Someone should hymn Sarah, of the
bounteous breasts and gentle smile:
Sarah, who could hold her own
drinking beer; who could make
Brownian Motion make sense in a
heathen’s mind; who had the
balls to take a
timid boy’s virginity; be
generous about those
first fumblings; could
laugh afterwards at the
misapprehension of the stains of
vigorous sex on
cheap pink sheets.
Someone should hymn Sarah,
kind ravisher of innocence, and
since it was I, it
should be me.
The spirits go up as the
gin goes down and you
waggle your bum in an
unsubtle invitation, chanting
“The mites go up and the
tights come down” until
they do.
I miss the intimacy of
toes on instep, of
knee against hamstring.
loins and buttocks
stickily nestled, hands
tight clasped between
cooling breasts, mouth
buried in thick hair I could
happily drown in.
Even as they droop closed, your
dark eyes glint with a
last fire-lick of lust, your
desire merely
banked for the morning.
The collar is thick, designed
at least for a Great Dane, the
chain heavy enough to restrain a
large beast but instead it
decorates the slender throat of a
beautiful woman, kneeling,
offering the leather handle, her
mouth open, perfectly red and
begging to be fed.
Her peroration on Johnson, Hume and
Austen had the audience in the
palm of her hand where,
ten minutes later, in a
carefully chosen Disabled Toilet, she
held my balls as she sucked me, the
fingers of her other hand frantically
frigging her startlingly bare slit so
naked under the respectable dress in which
she’d lectured about Austen and
Hume and Johnson.
For Josie
Her first boyfriend was her hairbrush, or
at least its handle, the shape of which
held some sort of penile promise, and no
potential embarrassment from a
boy at the other end.
Pet’s room smelt of pussy
so I knew she’d played with herself
all day while I worked and now
slept, surrounded by an
impressive array of toys suitable for
both orifices, her body
half-hidden amidst the
tousled sheets, sated yet
insatiable, waiting to be
woken for more like a
precious pink Peri.
