by Carvaleo ©
...Your soft shirt is your tongue.
I draw it up
slowly between my thighs.
With a quickening pulse
I do it again.
It's your voice murmuring, "relax."
I moan.
You explore every secret place,
lovingly probing, taking
the luminous dew offered.
Your fiery mouth moves
over my bead-
strong fingers find
errogenous spots within.
I tense- you stop.
Heat explodes in every vein,
surges to where you kiss.
I stiffen uncontrollably,
heavens gates open and fling me,
gasping and reeling
into oblivion...
...my grip relaxes as I
float back.
Your shirt is christened.