Have your fingers danced, Milady,
Since you last my letter read?
Have they played across your breasts,
As sinful visions filled your head?

And did they slip beneath your silk,
Into your nest of curly hair,
And seek between your netherlips,
The swollen rosebud hidden there?

Did you grow wet? Your breath grow hot?
Did you bite your trembling lip?
Did your bedsprings squeek their song,
At the rising, falling of your hips?

Did your tender nipples harden?
Did your body buck and writhe?
Did your fingers plunge inside,
The hot, wet slit between your thighs?

And did you growl a throaty growl,
And scream the scream that climax brings,
Then fall back on your sweaty sheets,
A puppet now without its strings?

Does passion's scent now fill your room?
Do wicked visions fill your head?
Do your wet fingers taste of lust?
Don't you wish it was my hand instead?