The Calligrapher

Brush poised, thoughtful,
he lifts it to his lips
sucks it to a point
and draws a line.

She murmurs a soft giggle,
the brush down her neck,
round curve of breast,
and spiraling in
to her nipple.

As it stands, puckers up
like the kiss it seeks,
he paints the nipple,
a miniature mesa
in soft, subtle strokes.

She draws a deep breath.
The brush sweeping gently,
fleshes both breasts
circling in to center
another nipple.

A soft line feathers down
spreads curves and shadow
dancing round her navel
then beelines curvaceous
to twin hills close-set
and the valley between.

A soft gasp from her
a spread of the legs
a parting of lips
a pant as it paints
feather-light the rise
nestled there.

He takes his time here
brushing detail, relief,
of a cloak spread open
into wings exquisite
the hood slipping back,
light pink revealed
in a delicate blush.

She moans from the touch
a tease and a tickle
growing insistent
the brush dipped in
tracing under the hood
drawing her up
to an arch
and a cry.

The calligrapher sighs
painting droplets of dew
clearly pearlescent
trickling down wings
of softest rose
into a pool
below.