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Antiversary Poems by Me

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wahoo8895 posted 12/18/2013 08:25 AM

Today is the 4th antiversary of when FWW confessed that she and OM were having sex.

At my IC's encouragement, I've been writing poetry to work out my feelings (most of it probably falls in the category of bad high school poems). Anyhow, the fact that I can write about these things in a calm and objective manner I think makes me realize how far I've come.

And in honor of the antiversary of when they had sex, here is my poem "The First Time"

The First Time

She waits for him at the preset hour,
patiently gazing out the window.
She sees him arrive,
sees him come up the walk,
and opens the door.
They kiss.
She takes him by the hand and leads him downstairs.
He takes it all in
a chair, a desk, a closet, a bed.

They stand awkwardly staring at each other.
Then he removes his shirt and she hers.
Then pants.
Then. . .

They stand awkwardly staring at each other.
She looks at him
stiffening in the air.
He savors her naked body
her skin,
her breasts,
the dark triangle of hair below.

They climb into the bed and embrace.
He covers her with kisses.
She covers him with kisses.
Arms entwine.
Hands reach
and touch
and grasp.

His fingers trace her nipples
as she breathes in.
His fingers glide below
and gently caress her sex.
She lets out a moan.
Her hand reaches for his hardness
and grasps it.
Stroking his shaft gently
but with increasing fervor.
He moans.

She pushes him on his back,
positioning herself on top of him.
In one motion,
she thrusts her self downward.
Thus impaled, she rocks back and forth
in wild abandon.
Wordless expressions escape from her lips.
Her hair
now falling in her face,
now covering her breasts,
now caressing his chest.
Take, he says, take.
Take she does.

He rolls her off
and places his lips
on her quivering lips.
His tongue tracing circles around her sex.
His hands grasping her breasts.
Her hands grasping the sheets.
The ecstasy mounts within her.
She cannot contain it.
The air is pierced with her cry.

After which he pierces her sex.
Mounting her,
he thrusts himself
into the warm quaking wetness
drenched with his saliva and her sex.
Thrusting deeper and deeper.
He loses himself in her eyes.
As her hands clutch his back
and skin
and buttocks.
Driving him in deeper.

They develop a rhythm.
They become one body.
One mass.
One flesh.
One soul.

He feels the surge well within himself.
She moans with increasing volume.
Which inflames his surge.
He can control himself no longer.
With one final thrust,
he feels the release he has long desired.
He cries out as he feels the rush exit him
and enter her.
She cries out as she feels the rush enter her
and exit him.

Sweat-soaked they now lie,
entwined and exhausted,
content with life.

I wonder:
does it bother them
that he is not her husband
nor she his wife?

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