Eager for Her Own Touch : A Poem

There was a part of her more eager for her own touch
than that of any man.
She knew the minuscule bumps on her nipples that sent
goosebumps down her spine.
She knew that her thighs needed rough pinches and nails while
the lips between them needed feathers and wisps of air.

She spread her naked form,
ready and panting, gasping and bucking for the touch
of her own fingers, her nails, her palm against her
milky white skin.
Eyes lidded, watching as she caressed and pinched the peaks on her breasts.
Gazing with desire as they skimmed her rounded belly,
dipping along her wide hips, scouring past stretch marks and scars.

Her toes dug into the bed, her mewling cries echoing in the
empty oasis of a room.
“More,” She whispered to herself.
Sweat beaded on her forehead, dripping down her ribs as her fingers
danced, delved and twirled. Performing a show just for her,
moving in time with the incredible pounding of her heart.
There was fire in her veins.

There was a part of her more eager for her own touch
than that of any man.
Sending herself so far afield in pleasure,
through new galaxies and distant stars as her world shattered into tiny pieces.
Fingers paused, muscles clenched and groans came from so deep within,
her animal was freed.
Lingering, feeling, convulsing at the end.
A smile lingering on her face.
She knew there would always be part of her more eager for her own touch
than that of any man.

Image in header credit: Elmo H. Love via Compfight cc