He is the summer storm of hot drenching rain, steam rising from the surface of the Earth in ecstasy of release from drought.
He is erotica, whispers and thoughts, unparalleled sensuality, passionate energy.
He is a hardwood forest culled to make a perfect bow thus drawn across my body as his instrument of choice and played with virtuosity.
His mouth a sweetness unknown, cling as soft kisses and suckling as he passes over my breasts and the skin of my body to linger in the nectar of my loins rousing me to sate his hunger and sample him in kind. We are the crescendo to Bolero and its conclusion.
Descended from the most powerful and potent gods of mythology, Satyr to my Bacchante.
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