O, would I kneel before her.
Graced in flowing lace of angel’s wings and nothing more.
The fullness of her body rises up on high.
She is passion’s mistress.
A temptress of love and fire.
She beckons me come.
Resistance flees as if it had a chance.
She brings me to my knees,
Cupping my head in her hand as she does.
My hands are her instruments to explore her form.
My fingers ache to caress every velvet inch.
Her breasts heave forward as she leans down.
I suckle them like a newborn.
Leaning back, she presses my face downward.
Yes, oh, yes.
To her inner most reaches I go.
The aroma of her shudders through my soul.
Oh, Goddess,
would that I could live between your thighs.
Drinking of the well spring of your passion.
A thirsty man, quenching his lust at the fountain of your blessed loins.
Her back arches as I taste her love.
The quaking of her body as she prepares to release driving me harder.
Digging her nails into my scalp she presses me deeper.
Would I were to die this way,
Pleasuring her always.
She is passion’s mistress.
A temptress of love and fire.
She beckons me come.
Resistance flees as if it had a chance.
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