Time

Just a warning, this poem is mildly explicit, and may not be suitable for everyone.  If you feel you might be one of those people, please shield your eyes at this point, so that I don’t offend you.  Otherwise, please read on and feel free to critique me.  Thanks.

—————————————————————————————————————————

He had turned on the television for the

light it cast, but he was not noticing

its presence.  His attention was elsewhere.

There never seemed to be any time.

She had walked into the room not knowing

what to expect.  She always felt like an intrusion.

She sat beside him on the couch.  Her mind was elsewhere.

There never seemed to be any time.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

He had his goal in mind.  Girls like her

don’t refuse, he knew.  His effort was not in vain.

He had made the time.

She saw him look; she was self-conscious.

Girls like her can’t refuse.  She was no different.

She saw him make his move. Her mind was scattered.

She had stolen time.

“Do you want to?” he asked, knowing she would not refuse,

“You should start, there are considerations…”

And discreetly he pulled, from out of nowhere

it seemed, the reason they were there.  His mind was focused.

“And there’s never any time.”

She did not speak, for once, but obediently slid,

from the couch cushion to her knees, in front of him.

And she thought she had never seen a bigger

reason, but her mind was scattered.

She knew the preciousness of time.

He watched her with mild amusement as she paused

a moment, almost unperceived, and quietly pleaded to him

“Tell me what you like.”  She was obedient. His mind was focused.

He felt the ticking hands of time.

She felt the tug on her shirt. “Off.” he said and it was gone.

Then straps were slid down her arms and breast, that in her opinion

hung too low, were exposed.  “They’re perfect.” he claimed.  Her mind was vulnerable.

She knew that time was passing.

He saw the way she averted her eyes. “They’re perfect.” he

repeated. She responded with a small grin and dove,

mouth open, to the monument between them.  She was attentive.

He forgot that time existed.

She had her doubts, but this skill was not one.  You can’t

go through life looking like her and not make up for it

somehow.  He was panting. Her mind was focused.

Time was drawing close.

“I want to fuck you.”  “I want to feel you.” “Please

let me fuck you.” But she only worked harder

for him.  He watched her head bob up and down

feverishly and her breasts sway in time and he

had to touch them.  As she increased her speed to

give him more pleasure, to hasten the inevitable,

she thought he will not know how small a piece of myself

I choose to keep; he’ll never notice.  One

day I may let him try what has ended better men,

but not yet.

And she smiled to herself as she felt him explode

and she sucked all the life out of him.

No, he’ll never guess.  Her mind was clear.

The time had gone.

She got to her feet, walked to the sink and rinsed her mouth.

But the taste of him would linger still.  She walked out of the house, his arm

around her, making plans for another day.

His mind was sleepy.

Her mind was weary but without shame.

Time cannot be reclaimed.

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