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The Surprise -- Part I
Piercing the shower’s spray was his voice in song; his medley of favorites crooned, Sam Cooke style.
Sam, ruler of our happy place, we loved above all; his rhapsodic bliss conjured memories and a smile.
This tale bears witness to John Steinbeck’s truth that best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry;
my meticulously planned surprise to the tiniest detail, laboring over every cross of “T” and dot of “I”.
His “trial of the century” had dragged on and on; my very own Perry Mason was First-Chair Litigator;
by unanimous jury decision, his verdict was won; I decided a special reward Della Street’s Gladiator!
Extended absence usually caused him severe MSB, a problem of which I knew what had to be done;
a hot red herring awaited; moist and ready to eat, my mouth watered thinking of his smoking gun.
First and foremost comes a P-Spot massage for MSB relief; a never-fail remedy for maximum drain,
which I ingest greedily via both pairs of lips for the mood-altering happy chems that keep me sane.
I was high-strung in anxious in anticipation; on arrival he’d find a wanton woman and bitch in heat;
ready to be naughty-nice nasty, all day and night and day; taste of victory, spicy, savory and sweet!
Dressed in sexy black shorty, sheer and barely there; to shock and surprise him entering the door.
So much for the best laid plans of mice and men; two steps in and he was kissing me from floor.
Shhh he signaled, “only pleasured sighs allowed”, wielding the power of three I never could resist.
One: left hand nudging, guiding me closer until, two: his face is lost in my cavern so warmly kissed.
And, third, my lotus flower was a succulent melon in his palm; four fingers spread lips, a fifth poked,
searching beneath the standing woman for her G-Spot, which he found, teased and gently stroked.
Every dream, plan and fantasy flew from my head, leaving one sensation of suck-pressure-squeeze.
My mind tried frantically to navigate the waves; my voice, a distant screaming whisper, “pleeease!”
No pity in the naked city, never did he sway; quivering legs of jelly were no match for waves of spasm;
frenzied fingers clutched at shoulders, back and hair for anchor against undertow of storming orgasm.
He guided cheeks in to fully engulf his suck, finger-stroking my throbbing G in rhythm with his head.
As primal she-beast lowings turned bated breath, he stopped suddenly and carried me off to our bed.
To be continued . . .
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Published 23rd Jul 2015
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31st Jul 2015 9:12am
13th Aug 2015 6:06pm
Let me give you some constructive criticism: "brevity is the soul of wit," like Shakespeare said. A common mistake people make is to over-write a poem. Here's something original from me, myself. Not Shakespeare. A poem is like a fruit tree. A farmer will prune the branches of his tree. So that the sap will go directly into producing more fruit, rather than in feeding the unneeded leaves and twigs.
Do you see what I'm getting at?
Do you see what I'm getting at?
