Their form so perfect in curves, nearer to the likes of the stars, amongst, milky midnight clouds.
As Perfection rustles between the sheets and my hand glides the supple breasts; to extend out further those curves: taste and delight.
Still I can see so, the dangerous allure.
Added more so in better words than I, from a poet that placed them in "Talons and Perfume".
Would I not think to differ in the treachery of such beauty. I believe the great one of his time saw no difference, so that I liken to his thoughts; and yet how the heart rolls, and so tormented to the likes of which their eyes have locked you in; and their touch sets off the flurry of everything sensational that is great to be alive. Have I better learned to handle these emotions; better so, by my fingers pressed to each plastic digit, that spells out each alphabetical word, by just a touch of my fingers.

To, Just The Touch.. Of Her Curves