Paint a picture . . .

My breath is warm against your body. Your skin is tingling.  It is like watching a rose unfurl, unfolding and opening as you offer your body to me.

Your body is waiting. It is willing to be used. 

You are a blank canvas before me, the palest of palette without definition.

Without colour.

The first strokes against your skin bring delicate shades of purple and blue . . .later the patterns and textures are cultivated upon the same skin.

They mingle together, developing layer by layer, a hue of shades and colours.

Your body is like a beautifully created art work. 

Your incandescent skin is a spectrum of colours that build and changes before my eyes, the patterns and marks growing into a resplendent picture upon your skin.

Your body is illuminated. Your skin is alive.

It is exquisite.

You are  beautiful.