I just read a poem, written purely for me.
But pure, it wasn’t.
In it, I was asked to do things: filthy, dirty, disgusting.
You begged me to do things; things I shouldn’t.
You begged me to do things; things I couldn’t.
You begged me to do things; things I wouldn’t.
Browsing the readers’ comments,
knowing the poem was for me,
I sensed an audience watching my movements.
My heartbeat quickened.
My skin grew warm.
My fingers found my wet lips.
My middle finger pressed against my clit,
rubbing, circling, stroking,
spreading the wet of my pussy.
With the pace of my finger,
my breath came faster.
I dipped one, two, three fingers into my aching hole.
A sigh of contentment
as my muscles tighten
around my hand – your hand?
reaches inside me,
your fingers whispering in the darkest pink.
folding fingers into your palm,
stretching that small, important part of me.
enticing, sliding, flying
in and out of my cunt.
living and breathing inside me,
pushing in then sliding out.
answering your call,
quivering, thrashing, dancing in concert with you.
Our audience roars with approval,
as I cry and shudder and
cum in your hand – my hand?
I think about the things you asked me to do;
the filthy, dirty, disgusting things.
The things you promise to do to me tomorrow.