I see your hands, miss. Now clasp them into mine.
Your skin begets some thorough wish that I cannot divine. And your wicked, wicked hands find their way into mine.
I watch you beg for me, young miss...my favourite madam taunting sweetly. You taunt and you tease as you fall on your knees, yet never feel beneath me while I contemplate whatever you've just done. And your wicked, cerulean hands creep behind me right before I've won.
You've seen what I woefully lack, to spiral down into a deeper trance. Touch and feel make play with one another, and heavy breaths practically exfoliate the small of your back. And your wicked, clever hands make the breaths shorter and shorter. Your wicked, expert hands make my grip weaker and weaker. What mostly shines while my words of rhythm and rhyme teeter is those wicked hands that skitter without meter. Those fucking wicked hands.