My hands always have a habit of wandering
Just like her mind, to thoughts that are rated R
Or like the sun across the sky from horizon to horizon
My fingers crawl across her warm skin...
I find her, inch by inch.
I close my eyes and use fresh memory of soft flesh under restricting attire
And the noises she makes
They never get old
Somewhere between the gasps and sighs we start shedding fabrics
Soon were buried deep under our own submissions.
Stripped down to our bare bodies...
Then insecurities start melting away
along with our inhibitions.
Now were down to our bare souls...
The last thing left is bliss
But thats never hard to find
It comes, and always comes.
With a liberal amount of sexual persuasion