Mutual Encounter

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Taste oh taste that sweetest time.
Within a dry, dust dry mouth
For anticipation dries a gasping tongue
But wets another deeper place,
With fear and yet with deep desire.
Tension, tight tense tension,
Drawn as a hide is drawn.
To dry before the sun.
Yet here for you the sun has fled.
And darkness is the light in this allotted place.
A craftsman’s skills have spun a whip,
Of known intention and single so exacting role,
Caressed with oils to soften subtle folds,
As in turn it will again serve up its own caress.
So cheated would you feel,
If when so beautifully prepared,
You were denied its cruelest kiss,
To send you shuddering into sacred bliss.