The Vibrating Couch

The bass hums low, a sultry embrace,
Vibrations dance through this loud space.
Teeth tremble, their chatter a song,
Yet my core stays steady, fierce and strong.

The haze of smoke curls, thick in the air,
No lover needed—just me and this chair.
Each pulse, each beat, a rhythm divine,
A secret pleasure that’s solely mine.

But then he passes, his glance a fire,
Eyes ignited by raw desire.
He sees the flush, the quake of my knees,
Knows my body’s tuned to the couch's tease.

Drunken words, a bold confession,
A whispered note of sweet obsession:
"It's cake," I said, "so moist, so lush,
A taste of heaven, a sinful rush."

Yet he hesitates, showing deferential,
Craving the touch he knows he can’t bring.
So he watchs silent torn apart
A voyer lost in forbidden art.
The base relentless drives me higher
A fire stoked like a symphony.
Watching knowing I'm cumming to the vibrations on the couch when I'm supposed to be working.

NP