I wash you with a priceless aloe vera soap, your bottom and sex, not for cleanliness, you are already clean, but as a sacrament.
You are naked. Me? Stockings, heels and shockingly expensive knickers.
Your dampness is on my tongue now—your exquisite roundness in my hands.
You, lying crosswise on the bed, your head in a mound of pillows, and me, kneeling, painting a masterpiece with my tongue.
My lips adore your most private places, guided by your sighs.
My fingers, drifting purposefully between the folds of your honey-filled sex.
Afterwards, you kiss me and whisper. “You’re not done yet.”
