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By: Nathan Hill~

499

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