Experience,  Poetry

Bent over the bathroom counter…

I found my sanity while
biting into my own forearm,
suppressing a scream as
I held a vibrator up
to my sexual heart
like a stethoscope
listening for the expected
thump of normality.

He pushed into me from behind
so I might go forward
with the rest of my night,
capable of breathing
and being alone.

In painful silence,
I released a day’s worth of
pent-up anxiety, relief washing
over me, and spilling out between
my twitching thighs.

He knows just the right
medicine for what ails me.

I personally love being able to look into the mirror and see him pounding away at me, his hands on my hips as if they were handles, pulling me back to enhance his thrusts.  The backs of my legs taut, calves hard, on my tip-toes to raise my ass up to meet his hungry cock.  I become a greedy envelope for his throbbing, pulsing letter, his words dribbling down the insides of my thighs like tattoos, tingling, numbing, overwhelming me with sensation that will remain for hours – a crimson heat of want and need that singes my skin several layers deep.

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