Sparring Partners

Sparring Partners

She says he smells gorgeous, so fresh,

breathes in his dark scented neck

in lungfuls, for she’s never tasted Arabic;

or wound it around her tongue,

feels fever-spangled shivers shoot

from eyes to thighs; oh, but she’s cute,

leans crammed chest cross-counter,

now presenting flashed red lace,

flush faced, plunge necked arousal,

hushabye pinked pledges,

deep clasped shadowed delights;

premiering a fuller showing,

a late all-nighter private screening,

flashlight, expert guide him through dusk

to her shared cushioned seat

some gluey hot and stifling night.

His greedy gaze strip searches, slowly:

open lips, moist, milky-white breasts,

lingering long over all the rest,

which he knows she knows all knowing,

spots his throbbing blood fast flowing,

some stiffening resistance, growing

conflicts against his tight zipped denim there.

Not quite avoiding the other’s stare,

or catching either, unwilling yet to part,

but it will come, yes, full throated.

Chancers they are, both practised in the art

of shallow swimming in small talk,

feelings gummed up, left unquoted.

Each further day something quickens more,

sends him reeling through slow opening door,

stroking, touch testing, petal-proving,

until certain she’s sure to open curtains:

quipping you wouldn’t like to see me naked;

his thickening shooken beast is half awaked.

Mocking with breaths so secret in blisses,

the air between them writhes in kisses

untasted, tangled tassel fingers

stroking soft rounded fertile belly,

teasing the hooks and eyes, tight elastic,

eager soon, to unclasp her fettered flesh

soaked in wet tangy sticky-fingered sweats,

his eyes uncup, rip through scanty cloth,

now each can smell the other’s urgent need

to swallow glorious salted caramel seed.

Soon looking won’t be enough,

patient wait for coming intermission

when both will kneel to taste sweet submission.