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You sit beside me. Your body trembles with lust. I smell your desires from here.
Over your flesh rises steams of transgression, misting through your skin, through your sheer.
Unknown to me how anyone could resist the smell, the scent that has taken us over.
Seething inside, I cannot resist the sweet taste of your crimson clover.
Touching, groping, laughing, moaning, gleefully tasting every inch that I can.
I can’t, I won’t stop this beastly carnality, the smell of your sex began.
Lips to flesh, so moist and sweet, your legs gripping tighter with every kiss.
Lust in love, the burden of desire, the flowing cataract of your shaking bliss.
Faces made wet, tongues tingling and weary, exhausted but still fiending for more.
Under your knees, destined to please, my shoulders quiver, so warm in their core.
Cursed to please and pleasingly cursed, your seductive scent begs to throb.
Keeping you shaking and gripping you tight, an iron-clad taste in every bite.
Laving my back, your calves so strong, so thick below your slender form.
In another euphoric call of desire, your thighs to my ears sound of deepening storms.
Kissing your love and loving your kiss, I rise to stare into your wanton eyes.
Every pull of your hand in my hair brings me closer, my hips now burning your thighs.
A rigid and textured feeling of wet, so failed to describe in fables past.
Not a word in my head nor a song in my heart, but your skin in my hands, in such animal grasps.
Akin to a beast, what you do to me, as you slide your hips o’er my body lain flat.
Nestling my chest in your sweat-covered hands, your claws buried, deepened like those a cat.
In every slide of your soaked inner thighs, your calls become shorter of breath.
My ecstasy rising like my hands on your body, gripping your sparkling breasts.
Apart from your body as you gasp for air, your shaking gyrating your flesh.
Leaving your body which falls down upon me, your head makes ground of my chest.
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C. Allen Thompson – 2005
A Carnival of Fables 