Fingering

The approach really doesn't matter at all,
Whether there's the elastic press on finger and thigh,
The sliding down beneath hipbones and waistband,
Or spread bare in delectations of eye kissed delight;
Whether it's a fragment of a stolen kitchen moment,
Skirt lifted in the swiftness of a damply delving chance,
A carefully insinuated hand that slides carefully inside
snug black jeans beneath an afternoon’s beer sipped table,
Or parts your naked sofa lips with fingertip kisses.

What delights is the opening touch’s soft feeling,
The gentle tendrils of your dark hair felt individually,
The undulations rising and falling from thigh to cleft,
The discovery of the well of your flowing desire
As I slide along, around, across, the slippery hidden bud
And down to relish the wet fulsomeness of, just you.
Then, the delicious feeling of your tight moisture
Holding, enveloping, drawing, one, two, fingers inward.
And, in wide eyed exploration, I press deep within then…

Opening my fingers to stroke the depths of this lake’s shores
Feeling the fingerprints of your smooth ridges within,
The heel of my hand rolling firm against your presses,
Taking delight in the caressing squeezes you give
As I delve and press, withdraw and enter you again,
Fucking you firmly with fingers alive with a million
Singing, dancing, frolicking nerve endings that relish
Every molecule of moisture, every fold, every sigh,
As I seek to fill you finger full with fulfilment.

And when you come, grasping me in those depths,
The contractions of your orgasm seeking to expel
My thrusting fingers, I press harder within, keeping
The thrust of my fingers firm, deep, relentless
As your squeeze, relax and squeeze again,
The cataract of your wetness flooding my mind
With untold depths of desire soundtracked by sighs
That fold their lust soul deep in their richness
Until I withdraw and taste your passion’s sweetness.