Curve

I think about your curves constantly. The mysterious crevice where your secret cunt disappears between your legs.

The soft flesh that rounds around your hips, the flat expanse of skin that dimples down around your belly button. Flat and then down your thighs.

The pinch of meat, the hold of your heft as I grab your ass.

The soft and thin waft of hair, running down your back, barely perceptible as it curves down and into your crack. The line behind your legs as it travels down, formed and muscled. The drip of precum pooling on your inner thigh.

Dangling as you spread your legs. And finger your curve.

The tense firm cock rubs against your rigid bone, you sigh and open. Wait. Chest to chest, fingertips along the ridge. Breathing. Pink clit and bony hips. I meet you. I meet your curve.

I fuck into you. The pubic unison of beat and swing. Rocking. Into. Hydraulic. Lubricate. Mesh.

Arm around the small of your back, and your ass reaches up to meet me from the front, over and again. Knee and the long calf of relaxation. I am entered to your curve. Like a boomerang, the wind flows through the trusses.

And sperm into orgasmic shivering. A flattened unwinding, a fingernail into your shoulder. Close, smelling armpit of dreams. The embrace into endless penetration. Your curve, sweet, wet and sucking.

Complicit, in shadow and at the corner of my attention. Moving like a dance in water. Behind.