Missed Playtime

I miss playtime,
the sight of your excited flesh and womanly curves,
the smell of us,
the sounds of our moans and bodies slapping,
the tastes of you, from lips to lips.

That initial discovery of your need,
through the way touch me,
how your lips linger,
and your constant need to straddle any part of my body.
Like a cat, you purr moans in my ear,
and try to rub your sent all over me.

You know where to project your cat calls,
at the back of my jaw,
where the stubble stops and I hear you breath.
Suck on the fleshy part of my ear,
light the fire and let me burn.
You know that this is the opposite of a safe word, a signal to stop, or a signal to slow down.

You rode my leg long enough that we got annoyed at the seams of your jeans,
annoyed at the layers between us.
Off comes the tight denim while a get a peek of your damp polka dotted panties.
Those stay, pants in the corner.

I cannot keep my hands off you,
you’ve wound me up.
A hand moves over your mound,
slow and deliberate.
You whimper at my touch,
your hips push pressure into my palm.
The cat in you struggles to stay close,
stay in contact,
push for more pets.

You’re wet enough that the white parts of your dotted panties show your excited skin underneath.
The more I explore, the damper the cotton gets.
Fingers trace light stripes over the fabric molded to your lips,
I go slow, listen to you breath, part folds, rub your hardening spot.

I want to curl a finger under the elastic,
pull it up and gently to the side,
expose you, admire you, consume you.

Want me to continue?

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