Sunday Morning

Sunday Morning

My face immersed in your silky tresses
As you lay softly across my supine form
My hands travel relentlessly down your spine
Settling delicately on sacrum
Holding the warm rock like an egg

Your tender heart beats softly against mine
Your pulse fragile but sustaining
My hand on warm rock
I gently rock you
Your flower rolling across my staff
Like waves rocking a boat at sea

I reach to cup on nightstand grasping ice cube
Like a calligrapher dipping brush in ink
I gently dab your cherries with ice
They harden with astonishing swiftness
As you coo softly
Engrossed in sensations sweeping over your body
The feel of my cold hands patting your derriere
Till friction of skin against skin
Brings warmth rising through palms

Your cherries press against my firm chest
Like a flower pressed between the pages of a book
I feel your muscles fluxing in a dance of passion
Your hand sinks into the cusp of your thighs
Guiding me into the depths of your grotto
Each thrust of your hips
Every tightening pulse of your thighs
The throbbing of your sacred passage
Brings me closer to paradise
Than I could have ever imagined

Your wet heat envelopes me
Till time stands still
Infinite revolutions of movement
Occurring in each millisecond
Your breathing growing ragged
The only utterance escaping your ruby lips
A deep cat moan
Reverberating through the chambers of my soul
Echoing my own response
In syncopated time