Let me brush my lipsgentle over the base of your throat,turn my tongue at your collarand caress your cheekwith the fingertips of my desire Let me

I stroked her stomach and thought of all the things I didn’t want to do that day. She lay, stroked my fingers, and did the

Proskelyte¹ I see your thighs, the dusky patch between, dark fires ignited, promising. I see your ankles, alabaster white and beautiful, pressed against me, stroking.