By: Nathan Hill~


You are the Stradivarius ,
that theses hands softly tune.
Gently plucking at each string,
to hear your muted croon.
Fingertips trace whispered paths,
along your slender neck.
Gripping firm upon the waist,
my lips to well to check.
Botticelli failed to paint,
the curves that grace your bout.
Lines almost elliptical,
that call my hunger out.
Satin finish, smooth and slick,
now glistens by my chin.
A heady finish warm and deep,
now begs me to begin.
I’ll play you slowly through the night,
while never giving rest.
Heated string will bend and sway,
upon the master’s test.
© Nathan Hill. All rights reserved