Kiss

I was lounging in sheer black lingerie and black velour heels

the last time you walked into my bedroom.

You swooped

as stealth as a fighter pilot,

planted your face between my thighs,

and carpet bombed my panties with little kisses,

each kiss blooming pleasure

like a dark flower on the surface of the thin lace,

leaving a wet trace.

 

You pushed my panties aside and attacked my pussy with your tongue,

savagely tender, lusciously viscous,

licking the juice,

lapping at the folds of my clitoris,

making me cry out

in anguish

for you to enter me.

 

And so you did.

I got on my knees

and you grasped the spikes of my heels in your hands

and slowly slid inside me from behind,

your hardness plunging

into plush wetness,

as a grunt-like sigh of ecstatic relief escaped from your lips,

the universal relief that men feel

when they return for a moment

to the womb of Woman’s embrace.

 

I twisted around to kiss your mouth,

but you playfully withheld,

and I begged for it, puckering and opening wide and pleading with my eyes.

You stared back at me, unyielding,

then spit hot and wet into my mouth

for me to swallow.

And only then,

with the hard and calculated mercy of a man,

you kissed me.