GENEVIEVE
Oh Genevieve
You are Paris, 1920.
A Louis Icart nude,
languorous across a divan,
cigarette in hand.
La Fumee
Captivated by your stare,
overwhelmed by your beauty.
Your voice like a song,
sings to me.
Your eyes,
the implements of your seduction.
Your lips
the gateway to a paradise
once entered,
there can be no turning back.
Thoughts of you,
possess that ever wandering moment.
To lay with you,
to explore a body, time has overlooked,
my mouth, my lips, my hands,
stand at the ready.
Running hands through your hair,
pulling your face to my mouth.
Lips kiss eyes,
lips on lips, slightly parting,
tongues flirting.
I run a path of soft kisses
across your cheek to your ear,
gently nibbling,
tongue and breathe circling.
Wet lips, wet teeth,
gliding downward, softly biting your neck.
Lips rest on shoulder, only for an instant, kissing.
Kissing,
ever downward to your breasts.
My left hand caresses the right,
my mouth exploring the left.
More Kissing,
biting.
They demand equal time.
Moist tongue
leaves its wetness,
from around and between them
down to your navel.
Blowing cool breathes
up and down the glistening path
to your glory.
Right hand sliding on velvet skin,
around your waist to your left cheek.
Index finger of the other,
parting your lips,
slipping bottom to top,
pausing there,
to play in your wetness.
It's time.
Mouth, tongue lips,
responding to your every move,
mapping my path,
putting yourself exactly where you want to be.
Every nuance of how you ride my face is remembered.
As Memory takes control,
each point of ecstasy you've revealed,
I tease and taunt,
just long enough to extend and intensify
your pleasure.
It's time.
I hold you tightly in my mouth,
sucking you deeper,
tongue working
up and down
faster,
then faster.
My eyes watching as the landscape of your body
surrenders to orgasm.
Every muscle contorts,
your release, violent, total and complete.
The river of your sweetness,
my reward,
flows into my anxiously awaiting mouth.
Your shuttering body finally stills.
Calmed for that moment.
Oh Genevieve
G.
You are Paris, 1920.
A Louis Icart nude,
languorous across a divan,
cigarette in hand.
La Fumee
Captivated by your stare,
overwhelmed by your beauty.
Your voice like a song,
sings to me.
Your eyes,
the implements of your seduction.
Your lips
the gateway to a paradise
once entered,
there can be no turning back.
Thoughts of you,
possess that ever wandering moment.
To lay with you,
to explore a body, time has overlooked,
my mouth, my lips, my hands,
stand at the ready.
Running hands through your hair,
pulling your face to my mouth.
Lips kiss eyes,
lips on lips, slightly parting,
tongues flirting.
I run a path of soft kisses
across your cheek to your ear,
gently nibbling,
tongue and breathe circling.
Wet lips, wet teeth,
gliding downward, softly biting your neck.
Lips rest on shoulder, only for an instant, kissing.
Kissing,
ever downward to your breasts.
My left hand caresses the right,
my mouth exploring the left.
More Kissing,
biting.
They demand equal time.
Moist tongue
leaves its wetness,
from around and between them
down to your navel.
Blowing cool breathes
up and down the glistening path
to your glory.
Right hand sliding on velvet skin,
around your waist to your left cheek.
Index finger of the other,
parting your lips,
slipping bottom to top,
pausing there,
to play in your wetness.
It's time.
Mouth, tongue lips,
responding to your every move,
mapping my path,
putting yourself exactly where you want to be.
Every nuance of how you ride my face is remembered.
As Memory takes control,
each point of ecstasy you've revealed,
I tease and taunt,
just long enough to extend and intensify
your pleasure.
It's time.
I hold you tightly in my mouth,
sucking you deeper,
tongue working
up and down
faster,
then faster.
My eyes watching as the landscape of your body
surrenders to orgasm.
Every muscle contorts,
your release, violent, total and complete.
The river of your sweetness,
my reward,
flows into my anxiously awaiting mouth.
Your shuttering body finally stills.
Calmed for that moment.
Oh Genevieve
G.
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