poetry

Pretty Mess

He called me a pretty, hot mess, not completely buying the fact that someone as cute, could walk the talk, 

as I loved being underestimated, it peaked my interest, elevated my flower’s beautiful grasp, 

intrigued my best to just sneak up, sealing the deal in a passioned cosmos.

For he locked it inside his mind, for future references, 

as a skillful thrill, that left him so rigid, it was hard to follow. 

The first experience would be

guilt free, only mutual

desire, expertly attacking, the excitement,

of swollen needs.

The sweet hollow breaths, stretched passed, a quest of 

guessing, 

his custom speed.

It was a winning game of chess and the Queen proceeded, guiding his 8 inch trunk, happy to take the lead.

While nipples hardened, sending ripples traipsing in every part, 

his mouth hungrily devoured, delivering performance shivers, taking me off guard.

My lady’s crest cried feverishly, moist under pressure, 

seeking his root, to adjust to my grind’s soaked pleasure.

Rotating, rocking, bouncing wholeheartedly kissing, and pressing, as he began confessing about blessing’s more mightier, 

as his words poured out making me squeeze a little tighter, 

pulling each sprayed drop of his sap’s cider.

His reach shook me, took me had me looking directly in his eyes, begging to release, 

As he began to address me, as irresistibly the best, and to give him every tasty hot intoxicating drop, 

of my pretty messiness, on his stiffness, as I humbly obliged.

By Tamara Dorsey-Moore

Thinker on the Loose-Mature Poetry 18+ Content

Copyright (c) 2017

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