He kneads her slowly, digging into her dough,
Flour dusts caress her skin, soft and low.
A tedious process that takes much time,
Stopping for a break is no less a crime.
She yields, expanding beneath his hands;
His palm puts the charge—she understands.
Her slender body swells in raw heat,
Fermenting a pulse, sour and sweet.
He molds her shape, square and round,
Each sweeping motion a whisperless sound.
The oven drools, its mouth aglow;
She glistens in gold—an ancient flow.
He withdraws from the altar; her scent is sin,
Baked with desires, filled from within.
He savors her crust, her molten core—
Fed enough already, yet hungry for more.