The table is hard, cold.
.
“Knees up, baby.”
He locks my eyes.
“Dance your fingers”
He sits…watching.
Evidence of my need glistens,
like his cufflinks,
twinkling in the shards of light.
“Stop”
I pause…panting…so close.
Lifted, weightless, up and over, my legs brush the soft wool trouser.
“Is that so? Hmmm…”
Fluttering fingers push against my sticky wetness
“Sir”
“Yes?”
“Please…”
“Stay just as you are!”
The fingers drop away
his footfalls tell me he’s leaving,
and craving,
I must wait…
Dear Lord, that’s good stuff, Maggie!
Trent… thank you. Always so kind.
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