HER LOVER’S TOUCH

And because he was her friend as well as her lover, they touched each other in physical and emotional places, he was her only lover, no one would touch her in places she never knew existed neither would she ever succumb to the desires of other men except one whom she could submit all her erotic desires to.
And he loved her, ooh, her laughter reminiscent with friendship, inkling teases with her butt, or a grope of touch in awkward private places, yes his soul belonged to her, a flicker of an innocent lash, ready to do his will.
Yes, she bowed, when he towered words upon her, nasty words one would shudder at, yet she bowed and although she was ready to be his slave, she owned him too, when she made his body tremble, lording over his existence, riding him beyond his pleasure peak, her clit grinding against his groin, her boobs dangling as she rode him, screaming out obscenities, words that sounded like music when they bounced off her tongue. Expressing love by their bodies devoid of words, fiery passion, fulfilling a sexuality that no words would convey, he was her friend, not the friendship of a lover, but pure friendship, and even if they expressed desire emanating from a lover they tried not to cross either boundaries. Call it friends with benefit.
And my lover had beautiful fingers, long and not so lean fingers, when he rolled the weed, two fingers of different hands in between the weed and folded rizzler, or straddled the tip of his beards over the rizzler with utmost concentration that had a feeling of nonchalance over it; beards, those beards. Beards that had explored every part of me, with strands of hair that could name my body parts to my soul. And when we inhaled the wafting grasp of air that floated above us, I felt a lasting euphoria.