The Song

Her curves...

Waiting to be played.

Strumming every chord
to perfection

Every sound,
picking its way deep
into her soul.

Until every string
is dripping wet.

Music satiating every fibre of her being.

His fingers...

Nimble, and eager,

Expertly extracting melodies,
of deep desire.

The bass of his growl,
harmonises with her need.

Together,
a concerto
a symphony of sin

Her curves
are his instrument,
and he plays
upon her pleasure
until her soaking wet
score is complete.

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©2020 by Thomas Renard Writing.