Her Path To Composure

Tucked in the tuft
between the dusk and the dawn
she slides on red fishnets
to turn herself on

She savours these minutes
that she is alone
it gives her full freedom
to casually roam

She assesses her body
in a long bedroom mirror
it took her some coaching
to get through the fear

She never suspected
the depravity of a man
too many have been pardoned
for dishonourable demands

A glass of Shiraz
sits on her dresser
just a quick little taste
to relieve the pressure

She follows her shape
contours reflected
and travels through time
an arousal injected

Her passionate mouth
weaves its way through the bristles
She thinks of that receptionist
and her pink little nipples

It conditions the appetite
only she can fulfill
those covert interactions
provoke a waterfall of thrills

Ripples of remembrance
stirring hand to parched slit
like she learned from Melinda
and her black leather whip

The demand is increasing
and her cheeks fill with heat
she sees her whole congregation
closing in for a peak

Her nerves are responding
and her snatch has grown slick
the small holes in the fishnets
catch and tug at her clit

If Melinda could see her
she would offer the toy
kept in the night drawer
that they both would employ

They would often take turns
in their tangle of flesh
they would twist it and turn it
as it pierced the soaked depths

A spasm begins
the jarring sting of her whip
jamming fingers inside her
all her tension goes limp

She opens her eyes
calmly sips at the wine
she slides off the fishnets
until the next time

Sunday is sacred
and the day must start early
The Minister needs her rest
before tomorrow's duties.