No place for roleplay in this illumined shrine of sanctified skin and porcelain
where the most literal of lovers whelm in the stainless steel hot spring's silver stream
where the smoke screen of clothing clashes with the steam cloud rising like ironic bread in Eden's kitchen
where a woman turns around wrings and whips her satin ***** of hair around a shoulder leaving to her man ideas and a bar of soap that slithers effortlessly in his palm like a melted deck of cards
where a bubbled corner is embedded in the small of her back elevated from the tailbone to the neck and lowered like the zipper of the dress he parted not so long ago
where a jolt of urgency accelerates an exercise in the ski of soap around the junction of the hips and outer buttocks and a segue silently approved by her arms hoisted to attend to hair thought to be already washed and conditioned
where the soap is shared by both hands on the scaling of her sudded sternum presaging an unseen demand from the beacons of progression swelling in the wet heat
where a hand of soap and hand of slide verifies the demand of hands on her beaded *******
where he answers her swell with his stiffness in the final feel of mystery before a soft shift of arms approximates a plea for a frontal rinse
where hands return to ****** crowned chest sparking the advent of eye contact all the while
where his ****** intensifies in proportion to the eyes closed in anticipation of their saturated mouths' magnetic duet
where saliva and the cooling water mix on their cameos of tongues slipping through their lips in the midst of the mist
and where their towels hang in a forgotten heap while he takes her dripping body in his arms and carries her to where the roleplay will have to wait after all
Read your mind, and wrote back. Your body language, crossed the line. Your wet spots, one track. Taking my time, laying you. Face flat, pulling on your hair, head back. Hands spreading your thighs, take that. ******* inside, now taste that
Laying in my emotion. Espying you in my ocean. Drowning in your lotion. Singing your song… na na na… aana That’s how you sang it.
Looking you in the mirror of memory, all night goes in weeping dream. You are a sleeve of my waking gleam, Your voice still beams in my emptiness.
I wondered silently, on shore of misty stream, how will I paint you tonight - Bold and bright red. But I am scared that there is no you except in my empty heart.
I wondered what it would be like sitting beside you on couch and reading you my heart’s bleed. But internally I squeal like a child when I behold the truth.
