You hold me like a guitar,
gently cradling me on your lap,
my body turned from yours.
I lean back, resting my head
against the curve of your shoulder.
Your left hand strums my nipple,
each touch deliberate,
while your right parts my lower lips—
a symphony in motion.
Your breath, warm on my neck,
is a prelude to the melody your fingers begin.
Two strings—your ring and middle finger—
slip inside me, perfect chords
that fit like they were meant to play.
Each movement, deliberate and sure,
draws a shiver from deep within.
I grasp your wrist,
my nails pressing crescendos into your skin,
a low purr spilling into your ear.
You push harder, faster,
your rhythm pulling me in,
deeper with every beat.
Make music with me, I murmur,
rocking my hips,
grinding into the heat of you.
I crave your moans,
your voice vibrating against my neck—
a bassline, grounding us both.
Your fingers curl, upward and knowing,
their slick glide quickening.
I hear the melody they create,
wet and raw,
and open wider,
inviting more.
I sing for you—
your name, sweet and unrestrained,
a harmony spilling to your palm.
And then, on your cue,
you tell me to come.
My body obeys,
a crescendo in your hands.
YOU ARE READING
Pink Blunts - Poetry
PoetryPink Blunts is a collection of my minds ideas. Let's say I'm trying to make sense of my brains none sense! Whether high or sober, our hearts and minds never stop wanting... wanting more in life, more love, hatred, lust and other things. We're all...
