Breaking the seal is the hardest part.
Simply etching one soft, deceptive fingertip
Over the light air above his quivering flesh
Isn’t enough;
Any one-night charmer can make him moan
With nighttime secrets best kept hidden.
You have to truly need him
From the touch of his skin.
Without the yearning burning your heart
Into a melting hole of desire and hope;
Without the slight twinkle in your soul
That he can see and feel and wants,
Your touch doesn’t mean much
Except for the physical fact that
You’re a slick talking girl
Vacantly brushing his manly flesh.

When I touch him, I shake when
He arches his spine, a snake on the loose,
Desiring more of my smoothness;
I listen insatiably every time
He begs me to nibble on his neck
And run my hand one more time
Down his woman-hungry chest and back and
Anything else I dare touch.
He can feel my desire for him with every soft sound,
Every whispered breath, every sigh in pleasure
That only get louder as I trace his body
And he teasingly strokes back.
That’s how I know that I’m not just any girl
That he’s laying close to, his hand on mine:
I’m his woman, his little Ruski suka.
And I know that he’s mine
From the touch of his skin.

01/01/2009

Posted on 01/02/2009
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