Analysis of The Maestro

I have touched her mind with the stroke of my pen. Through my poetry, prose, and songs from my heart, passion spilled across her imagination like ink across a blank sheet of paper.

I have already tasted her chastity, arched her back and made her scream with satisfaction without the utterance of a single word.
In return, she touches my senses with her shyly obscene backwards glance of concupiscence.

Like an autumn day dropping silken leaves to the forest floor, her satin shorts cascade down her lissome legs to gently nestle over her ankles.

The golden bronze skin of her legs contrasts against the florescent yellow trim like majestic oaks against a sun scorched morning sky.

I trace my fingers up the velvety softness of her creamy inner thighs. They navigate their way to her familiar fundament, my hands caressing the gentle curves.

I orchestrated inhalations of longing and desire with each pass of my fingers across the soft warmth of her moistening flesh. A symphony of exhalations erupt full of yearning for the crescendo that she knows will ensue