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deepundergroundpoetry.com

On the Verge

His index finger perched inside the rim,
Twas not coronal slipping of my quim,
But inched inside he reticent begins,
To push inside sub-rosa realms therein.
The glowing of my cheeks their reddened blush,
The unexpected swerving of my bush,
Although he used the flowing of my flush,
To catch my breath in teasing of my tush.

His gentle dipping there a sweet foreplay,
For something more substantially risqué.
Sky_dancer
Written by Sky_dancer
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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runaway-mindtrain AspergerPoet56
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