You wore black, but I saw only pink. Not Barbie pink, but mighty shades of living salmon muscle.
Multiple moving pinks sculpted your being, from dark smoky inside pink to pastel fresh blushing flesh. The pinks of a salmon swimming upstream, against all odds. Leaping, to get there there and make more! Make eggs and reproduce.
Your black leggings hugged your muscled thighs; all that hot running you have been doing has strengthened you.
I see pink thighs, after a race; strong and bold in their gripping desire around my slim, athletic willingness. Your black shirt is loose across your breasts I notice the bra strap, so thin and shiny.
I see pink nipples, on pale breasts. Your breasts so small in comparison to your muscles; no fat, not white fat, just pink muscles tight with the throb of you; perky with the sweat of you, urgent with the desire of you.
And pink between your curly black; down there where thighs reach up to and out of your core; your sit-ups stretching, Pilates pulling brawny core. And your shoulders, so bulked and strong. Like a farm girl you go to your knees to push up and go down in the rhythm of a rocking animal, bowing and moaning in the strain and pressure of your challenge. I see pink knees, reddened from the pressure on the floor.
Yet here you stand in black, on the sunny springtime lawn, surrounded by company, holding your wine glass.
But I see you lying in a pasture, with me. My stamina serves your demands as you devour my manhood into your womb. I see pink rising, raging, thrashing, unabashed, unashamed, hefty, mighty, grand and loud! And then without a pause, without a warning moment to savor its arrival, the enormous pink upheaval of your blood, delivering a red hot-iron rage of orgasm.
Pink, Pink the Glory of pink becoming red! Only the sound of your howl is not pink. That is black like your garments: the black of a thunder cloud roaring its mighty storm as wailing together we drench in our rains.