Milk Maids – the Divination of Carnality

Milk Maids- the Divination of Carnality

Author Unknown


Oh, to be that merry, blue faced god,
then I could multiply our pleasure
Into a moon-lit dance of infinite devotion
Her dress slides down her body.
She steps out of it, puddled at her feet,
rising  from  the sea  of all his fantasies.
When viewed with such adoration and desire,
as  she sees shining in his eyes,
even the  most  modest women become tantric  goddesses.
fully  aware of all their powers,
and even though never studied,
full of the knowledge of enticement.
Viewed so, even the plainest women
know  they are  beautiful.
The sinuous grace of a woman,
Reaching behind her back,
to unclasp the bindings that contain her breasts,
the  boneless  flex, as supple as clear water running over  stones.
Her breasts, released, jiggle insouciantly.
She cups one in each hand,
as  if making an offering of  two plump, young birds.
There now ensues a dance,
So delicate, no effort can be detected,
as she steps one leg out of her panties.
She is Ishtar, readying to remove the seventh veil,
readying  to  reveal the answers to all mysteries.
Balanced now on one leg,
the other extended past her waist,
a  pointed  toe  holding the last vestige of all that covered her.
her muscles tauten, as she holds this pose.
She seems an illustration from the Kama Sutra.
Then, a nerveless flick, and fullness is revealed.
He gazes upon this wonder that is woman,
with all the hungry awe a starving man would a cornucopia.
She makes slow turns,
as  if in orbit around the burning sun of his desire.
His eyes  absorb  her every angle, every contour of her .
He sees her knees, crisp and rosy as apples;
he  sees the tender flesh behind her knees,
and  imagines their savor to be softer and sweeter than honeyed  figs.
He sees her calves and ankles,
smooth as sea-lathed drift-wood,
and her toes as delicately scalloped as perfect shells.
He longs to know their textures with his fingers, lips and tongue.
He sees a throbbing near her throat,
and  its pulsating rhythm creates panic in his blood.
She lifts her hair with both hands.
Her neck looks so succulent,
his mouth fills with hungry juice.
He sees the curve of her hips from waist to thigh,
and  knows  the perfection of this line,
puts  the  proud-necked swan to shame.
Such bounty, full revealed,
his  to  suckle, fondle,  nibble,
his to lick, caress and tickle,
he is overwhelmed into a stasis of delirium.
His rational mind is torn apart by the hounds of his own lust.
He knows his soul will be her slave, no will of its own.
He knows his body will find death within her liquid fire.
Never was there thrall more willing;
never was their immolation so desired.

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