[Mister Saint]: 79.Mature.Game
"Games We Play"
Seven on the marble face sounds tinkling bells to life.
The game begins-- you cannot wait.
Creep between the door and jamb in stealth.
Quiet now, you know I might be here.
Pad your naked feet from plank to plank.
Breathe a sticky breath and let me watch the fibers
stretch across your luscious chest.
I live to see that cloth in tatters,
dangling, shredded thread draped
idle on your shoulders,
hiding nothing from my eyes.
Pit, pat, I love the slap
your feet make on the floor.
You turn to latch the door behind.
Your legs go on and on,
here, round as dripping berries
growing wild in sweat-drenched summer,
there, hard, like autumn earth
beneath your back, as leaves
cling wetly, moistly sucking
to your skin.
I love the way you've flung your skirt aside.
I see it melding on the deck beyond the glass.
Sighing, you caress the slick-warm door,
taunting, teasing, swaying
in your pale pink panties,
darkly stained in spots.
I ponder on the scent of warm and wet.
I see my chance, and spring.
Your muscles tense to iron, but the struggling dwindles
swiftly as I clasp and pin your wrists.
"Oh," you purr, you gush in velvet voice,
"I wondered where you were."
My smile wraps its legs
around your neck. I feel you
press against me, damp
pink cloth to glistening flesh.
All that separates our love is pink.
You beg me, pleading, "Kiss me, deeply,"
and I kneel to comply.
You've always liked these little games.