Author Information
Ottoman
I pull hard at the door knob,
It opens and I cheekily flit in,
The room is dimly lit, a cough,
And I spy her there sitting,
On an ottoman with pronounced upward curve,
She continues placed and asks,
Would you lock the door?
I have for you a task.
And with that arises naked, my suggest,
Sees put her slender fingers on my hips,
Pulling herself into my chest,
And sensually licks her lips.
Her hair is auburn naturally,
Get undressed and get ready to love,
Says she with a casual air,
As I gently caress her cups.
Undressing like no tomorrow,
Her nipples are outlined on the wall,
As if some sleasy video borrowed,
As hard as a rock with no chance for recall.
She moves toward the couch,
With an enticing smile,
And my loss of blood counts,
The weapon seen a mile,
Or two, she wants to wrap,
Around me and go to the juice,
And with the occaisonal groan slap,
We a frenzied transfiguration reduce.
As the slish and the slush compels,
To entangle ouselves amore in,
The other part or parts not to tell,
Then the gush and the ecstatic fin'.
And we lie exhausted in release,
With a fumble for a smoke,
As another kiss on the cheek,
Has freed a couple of loads.
I for one am stunned.
As I read the lines, I saw the author within you… entwined in the poet that you are. Nonetheless, I am glad that I found no commentary from you as the writer on this one. The picture is crystal clear, and is it ever beautiful.
I often find it interesting to see what people will get out of my work without me telling them what it is about or what I wanted it to portray. I find here that you did just that. And while your topic is evident, one can only speculate what you were thinking or wishing to convey.
Thank you for the journey.