The slow touch, slow stroke, slow, slow lick.
Moving this time like a touch which is hardly felt.
She, lying still, feeling his prick
Pressing against her back, feeling herself melt.
He reached to her breast, spreading his palm.
Caressing her, tightening, slipping over her nipple,
Squeezing, never more than gentle. She, calm,
Rippling against his touch, her body supple.
Raising her leg, he took her lead,
Sliding himself into her centre, finding his place.
Opening her with a sure thust, the feed
Of his cock opening her, matching her pace.
At one. At one.