Feverish Fantasies

Are you a god? No, you are a man, all man. A fiery, aching loins that taunts my soft, willing flesh, which yearns to yield to your carnal desires. You are the altar of sacrificial ritual, whereupon my quickening breath echoes through floating veils of expectancy, my body rising in response to the thought of your touch. I will fall before you in dark delirium as I await initiation into your eroticism, where pleasures yet undiscovered may awaken from dormancy. Your midnight eyes devour me, as silk and sheet slip away, arousing my already fluttering surrender to an imagined ecstasy of you within me. I drink from your mulberry-silk lips as from a chalice of ambrosial wine, intoxicating my ardour, releasing all my inhibitions as you fulfill my feverish fantasies.