Picture a curve.

Picture a curve.  It is flat and smooth.  Warm and soft, suddenly there is an opposite curve. This curve is much larger, one of heaviness, it has volume. It peaks and turns back on itself. What a wonderful curve.

She is asleep. She has no idea of how fascinating her curves are. That is part of the fun. Except for her breathing, there is no movement. Just a slight rise and fall of those curves. When awake, she will drape gossamer fabrics over them, then a panoply of heaver and heaver clothes, layers that will conceal those perfect curves.

It is almost impossible not to run my hand over her. To experience, to enjoy. But I can’t. To do so is to run the risk of waking her. So, I will have to be content to just sigh and gaze. A slight dip to the navel, a slight rise below that. It is cold in the room, and her body has crinkly bumps my body doesn’t have. Wonderful dips, valleys and hills.

She stirs. Rolls to the side, revealing her back and shoulder. Perhaps she subconsciously knows she is being watched. Actually she is being admired. Perhaps even worshiped. Propped up on an elbow, I now lay back down next to her and enjoy her heat. Tomorrow I will remember the curves.