Her Instructions

A quickening pulse
I am rendered helpless here,
for she is my strongest hour.
Always my first thought
she insists I help her count
in the middle of the night
propped up on elbows
talking nonsense.
My kind of love
stretches across the decades
my words come in equal measure
whispered or forcefully choked
I beg the truth from you.
Down on all fours
I’m properly waiting
my turn is exclusively yours.
A glancing blow finds its mark
I’m surprised by her strength
my shoulders take on her weight,
by another strong smack of hers
affection sun-kissed or otherwise
the redness accompanies my look.
Instructed not to move,
I can’t help but flinch,
still playful while in her mood.
I’ve always been way too sensitive
with certain kinds of words
my arduous task here
is to obediently listen,
and act as if,
I want all this to stop.
Her eager want is attractive
that deep belly want
I’m drawn to just her.
To be flipped over and taken
she inches up super close
whispers those instructions.
Heavy love-making
my little charmer
is now buried up underneath,
and the tip of her chin
digs squarely in
satisfying the ache I have for her.
Lastly, she turns
half out of breath herself,
she throws a towel with instructions
“clean up, yourself.”

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