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| The Curator, Handler of Treasures He being the curator, her the displayed treasure. He polished and cared for her, it was his pleasure. When the lights were out, he took her down, From the pedestal where she stood. Then folded up her gown. Temptation laying in his hand, rubbed his hand over her body. He placed his lips by her head, and whispered. I love you Bobbie. He saw a smile not ancient, but one with magic spells. She had used a magic potion, and in his heart it dwells. He had take steps of care, so as not to break her. In his arms she cradled, his advances not deterred. Then her body heated, as it was close to mine. I kissed her lips, the taste of apples on the vine. Her hair coiffeur perfection, spun gold every strand. She, the envy of all nations, caught the eye of every man. Body bronzed from exposure, but some white as milk. As I slid my hands down, I felt the touch of silk. Our emotions stirred and fueled, flamed from within. As I saw her clench her lips, the smile faded then. Determination, strength, and will, drove us to the edge. Reverberations, and tremors, as I held her on the ledge. Then our passion lost not futile, as I heard her moan. She had led me down the path, now my silence gone. Tempted now I kissed her breast, her hand pulled me close. I drowned in the flood of dreams, she the temptress host. Now the hot, scorching recession, as we both withdrew. To lay upon our sides again, and caress her a moment or two. I heard her whisper words of love, the same ones I repeated. Then I wrapped the saintly goddess, and quietly retreated. � T.Lovett 2001 The Masked Writer <-.-> |
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