How the heart desires the warmth,

Of bodies pressed together.

Oh, sweet siren call of lust,

The touch, the hands that tether.

 

My body, lean and sensuous

Is wild and soft and free.

Both men and women yearn to touch

Every inch, every ounce of me.

 

The hands caress my face and then

They move from head to shoulders,

Embrace my back, and ‘round to breast

And down to where it smolders.

 

Some soft, some firm, the fingers play

A song at that low place.

Upon the region Eros knows.

For explosions I must brace!

 

I must hold on, I cannot take

The ultimate delight.

I must hold on, must breathe, must wait,

Until the time is right.

 

No words describe my feelings as

The sweet release draws nigh.

Soon, very soon, I will give up

Myself, my soul, my cry.

 

Finally, yes blissfully,

The hands will gently trail

From end to tip, the fluffy length

Of my romantic tail.

This poem is written by Mo and is published in the last chapter of Holiday.