O delicate dance of fingers on skin,
A journey begins where her breath grows thin.
Soft folds invite with a trembling plea,
A touch to unlock what yearns to be free.
The rhythm unfolds, a pulse to explore,
Each curve and each crest a map to adore.
Her warmth is a guide, her sighs a sweet song,
A cadence of pleasure that carries along.
Slow circles trace where her secrets reside,
A tender invasion, no need to hide.
Her hips rise to meet the gentle caress,
A silent confession of pure excess.
The slickness grows with each careful glide,
A river awakened by passion’s tide.
Fingers become both artist and muse,
Painting her bliss in the hues she’ll choose.
A deeper plunge where her core ignites,
Her gasps are stars in the velvet night.
The walls clench tight, a welcoming grip,
A sacred bond in each fingertip.
The pace quickens as her voice ascends,
A symphony builds where control bends.
Her thighs a frame, her center the stage,
A story of longing on every page.
Two fingers curl to a hidden delight,
A spot that sparks with a shivering bite.
Her moan is a hymn, both wild and devout,
A secret revealed that she can’t live without.
The tempo shifts, now soft, now bold,
A tale of desire in each fold told.
Her body speaks what words cannot say,
A language of touch in sweet disarray.
Her breath catches sharp, the edge draws near,
Fingers persist through trembling fear.
A crest approaches, a wave to ride,
Her pleasure blooms where the soul resides.
The climax breaks, a shuddering flood,
A pulse of release in her racing blood.
Fingers stay steady, they cradle her fall,
A tender anchor through ecstasy’s call.
As waves subside, a glow remains,
Her softness hums through sated veins.
The touch slows gentle, a soothing art,
A bridge from rapture back to her heart.
O sacred act, this gift bestowed,
Fingering her where passion flowed.
A woman’s bliss, a moment divine,
Forever etched in touch’s design.
OxonWoods Man 