It's intentional now,

your hands groping

under the blanket,

seducing the yoni

that yearns for the lingham.

You are the mistress of your domain,

and the acolytes that serve you

are made up of a

gleaming plastic

that deviate as you dream.

Memories initiate

something sensual,

the risk of exposure insinuating

an even stronger desire.

There is escalation,

a hunger to move faster

and press harder.

Before you even understand

the moment

your muffled eruption releases

into the silence of the night.

The End

1 comment about this poem Feed