It is the pleasure of touch.
It is my need of the plays of his lust.
His fingers that linger mean so much.
He is seeking, him stirring me with touch.
Touch that I need so very much.
His touch is the possession of my lust.
Him, in possession of me, is what is a must.
Touch me, touch me is my plea within all trust.
Touch me and own me within your touch.
It is touch me there, touch me, just touch.
I need to be yours ever so much.
That is it continue to touch me, just touch.
“Oh my, I am so sorry mademoiselle, ” swiftly comes apology to the waitress as William instantly recoups his usual cool composure. “Please,...