Oh, to hold her close, in the sway of desire,
matching her rhythm,
as passion climbs higher.

Her tightness surrounds,
a sweet, perfect fit,
every ****** a pulse,
every move, a hit.

I watch, entranced,
as her body sways,
each bounce, each curve,
in love’s fierce blaze.

Her face, a canvas,
painted with delight,
as we lose ourselves,
in the dance of night.

Oh, to be held,
in water’s cool embrace,
like a silver moon,
softly kissed by grace.

The waves, they whisper,
a song so light,
adding to our moment,
under the night.

In the depths where shadows play,
water reflects, in its gentle sway.
Each ripple carries a sweet refrain,
as we surrender, to love’s soft reign.

Where water meets shore, we find our peace,
in the tender embrace, where all worries cease.

Vibing;
large hands,
guiding her hips
She's mounted,
Straddled there, She's riding
poised above—
Her movements eager, fervent,
Grinding;
Against him, she presses with need,
Finding pleasure in the rhythm they feed.
With his fullness embraced between her thighs,
They both seek their peak in each other's eyes.
Colliding;
Pleasuring herself, pleasuring him,
In the depths of desire, together they swim.
The satisfaction mirrored in her gaze
Captures the essence of their shared blaze.

I when I think of you
I want to put pen to paper,
And write poetry that is naughty by nature.

Many times, I've dreamt of your Heaven,
Using my fingers to caress it,
And my eyes to see.
Now, spread your legs,
And expose your destiny to me.

Lost in a waiting room of inspiration to come; addicted to every
piece of word- a narcotic artist. He feels worthless each time his
pen is pointless; point less into the time it takes to come up with
an attractive opening line- does she even spread happily for him
anymore- does he still have the charms to call up a pretty poem?
Brushing her face against his canvas, his hand strokes are slow,
word by word- craving her attention to fall flat on a sheet of lines;
pausing to see that always pleasing shape of letters, curve by curve

“Please don’t curve me my love” he goes- he implores her again,
and again- soothing her with the confidence of it being a two-sided
experience; desperately trying to stimulate that passion between them
back to life, again. Searching for her sweet nectar of words; but like a
beehive, she’s sometimes defensive. So he decorates the scene with
violets, to distract themselves away from the picture of violence

An attempt to spout free the nectar of literary passions, as writing
the perfect poem is gently picking up a flower- attempting to have
its petals open wide. “So spread open my jubilant flower— we’ll
have any astounding story to tell the whole world tomorrow…

Tonight, that longing is a hunger,
A missing piece of my soul calling me back

Last night,
As my touch me her skin,
I discovered a desire I never knew I had.