Before Comfort’s Bliss


Thighs sliding, fingers cramped, sweaty pores, moving hands.

Rocking swiftly, moving gently, moaning sounds, hefty taking.

Hands caress, muscles push, breaths grow heavy, lamps are shook.

Moving swiftly side to side until a turn brings her to rise.

Rising up from up to down, pushing forth, pulling out.

Turning over, once again, breaths do mate, fingers blend.

Kissing, touching, quaking lots, moving down from neck to next spot.

Lips do squish, tongues they kiss, elbows bend , her pelvis kicks.

Eyes they meet from eye to eye at first they see but soon they fly.

Enter back into her body, watch her glisten, feel her naughty.

Twisting over to one side, slides to hip, leg twined is fine.

Hair grows wild in his hand, pulling hard, faster again.

Moving closer, dripping sweat, to her forehead, feel her breast.

Sheets all rustle, bed does break, blankets fall and moans do rage.

Raising volume hear the sounds from one man’s push till one girl’s found.

Voices quiet, thoughts they bleed, grips of holding pressing deep.

Heads come closer, heat it rises, slanted mattress provides for driving.

Springs they rattle, muscles ache, one limb stiffens, one girl shakes.

Hurrying on, fast again, lips they meet, breaths quicken.

All at once the sounds explode as does the load as does the show.

The two embrace for one small kiss before a rest and comfort’s bliss.

– Thomas M. Watt

The Game is Love


Beautiful girl who always laughs, likes to smile, quick to dash.

Beautiful girl who flirts for free, invites the suitors, tells them to leave.

Beautiful girl who plays pretend, finds some friends, invites them in.

Beautiful girl who likes to see, how many want her, how many need.

Beautiful girl who knows she’s got it, walks around, not scared to flaunt it.

Beautiful girl whom all the men love, points her finger, off they go.

Beautiful girl who has this power, tells them no, and they all cower.

Beautiful girl who loves to say, “All love me, but I only love fame,”

Beautiful girl who claims she’ll stray, I think I just beat you at your very own game.

– Thomas M. Watt