She Does

The grip was practiced and secure, an ambience of her humid heat, she'd tamed a wandering troubadour and found this luxury retreat. She liked him passive and supine, no selfish touches to confuse. Tall candles and red summerwine, all conscious thoughts were just a ruse. He'd liken it, she knew his mind, to a long piston on the move tied to a spring that would unwind, while tracking neatly in its groove. Men were soo technical, of course all wheels and bearings, bolts and nuts, she felt the life blood of a horse yet always clasped their silly butts. She liked explosions, always had. Small tremors, building to a wave, volcanoes always scare a lad and swallows represent the brave. Convulsions was the word she used, a sudden hint of laundry bleach, a tiny smile as if amused and stirrings in her private peach. ' You DO? ' He was in shock and awe, she said 'I thought it was the thing! ' Two bodies, hot and in the raw, an eros arrow, would it sting? A symbolism then descends, embraces hot and tender skin. Inhaling fragrance it suspends all time and reason, deep within.