While in a meeting, your naked form invades
my wandering mind. I try to persuade
my brain to focus, but its decision has been made.
I can think of nothing but getting laid.
I text you to say I’m horny as hell.
Thoughts of addressing my own needs, to yell
out my release to an unnerving level,
pervade my daydreams causing me to melt
between the pressure of my own thighs.
With the sudden rush, imagine my surprise…
my face crimson-flushed, my eyes open wide.
While driving home, I slip my fingers in.
Feeling the desire course through swollen skin,
I glance at the driver beside me…and grin.
Another poetry experiment from the Poet’s Garret – The Arabian Sonnet (aaaa, bbbb, ccc, ddd).
I’m sure this wasn’t at all and intended subject for a sonnet of this design – but, what the hell…
I had one of those days. Trapped in a dark meeting room, wishing I were at home having sex instead. I did, indeed, text Mr. LL that I was horny…which he found amusing. But, alas, I did not have a spontaneous orgasm (though I have had at least one in my life, it hasn’t been since my early teen years) – it’s an intriguing thought to me. I suppose if I concentrated hard enough and was turned on enough…I could probably manage it – I have a sneaking suspicion that if someone tied my hands and teased me long enough, I wouldn’t be able to contain it – even if I was denied permission.
And the drive home…totally true. Just plain couldn’t help myself. Couldn’t manage to get off, though. Which left me cranky when I got home. Had to clean up, cook dinner, and kiss Mr. LL goodbye (I hate the night shift). So, here I am…increasingly sexually frustrated.
And Mr. LL wasn’t a help. On the contrary. He felt me up in the shower, tweaked my nipple on his way out the door. Yes…he’s enjoying this far too much for it to not be at least somewhat intentional.
“It’s mine…I’ll touch it when I want.”
Yes, dear…it’s yours. So very and completely yours. And it wants every inch of you. Right. Now.
|The Lustful Literate|