Monday, November 3, 2014
Smiling from their cosy nest,
two puppies rise and fall with her every breath,
bursting to escape, they taunt
' You'd like to feel our peachy warmth? '
Their mistress asks, 'Will that be all, sir? '
(Sir - condescending title used in shops)
I fix upon her eyes, but risk a look.
She gives a smile of tantric torture,
her wares denied yet wantonly displayed.
Those magnets draw another glance
into their force field of desire.
'Goodbye, ' they giggle in confinement,
'tonight she'll let the master stroke us.'
Topic(s) of this poem: lust