The well of the iris


Your velvety wet tongue parts my lips while your fingers press past and in, beginning to slowly fill me.

A first, then a second, then a third.

Drenched and warm and opening to you, I open to the air and the sun and the earth.

Your velvety wet tongue laps slippery circles and your fingers press up inside me. I feel them with my own hand, as I push down against my belly, touching you, through me.

And then you slide a fourth, and I feel your thumb, poised, and I push against you and my body engulfs you, slowly, as our eyes lock and we join souls.

I feel as expansive as the breeze that blows across our bodies, as light as the silver in your hair and as deep as the well of the iris whose bloom stopped us in our path and brought us to the ground.

I want to ride the breath of this breeze and the rocking of your hand forever.

Photo by Molly Montrevoir

~ by Molly Montrevoir on July 13, 2007.

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