Erotic Christmas Poetry
An intensely erotic poem by satnrose
I,
sleeping in a borrowed bed,
in the year before the mob,
and the sound of the radio down in the living room distant and indistinct,
speaking in voices I didn't really understand a word of before nodding off,
I couldn't remember whether the bell went off
or if I was prisoned in the afternoon or freed in the morning.
The door
opening slowly quietly letting in the two faint perfumes,
one from her scent and the other desire,
like an out-of-control flame alerting the firehouse in the back of the medulla,
seeping down the levels of air until ignition started
at the tiniest part of the edge of thought,
keeping my eyes shut,
but knowing that she was in the room,
and who she was,
and who she was not,
clenching my left hand so she would not see that I was awake.
It was the afternoon after all, and I was at the low.
Outside, snow.
Somewhere it is always snowing.
Somewhere there is always a hearth to be started, and it started.
There was no way to stop it, I didn't want to stop it, I couldn't stop it.
There was a purr, or maybe a growling I knew wasn't me.
Something sinuous sleeked alongside me, I did not move.
She pulled the layers away,
she took hold till tumescent,
then the tongue on the tip,
the tongue round the round,
the tongue slipped down,
the teeth so soft.
Series One: 08 by Shunga (available at ObsessionArt.com)
Now standing, she undid her blouse, unhooked her bra,
wiggled out, unbent, and carefully, so not to wake, not knowing or caring if I was,
took what in her hands and she mounted, and slithered me inside her.
At first gently rocking, expertly silent,
trying not to tug too much,
the warmth of her surrounding.
She then was still, but trembling, a muffled hiss, and then, not caring,
worked herself as far as she could, put her hands on my chest, and worked.
I opened my eyes, but she had her head back, eyes closed, mouth ohed,
swinging against the ceiling,
I put my hands on her hips, and, if she then knew,
she didn't pause or skip.
But, still holding back her voice,
but unable to stop the hum, the want, the not yet first cry.
We ran leg to leg,
toward the pour,
the best getting better,
finally she looked down at me
but there was no surprise.
How could there be?
She rode the smoke,
making her own clouds.
I completely entranced.
I tickled the sides of her breasts, feather fingered,
journeying from tit to hip with the lightest of light contact.
She shivered as she moaned, and then lay down full body on mine,
her lips against my ear and said,
"This, this."
Her sweat brought the odor into full focus,
encasing the lobes in red,
my future now gone,
my past a lie.
And when she began to arrive,
she sat up again and pressed herself as hard against me as she could,
shook,
and fell into me.
I held her, kept her enlocked, and rolled her over, pushing deeper, began my climb.
She opened her eyes and looked surprised,
then I kissed her delight, drumming her body.
She put her fingernails into the smallest part of my back.
I stroked her hair as I looked in her soul.
She couldn't look away.
This went on.
Again, she shocked. Again, she shocked.
This was what I wanted. This was what she wanted.
Finally, she could no longer see. Every relax in her fell.
I disengaged out and away, and twist her over,
elevated her hips, she on her knees now,
head in pillow,
and I entered again. Again.
Now aloud,
she could hold nothing back.
She cried, she sobbed, she alarmed.
The white blood spit into her. Spit once more. Spit once more.
Then it was my turn to fall.
She climbed into my arms and said again, "This, this."
And I had to agree.
Originally published December 2009