Epithalamion
Two fingers linger slowly 'cross the tip.
"No, no!" she cries, "The tip's too
sensitive!
Go lower!" So they make a baser trip
And dance about there til they pleasure give.
"Don't stop!" she pleads as pleasure slowly
builds.
Her breath grows short, her voice a high-pitched cry.
Her fingers clutch the sheets, the bed, until
She starts to feel the pleasure surging high.
Two fingers dance a tarantelle her base
As "YES!" and "OH!" she cries and
grasps at more;
Then rolls she 'gainst his body, licks his face,
And holds him tight, as orgasms shake her core.
Then on her back, yet fingers stay their job,
For to the air she whispers, "Please! Don't stop!"
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