Every day, or maybe every night, I dream of her, of her tender delicate body, floating against
mine like a freshly Blooming flower, waiting for my mouth to consume it, the
vision of her whole body convulsing, when I manage to touch the right place,
the right combination that thrusts open that place, where the pink rose blooms,
the intimate dance of my tongue on her lips and between her hips, drawing out
of her music made of moans, the more I do, the louder the music becomes, and I
need to do more to take part in this dance, too close to perform on any of the
public dance floor, the in and out, up and down, the need never completely satisfied,
merely sated until the next ritual, at which point we do it all again, pressing
against each other, seeking to fill up empty spaces we can't seem to fill,
again and again, forever and forever
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