The salty air, the sand below,
No one to see the private show,
An orange dress with glints of gold,
A moving form with gestures bold.
The skirt that flies along the breeze,
The glints of skin, enough to tease.
Two loosening straps on shoulders bare,
Her laughter dancing on the air.
Each gentle curve, each palest swell,
Of her slow, torturous haven-hell,
Bewitches him with tender grace,
The fire reflected in his face.
Her golden hair a tangling mess,
Like gold of her discarded dress,
Her arms above, her leaping legs,
Her eyes with passion, mouth that begs
Without a word for his intent,
Her longings to his will are bent.
Her roaming hands upon her form,
Her eyes give invitation warm.
His darkening gaze as he insists,
She finds it futile to resist.
She ends her dance, his ankles clutch,
Surrendered, waiting for his touch.