His Voice - Poetry in Prose

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The deep rhythms of his voice touch me. First he touches me here, at my breast, where skin is soft and slopes down and sweeps up and culminates in gathering points of sensitive flesh that beg for not so gentle fingers. I give him all the use of mine.

His voice reaches me from where he lays and where I am. Waves upon waves of sensation from him to me, from mouth to ear to body's reaction. And hands touch what voice touches. Down and down the soft curving swell of belly to thigh, then up again. His voice soothes and excites and leaves me breathless for the wanting of more. Eyes closed, lips parted, breath quick and fast. My fingers reach this swollen parted needy place, I ache for the wanting to be touched more and more. And touch he does, those waves reach me and push me higher and higher. And waves pull back and pull me under and make the breathing near to impossible and the timbre is full of rounded vowels and soft consonants but the strength of the sound of his voice pushing me, pulling me is undeniable.

And his words make me weak with wanting and again I need more and more. And so I beg, no easy thing, and that leaves me vulnerable, please more and more. But oh, dear god, I want from these words he offers and I take. And so the touches grow and the words grow, deeper, fuller, thicker. And he sees and I hear and we find pleasure together. Yes and aye and more and there and now and oh, dear god. And in the end it is the deep rhythms of his words that take me and cause the waves to crash over me and I do drown in all waves of deep and rhythmic sound, but only just a little death. Sigh.
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