She asked me to touch her.
I obliged.
I kissed her soft lips
We set on fire
I touched and nipped at her breasts
I let my fingers scratch a path
To the centre of one being
I rip her pants off with total abandon
I begin my mission of moan.
I machine gun tongue her clit and finger her g-spot .
She loses control and her gratitude if all over my face.
It's a smile of a thank you that I will never wash off.
YOU ARE READING
Salad Days
PoetrySad poems from sad and angry times. Written from a juvenile time (14 years old) to older. That's what you get when you leave a teen to ponder reality. A pen hits reality harder than high school survival. Original Art from Vivianne Rheaume
