Write me an oasis. Pen us a provocative exploration of our bodies, told just with the pictures painted with our minds.

I want you to dip your quill in the deep-rimmed, darkly dreaming velvety pinkness of my iridescent ink. Dusty Rose Rogue Shimmer pigment. A stroke, to make a mark, a scribe, a scritch, an itch to scratch from rhythmic, quick throbbing thirst quench after nothing but desert.

The push, and drip, of the tip of an elongated pendagger, swinging and swaying desperately, pulled magnetically to the crimson sheath, as it lines up for the plunge, deep and piercing to the well. Heavy and thick, resting the head of the tool upon the mounds of the open mouthed valley.

Lust after me with your lexicon. Play me those notes for me, alone. Sing poetry with nothing more than harmonious vibrations strummed from deep within. Feeling the whelping ache and heat of realized passion come to fruit, a milk-white refresh of warm rain pouring from the nib, your seed seeping between the plowed lips of freshly plunged earth.

Fuck, I want you. I want to write naughty things with, and for you.