She decided it came down to trust,
She, like him, bursting, brim-full with lust;
They’d entirely strip,
He’d put in just the tip,
Part her lips, rub and slip, but not thrust!
Tag: lips
The laps of the gods
The boys think she’s a gift from the gods;
A boy winks, and she giggles and nods.
A quick brush of their lips,
Then it’s down with their zips,
And in no time, they’re shooting their wads!
Tell-tale signs
Her dress clung by a few stubborn threads;
Her voluptuous figure turned heads,
Her smug smile, her bruised lips,
Swaying walk, her grazed hips,
And her hymen, of course, torn to shreds.
A word in his ear
She drew close, pressed her lips to his ear,
Said something he couldn’t quite hear;
Her tongue, warm and wet,
Though they’d only just met,
Made her meaning abundantly clear!
In rut
His eyes widened, his hefty prick swelled,
Reason fled, he felt madly compelled,
By the sway of her hips,
Her full breasts, bee-stung lips,
Not to mention the way that she smelled.
Through a glass, darkly
She seductively, slowly disrobes,
Her hands cup her pink, pendulous globes,
She winks, pouts at the glass,
Smacks herself on the arse,
Parts her cunt lips, rubs, flutters and probes.
The crease
Between women’s smooth thighs is a crease,
With, above and around it, a fleece,
And, within it, soft lips,
From which oozes and drips
A sweet nectar! Will wonders not cease!
Whispering sweet nothings
She’s a quaint anatomical freak;
She tells men her vagina can speak,
Then she giggles and strips,
And she can move her lips,
But her pussy can’t do more than squeak.
A different complexion
By the lamplight, he sees, as he peeks,
Her full lips and her plump, rosy cheeks,
Her long, curly, dark hair;
He continues to stare:
It’s a glimpse of her face that he seeks!
The chic clique
Women long to belong to the clique
Of the sleek and the terribly chic;
Of those simply unable
To wear a cheap label,
To cover their scrawny physique.
They imagine they have a mystique,
Unconcerned by the chaos they wreak;
Anorexia looms,
For those vanity dooms
To the struggle to feel unique.
Eyebrows, lips, bum and hips get a tweak,
Then some sculpting of chin and the beak;
And no sane woman rests
Without plumping her breasts
With prostheses that harden and leak.
They know well, it’s of them that I speak,
Women passing their sexual peak;
They who inwardly rage
At the coming of age,
To whom life unobserved seems so bleak.
So they lie, and they cheat, and they sneak,
Make themselves into some sort of freak;
Despite smooth, unlined faces,
The airs and the graces,
They’re sad, and pathetic, and weak.