Transitional Fossil

" The question isn't "who is going to let me"; it's "who is going to stop me".
Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

Sunday, August 07, 2005

To My Lover

In the blue morning
Sliding the sheet from me
Whish and woosh enter the air

Your warm tongue meets my nipples
Tracing them, slowly
My teeth find the nape of your neck with tiny noshing.

Two thin fingers stalk my sleeping penis
Coyly he smirks at you.
Persuasion to awaken is your motivation
You talk it over with him
Negotiating with wordless coaxing
Up and down the argument grows
And you draw out my lust from within

A hand drapes non-chalantly between your thighs.
Fingers dancing slowly over your returning hair.
Gently and gingerly they waltz over your moist silken folds.
First one, then two, never forgettting to ring the entrance bell.

Our rhythm matching your moans
My cock returns to your mouth to be drawn deeper.
And deeper
My hand glistens, taking off on a drum solo on your clit.
Your back arches and I feel a rising tide in my thighs.

Eyes shut tight, breasts climbing
Sweat pouring, breath rushing-rushing
Hot air gathering in the dark room ready to receive release

And in the building cauldron of expectaction
Orgasms erupts, watering our thirsting plants of lust
I can't remember the moments before or after
Our trip to Ecstasy

Yet this is my mental postcard
With the hope of eventual return.
To dip my hand again in your delicious waters.

Until tonight...

1 Comments:

  • At 6:03 AM, September 07, 2005 , Blogger 1 said...

    Baby,

    You say the sexiest things. *blush*.

    Until tonight (if even possible to wait that long)....I'll bring the fingerpaint and Ella.

     

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