Editor's ChoiceLove PoemsPoetry

Fucking Cold

The harmattan season
A perfect fucking weather
For married couples

The cold swept through our vines
Her lips sent chills to my sex
The magnificent skill of her tongue
Sent my balls to heaven

The season flowed the moment
My mouth buried in-between her tighs
As I savoured, she moaned
Shocks of pleasure
Goosed her skin

The more I ate deep
The louder she screamed
One finger—her sex tickled
Two more—made her hungry

With eyes burning with desire
Her hole sent pink invitation
Leaving the the door ajar
To my exploration

In slow and steady mood
I took to action
Hungrily feasting on her clit
As I walked through her navel

A grip of pleasure glued my head
to her fraganced clit
Depriving me of nature’s air
Yet filling me with sweet scent

With every inhale
Came warm dioxide
Sending warm chills
To her plalatable buds

As I bent to began work
In deep connection
She widened her leg
Waiting for my strike

As she said,
“It’s hamattan season
A perfect fucking weather
To make babies”

In a motion of pleasure and pain
We clung together
Her bare tighs wrapped around
My manly back
We began to journey with every energy we got

As we rode in the speed of the hero flash
Our bodies danced in rhyming tempo
As I thrusted into her dark slippery cave
The doctor’s words came pounding

“Trying to make babies
Is a total waste of time
Cause you are
Simpy shooting blanks”

But do you blame me?
I hope you don’t
Blame the harmattan
It got us fucking cold.

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