Behind Closed Doors
I trust him but he doesn't trust me.
a string of loose whores dangling from his past can do that to a man.
All we have are precious moments, there is no future.
In a way, he’s no different to those whores but I don't mind when we touch, if he uses me hard until the feeling of being freshly fucked can be identified in the ongoing pulsation that's forthcoming as I remain tender and swollen.
Hoping, for another moment to unfold as he pounds me senseless until my common sense diminishes, and I’m gasping for breath as he leaves me gaping.
The touch of his hand, and the need within his kiss tells me more than words, unspoken.