Challenge That Is Me

A lover's hands are some of the most skilled tools that a person can find.
Only the mind of a fool can mistake a message portrayed in the subtle graze
Of calloused skin, warm with love, seen through an amorous gaze.

There are those who like it rough,
For their Dominant to prove they're tough.
Push the limits, stretch the mind,
Arouse the soul, using pain to bind.

Whips and gags are the arsenal of choice,
A slave subdued, revoked of spoken voice.
Master and slave together strain as one,
Ecstacy together, a true bonding to make them one.

Others prefer vulgarity and a stinging slap,
Delivered hard to willing flesh, a resounding "whack".
Hair pulling and digging fingernails complete the fun,
Each party going their seperate ways when all is said and done.

There are many other ways to meld two souls,
But as for me, I won't be raked over the coals.
A common doxy for any to use, I am not,
Preferring seduction when bothered and hot.

I revel in my lover's eyes caressing me,
Taking in my body, sending my senses careening.
My flesh will tingle, grow hot and sizzle,
Watching him get undressed, I know this won't fizzle.

Looks aren't important, it's the way he moves his hands.
Molding all my hills and valleys, his personal playland.
Callouses contrast sharply with velvet, sensations abound,
Skin shivers excitedly as the tools roam around.

He takes his sweet time to make my body sing.
I try to help, he pushes my hands away; "Let me do my thing".
As with many women, infinate patience is the key,
And how well he knows this is the way with me.

He takes my senses soaring, building tensions high,
I cry out in pleasured agony, giving a tortured sigh.
When finally I crest the hill, he smiles oh so softly,
In triumph perhaps, for he enjoys the challenge that is me.