by J.M. Dabney
On a late autumn night, I watch her move. The embodiment of sex, a pleasurable thrill abrades my control and strips away at the tight reins that harness long, dormant needs. My gaze travels the graceful lines of her curves, the heaviness of her breasts, that sweet rounded curve of her belly, and those hips that scream to be palmed. In my mind, I can see her; the beauty of her splayed upon crisp, white sheets, the supple curves of her thighs as she spreads them, inviting me in to taste. To sample the flavors of her passion upon my tongue, the taste and the smell of her response to only me assails my senses and drives out all rational thought.
