat,
    Her mouth on him, a thrill so clear,
    A cycle where their pleasures meet.
    He laps her core, her scent a guide,
    Each lick a spark, a give-and-take,
    He feels her hum, his rising tide,
    A dance where both their senses wake.
    For her, it’s his, a pulsing prize,
    She takes him deep, her tongue a play,
    His lips below, a sweet surprise,
    A rhythm shared in bold display.
    She feels his groan, his breath on her,
    A loop of bliss, a mutual hum,
    Her hips may buck, her thoughts a blur,
    A storm where both their rivers run.
    He loves the chaos, she the sync,
    Together they’re a tangled flame,
    In sixty-nine, they teeter brink,
    A game where neither stakes a claim.

    Scissor

    For him, it’s angles sharp and strange,
    Her legs a V, his hips askew,
    He slides inside, a tight exchange,
    A twist that feels both wild and new.
    The friction’s odd, yet hits just right,
    He grips her thigh, a guiding star,
    Each thrust a test of strength and sight,
    A puzzle locked from near to far.
    For her, it’s stretch, a daring pose,
    His shaft a line that cuts through deep,
    She feels the clash, the way it grows,
    A spark that makes her body leap.
    Her hips adjust, her core aligns,
    A slant that shifts her inner glow,
    She rides the edge, the strange confines,
    A heat that only he can sow.
    He loves the fit, she loves the strain,
    Together they’re a jagged dance,
    In scissor’s grip, they break the plane,
    A union born of bold expanse.

    Wheelbarrow

    He stands behind, her legs in hand,
    For him, it’s play, a lifting rush,
    Her weight a challenge he can stand,
    A thrust that makes his senses flush.
    The angle’s steep, the plunge profound,
    He feels her clench, her pulse so tight,
    Each move a game on shaky ground,
    A thrill that soars to primal height.
    For her, it’s trust, a wild ascent,
    Her hands press down, her body free,
    She feels him deep, a fierce intent,
    A ride where gravity’s the key.
    Her core ignites, her breath a cry,
    A stretch that pulls her every nerve,
    She’s held aloft, yet she can fly,
    A curve where pleasures twist and swerve.
    He loves the sport, she loves the dare,
    Together they defy the fall,
    In wheelbarrow, they strip it bare,
    A romp that answers passion’s call.

    Butterfly

    For him, it’s her upon the edge,
    A table’s lip, her hips aligned,
    He stands and thrusts, a perfect pledge,
    A depth where all his thoughts unwind.
    Her legs aloft, his hands a brace,
    He feels her open, wet and wide,
    Each stroke a claim, a steady pace,
    A rush that swells his every stride.
    For her, it’s lift, a floating state,
    Her back reclines, her thighs apart,
    She feels him plunge, a piercing fate,
    A spark that strikes her beating heart.
    Her hands may grip, her voice may rise,
    A position poised for pure release,
    She’s bared to him, a sweet surprise,
    A bloom where tensions find their peace.
    He loves the view, she loves the soar,
    Together they’re a fragile flight,
    In butterfly, they both explore,
    A dance of edges in the night.

    Pretzel Dip

    He kneels between, her leg up high,
    For him, it’s twist, a knot of flesh,
    A thrust that curves, a deep-cut sigh,
    A blend where bodies intermesh.
    Her warmth surrounds, her grip so tight,
    He feels the pull, the sideways slant,
    Each move a spark, a wild delight,
    A rhythm born of bold enchant.
    For her, it’s stretch, a daring bend,
    One leg aloft, the other down,
    She feels him deep, a piercing send,
    A thrill that makes her senses drown.
    Her hips adjust, her core responds,
    A pose that mixes soft and fierce,
    She rides the wave, the heated bonds,
    A dip where pleasure’s arrow pierce.
    He loves the tangle, she the play,
    Together they’re a twisted art,
    In pretzel’s grip, they find their way,
    A clash that binds them heart to heart.

    Legs on Shoulders

    He lifts her legs, a high ascent,
    For him, it’s depth, a plunging line,
    Her ankles rest, his shoulders bent,
    A thrust that feels both fierce and fine.
    He grips her thighs, her core exposed,
    Each stroke a dive, a forceful claim,
    He feels her quake, her heat unclosed,
    A rush that sets his soul aflame.
    For her, it’s stretch, a vulnerable arc,
    Her legs aloft, her body bare,
    She feels him hit her deepest mark,
    A spark that fills the heated air.
    Her hands may clutch, her back may bow,
    A position raw, a tender dare,
    She’s open wide, yet safe somehow,
    A tide where both their pleasures share.
    He loves the power, she the reach,
    Together they’re a soaring flight,
    In legs on high, they each beseech,
    A union burning through the night.

    Side by Side

    For him, it’s ease, a lateral glide,
    Her hip to his, a mirrored plane,
    He slips inside, a gentle ride,
    A warmth that soothes yet drives insane.
    His arm around, he pulls her near,
    Each thrust a nudge, a soft caress,
    He feels her pulse, her breath so clear,
    A calm in passion’s sweet excess.
    For her, it’s rest, a tender fit,
    His chest a wall, his hand a guide,
    She rocks with him, a quiet hit,
    A flow where both their tides abide.
    Her leg may lift, her sigh may bloom,
    A closeness wrapped in subtle play,
    She feels his care, his steady plume,
    A bond that holds the night at bay.
    He loves the sync, she loves the peace,
    Together they’re a rolling wave,
    In side by side, they find release,
    A love that neither needs to save.

    Leapfrog

    He kneels behind, her hips up high,
    For him, it’s thrust, a playful leap,
    Her form a bridge beneath the sky,
    A plunge that sinks both strong and deep.
    He grips her waist, her arch a call,
    Each stroke a bound, a wild advance,
    He feels her clench, her rise and fall,
    A romp that sparks a feral dance.
    For her, it’s lift, a frog-like pose,
    Her chest pressed down, her back a slope,
    She feels him deep, where pleasure grows,
    A rush that offers boundless scope.
    Her knees dig in, her breath a cry,
    A stretch that pulls her every string,
    She’s grounded yet she soars to fly,
    A leap where ecstasy takes wing.
    He loves the chase, she loves the height,
    Together they’re a bounding flame,
    In leapfrog’s grip, they ignite,
    A game where passion stakes its claim.