The Church Of Satisfaction

Their rebellious refusal to engage convention
dictates that Sunday mornings are to be sacred;
the fresh aroma of dark roast
wafts from cups on the coffee table
easing into the morning
lounging on the sofa
her plush robe parted
his rayon pyjamas conforming
to his lower body

Seasoned by the years
many others hustle to get dressed
to make Sunday's sermon

Propped at the edge
partially seated,
she weaves her body
into comfort
his arm around her shoulders
her head at this chest

The imprint of his shape
drawn hard by her
light, coercive teasing
fingers trailing the fabric
across the ridge of his tip

A free hand
tormenting her nipples
edging the robe out of the way
while the other
brushes past her forehead,
cheek
ear

A bay window
flushes them in sunlight
as they manipulate
the chosen spots
that will respond

She extracts him
from the hold of pyjamas
delicately slipping him
into her wet mouth

Turning around
and lifting
to the required position
planting her gorgeous ass
and responsive opening
to be tantalized
by his full licks
swaddled in her care
he probes deeper
his extended tongue
guided by her motions
until he shoots
a healthy stream
of her summoning
and clamps her
prisoner to his face
until she shatters

They have surrendered
to the Church of Satisfaction,
a temple in the home
to be repeated weekly.