Sodden sheets

 

pulsating with such insatiable need,

yearning which infests both body and soul,

for you’re not there, for desires to heed,

grows to a hunger, so hard to control,

when all I want to do is touch myself,

even in office, with others around,

those furtive fingers, that relieve oneself,

teeth gripping lip, so I don’t make a sound,

or when I get home, and shackles truly shed,

imagining I’m following your command,

that you want to watch me, upon the bed,

hips grinding against my tormenting hand,

thighs glistening and sticky with my need,

abandoning myself as the passion heats,

till relieving that want, finally succeed,

there amidst my now crumpled, sodden sheets.

 

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