Heaven in Lace

Image by Jacek Abramowicz from Pixabay

I love how round her ass is. How the columns of her thighs rise up to that glorious curve. I trace her muscles and joints with my tongue. My fingers know well the paths from ankles to hips as I worship at her temple with my mouth.

I long to bend her over and pull that lace coverlet down from her hips. To unveil the reddish-blond downy fuzz and the dewy folds hidden by it. To cover them both with my kisses. Her taste is the sweetest ambrosia, only for me her mistress.

I take her in the morning, our bed the breakfast table where we sample each other’s bounty. I take her at noon, on the green grass near our home. My fingers plow her ripeness. Her cries like the birds filling the skies. I take her in the evening, her freckles like the stars as I cover her mouth with my own womanhood.

My lover is my world. She is my forever. I am her security. Her body is heaven. Her tender soul and brilliant mind fulfill my every need. Her cries are the psalms of our love for each other, my mouth and fingers bringing them out of the depths of her body.

We lie together, whether in the cool of the night of the heat of the day, hearts beating for each other and bodies aching with need that will always and never be quenched.

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