Pretty Naked Woman

God, you're beautiful. The delicacy of your nature inspires me.

I love that you're always there for me, putting your body on display like an erotic porcelain doll in a curio. But you're just out of reach. I can't touch you. I won't touch you, lest I contaminate your beauty with my unworthy hands. You are the untouchable, the unfathomable gift bestowed unto me by God's artistic hands.

You stand there with your arms in the air, hands clasped, knees crossed, your curves like a smooth white silk ribbon gently twisted at the center. Perfect symmetry. Your holiest of places beckons me forward, yet I sit still, examining your lines and curves, caressing your soft pale skin with my deep brown eyes. Our colors match.

I imagine our bodies intertwined, your rounded thighs gently grasping my narrow waist, inviting me deeper into the chasm from which I cannot escape - not by design, but by sheer will. I fall deeper and deeper into your graceful embrace until your breasts are one with my chest. So supple and full, they are, moving and shifting with each aggressive pulse. I feel at home, comforted by your immaculate existence.

I awaken from the momentary dream to see you lightly straddling the arm of the chaise, your weight resting on your delicate arms. Your flowing hair drapes over your back and shoulders, a waterfall of seduction leading over the scoop of your lower back, over the smoothly curved precipice, to the pool between your legs. Again you beckon.

"I long to feel you. Clasp my sultry hips and penetrate me."

Your voice whispers in my mind like the coolest of breezes, rustling my imagination as fall leaves on the greenest of lawns. Your lips part, full and red with desire, and you exhale a sigh as I enter.

"This is what I want. I exist solely for your pleasure."

You feel as liquid silk inside. You squeeze, and I shudder. Is this what it is to make love? Why do your subtle moans torment me so? Look over your shoulder with half-closed dreamy eyes, and the corner of your mouth raises. Yes, you love it.

Or so I imagine.

How can God create something so exquisite as to tempt and tease me from a time and place I have never known? You define what it means to be a woman. And there you lie, naked before me, urging me to objectify you in my fantasies. Yet I can't. I won't. To spoil this image of perfect beauty would be to affront the forces of nature that created you. You are not an object.

You are a woman. You are beauty incarnate.