Beneath the skin, a quiet call,
A private hymn for one and all,
Where hands become the poets’ quill,
And bodies bend to their own will.
From man to woman, joys unfurl,
A dance of self, a sacred whirl,
No shame to cloak this ancient rite,
Just flesh and soul in pure delight.
Through His Eyes
He finds a space, the world retreats,
A man alone where silence meets,
His palm, a cradle, rough yet kind,
A journey only he can find.
The steady pull, the tightened breath,
A chase that flirts with life and death,
He feels the surge, the heat, the rise,
A king reflected in his eyes.
No judge, no clock, just him to please,
A sovereign act of sweet release.
Through Her Eyes
She locks the door, the night is hers,
A woman free where no one stirs,
Her fingers glide, a painter’s stroke,
A fire lit with every poke.
She parts the waves, she rides the swell,
A secret sea she knows so well,
Her gasps, her arch, her trembling thighs,
A queen who claims her own sunrise.
In solitude, she finds her song,
A power fierce, a right so strong.
The Gifts of Solo Joy
This act, a tonic for the soul,
Restores the parts that life makes whole,
For him, a flush that cleanses deep,
A guard for health in nightly sweep.
For her, a balm for tension’s grip,
A rhythm easing monthly dip,
The mind unwinds, the spirit lifts,
Endorphins sing their gentle gifts.
And in that glow, a mirror shines,
A worth beyond the world’s designs,
To touch oneself is to declare,
“I am enough, I’m always there.”
The Craft of Touch
For him, a grip, a twist, a tease,
A fist that shifts with practiced ease,
Just finger and thumb can please his toy,
A varied path to boundless joy.
He slows, he speeds, he finds the edge,
A balance on a trembling ledge.
For her, a tap, a grind, a hum,
A vibe that buzzes till she’s numb,
A shower’s stream, a folded cloth,
A rocking hip, a rising froth.
Each method sings a different tune,
A private art beneath the moon.
A Show for Two
He sits her down, his voice a plea,
“Look, love, this is what moves me,”
His hand begins its steady climb,
A lesson shared in pantomime.
She watches close, her eyes alight,
His pleasure fuels her own delight.
Then she replies, “Now see my way,”
Her fingers weave their bold ballet,
He stares, entranced, as tides unfold,
A map of bliss in strokes so bold.
This gift, this trust, a bridge they build,
A hunger honestly fulfilled.
Face to Face, Reflected Grace
They kneel as one, the mirror near,
Each hand at play, no trace of fear,
His eyes on her, her eyes on him,
A mirrored dance of primal hymn.
She sways, he groans, their sounds entwine,
A chorus crossing every line,
The glass reveals their tandem flight,
Two souls aglow in shared delight.
No touch, just sight, yet so complete,
A union born where gazes meet,
The mirror holds their sacred scene,
A love both fierce and pure and clean.
Hands That Cross the Divide
Now hands reach out, a tender trade,
His fingers seek where hers have played,
She wraps him firm, a knowing hold,
Their stories merge in touch so bold.
He learns her pulse, her secret spot,
She feels his heat, his every knot,
The mirror watches, wide and still,
Reflecting every sigh and thrill.
No rush to end, just here to feel,
A bond that hands alone can seal,
Till peaks collide, and voices cry,
A shared ascent that touches sky.
The Final Chord
So raise a toast to solo hands,
To mirrored joys in private lands,
To partners watching, learning well,
To tales that only touch can tell.
For man, for woman, both are free,
In this, we find our dignity,
A rite of health, of worth, of care,
A song of self we boldly share.
OxonWoods Man 