...and she danced on my finger tips

I had dreamed of her
and her shaven flesh,
quivering
beneath my tongue
fluttering, parting, dripping
from my lips
the glistening drops,
dripping
from the carnal of
pink waterfalls,
dissolving in lust
the rise and fall
of ebb and flow.

She danced, oblivious
to stares, the music, the mood
feral upon the stage,
eyes transfixed upon us
somewhere in the steamy heat
rising between my papi and I
as we drank shot after shot, watching
her moves, in a language
of its own.

Crawling curves, fell
whirling in waves
and we danced around my man
skin to skin
chest to back
arch to breast
taut and proud
obsession to possession
entwining limbs
erect, furled and pressed
teasing and kissing
wanting him, needing her
to fill the hunger and pleasure
in every crevice and void.

Caressing silk and satin
to caramel and ebony
the gateway to forbidden games
in the monotony
peering the curtains, stoking the fire
throbbing and stroking the minds
molesting and raping
a vortex
to triangle of storms
drowning with shadows.

The inferno
the maddening desire
to taaste the lusciuous fruit
right from the vine
and offer the gift of gods
from my tongue
to him, to her
becoming one.

In the witching hour
in the fold of our dreams
the taste lingers from our
finger tips.



**Submitted for  "...3...(erotic women's comp)" Hosted by DevlinDLC**