Kneading Me Most

My favorite part
is the kissing
he said,
his strong, small
hands burrowing deep
into my flesh,
kneading me most.

Nodding my downy peach fuzz
against the hard mounds
of his breasts, I agreed.

My mouth slack, cracked open
smiling at the memory
of his thin, tight lips
gone plump
while his tongue like a bat,
juked and dove
on the hot air of my breath,
homing into the vast,
dark cave,
its home.