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A passionate encounter
That dress slashed to the thigh,
I will trace it with my tongue.
The belt that cinches it at the waist
Shall become a ring of kisses.

Those hips will cut me I know,
If not them then her stare shall
Turn to me stone. Wait do not go!
Let me look you over once more.

A man waits in the shadows for her,
Shadows of her eyes that do
So light the room, that do so
Guide me to her.

And with that the dress flutters
Round the corner and it is gone.
I pick up my drink, down it quick,
Following the click of heels.

The rain has made the cobbles slick,
And she stands with her dress
Soaking her to the skin,
I offer her a hand into the taxi.

She flashes me a smile,
Grabs my hand and pulls me down,
That gorgeous mouth giggles
As we land in the cab.

I reach up her dress as she gives
The driver a destination,
Though I don’t care where.
I know where I’m going.

She goes silent as my fingers
Find her and I throw her a look
Of surprising arousal. It seems
Miss blue dress doesn’t wear panties.

She waits for me to make to move,
God she is totally still,
The silence is broken by a soft squeal
As her cunt is fondled.

She whispers something, but
I cannot hear her, and so she grasps
My face and pulls me up to those eyes,
“Take me. Now. I don’t care about him”
As she flicks her head to the driver,
I flick my fingers across her clit.
My my, the blue dress is damp
With more than just rain.

I probe her mouth with my tongue,
I can feel her jump with every
Touch of that most sensitive organ,
A perfect little moan follows each one.

I kiss down her neck, a soft bite here
And a nibble there. She sticks out her chest,
Begging me to devour them.
I rip down the top with my teeth.

There they are, I think,
Those dangerous curves,
That makes men lose their minds
And lay down their coats.

I swiftly bury my head on that
Firm flesh, the scent of her perfume
As I lick and suckle and bite,
God it’s intoxicating.

My finger still inside her,
Her breath heavy and heavier,
The breasts rising to meet my lips,
Her cunt thrusting at my hand.

“Please. Harder, I need it”
She begs me so, in a voice
Made of molten gold,
So one becomes three.

Three inside her, curled deeply,
Poor Mr Thumb left to rub her clit,
Small and firm circles,
Drives her crazy.

What a filthy mouth she has,
I think as I practically chew at
Her breasts, harder and nastier
And filthier and faster.

I can feel her starting to tense against
My crooked fingers and she slams her thighs,
Trapping them inside her as her shudders
Turns to a tremor, turns to a spasm.

And suddenly the floodgates are opened,
And my hand is wetter than the rain,
Drenched, soaked, saturated, sodden,
Take your pick, the taste is exquisite.

I feel her hand on my hard cock,
Straining against my jeans.
Instead I move her fingers away;
“The night is still young, my love.”

anonymous readerReport

2013-03-18 15:54:04
I love sexual poems they show that even the most primal instinct in humans is made eloquent through poetry by the way my name is Mrs etheridge I am a teacher at glenbrook I am married but looking for somthing else call me at 604 314 3091

anonymous readerReport

2013-03-01 08:00:23
That's a smart answer to a tircky question

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