The King

Loving me like our bodies can feed from energies released, searching ravenously for the deities’ glee. My body, like a chasm for keepsakes, dances in waves. Eyes, they follow the ripples of my rhythm, the slow dancing sweat glistens. Stormy drums beat to the sound of desire, you moan and heave but do not tire. The arch of my ache and the rise of your sting. Sometimes, just sometimes and always, the woman is King.

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