Saturday night with Z

First we have dinner, then we see a (wonderful) play.
We talk and talk, and then go back to his place.

Soon we are in the bedroom.
"Bend over," Z says, "Let me see your panties."
His hands stroke my cheeks, tug at the cleft, and soon his fingers are moving inside my ass,
as his other hand strokes my clit.

"Turn over," he says."Take your panties off."
His hands fill me, front and back, his fingers driving, making me gasp,
the delicious edge of pleasure and pain.

"Lie back," he says, and his hands and his mouth move against my clit,
against the teased and swollen, reddened, lips, against the flesh he promises to pull apart as his tongue makes me scream.

Z is like a wave breaking over me,
a musician with a keyboard of flesh he is determined to play
a composer who takes me, again and again, to the cliff of an orgasmic edge
before letting me rest, serene.