Throne of Sighs
(For Fin, my silver-haired Elf, who knows exactly where he belongs... above me.)
Beneath the trees where starlight weaves,
And night birds hush among the leaves,
I wait.. heart thrumming, mouth aglow
For the Elf whose hips I ache to know.
He walks with silence, sure and slow,
With eyes like frost and moonlit glow.
A silver mane, a quiet smirk,
He’s carved from grace, from peace, from mirth.
No horn nor crown, no blade in hand
Just the kind of power that doesn't need to stand.
He straddles me like he owns the stars,
And I welcome him, legs wide as Mars.
He settles in, a noble claim,
Upon my face, he breathes my name.
His thighs are warm, his rhythm pure,
And I become the forest floor... secure.
Each sigh a spell, each twitch a plea,
Each rock of hips a gift to me.
Tongue devoted, hands entwined,
This Elf is kind, composed, refined.
No golden halls or woven throne
Could match the weight of Fin alone.
No song of old, no sword of kings
Just the ride of him, and the ache it brings.
His hair spills down like falling grace,
As he rides the gasp from my hungry face.
He owns the night, the trees, the sky
But more than that, he owns my cry.
And when he breaks in trembling bliss,
With stuttered moan and breathless kiss,
I’ll hold him close and beg for more
For his throne is here
And I’m the floor.
And night birds hush among the leaves,
I wait.. heart thrumming, mouth aglow
For the Elf whose hips I ache to know.
He walks with silence, sure and slow,
With eyes like frost and moonlit glow.
A silver mane, a quiet smirk,
He’s carved from grace, from peace, from mirth.
No horn nor crown, no blade in hand
Just the kind of power that doesn't need to stand.
He straddles me like he owns the stars,
And I welcome him, legs wide as Mars.
He settles in, a noble claim,
Upon my face, he breathes my name.
His thighs are warm, his rhythm pure,
And I become the forest floor... secure.
Each sigh a spell, each twitch a plea,
Each rock of hips a gift to me.
Tongue devoted, hands entwined,
This Elf is kind, composed, refined.
No golden halls or woven throne
Could match the weight of Fin alone.
No song of old, no sword of kings
Just the ride of him, and the ache it brings.
His hair spills down like falling grace,
As he rides the gasp from my hungry face.
He owns the night, the trees, the sky
But more than that, he owns my cry.
And when he breaks in trembling bliss,
With stuttered moan and breathless kiss,
I’ll hold him close and beg for more
For his throne is here
And I’m the floor.
