There are times when they made love,
Strictly Vanilla, just for fun, but really a way to
bond as significant partners.
She would bathe and dress in lingerie,
and he’d reveal each body part slowly, as if for the first time, to kiss a hardening nipple,
peel her panties down off a perfect peach of a posterior.
But mostly the focus was on va-jay-jay.
Her labia would swell as he fingered her,
she would lubricate, and he’d spread it around her love button,
the clit that’d come out of hiding to stand at attention,
loving all the attention,
as he parted her, entered her, possessed her.
Their love-making was slow, deliberate, sensual,
sometimes their eyes would lock, then their mouths would lock,
his intensifying thrusts would make her gasp,
and he’d hover over her face, and drink in her breath,
tell her that he worshiped her.
Imploding into climax, she would softly crumple beneath him,
dissolve into a sea of need and desire, its tidal-pull would prove too much for him
and he’d join her in bliss.
His sheathed cock, when it came out of her, reminded her of a sweat-sock
its toe filled with marbles, so heavily laden with his load,
a physical tribute to their spiritual connection.
She thought of herself as a cocoon as such moments
enveloped with fuzzy warmth and nuzzles and nirvana.
Such frolicking made her feel buoyant, larger than life,
like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon.

And then there are other times, strictly for fucking,
Full of Strict Kink, the dirtier the better, a way to
live out their yin and yang identities.
She’d dress as a naughty schoolgirl, and he’d rip the cotton panties right off her,
spank that ass, make her fetch the ruler, and really teach a lesson,
then finish with the belt, tanning her hide to a burnished glow.
It was all about her butt at these times.
She claimed that she couldn’t get enough discipline, which was true.
But when his hand was sore, and he’d used lots of implements,
she was happy for him to part her,
rim her with spittle, around and ’round her rosebud,
then penetrate the pucker with lube, drive her mad with lust.
As he parted cheeks wide, entered her private space rudely, possessed her with fingers,
then his cock, standing at attention, driving into her, filling her,
more than filling the tiny aperture, stretching her obscenely.
Riding her more roughly than he would any horse on the beach,
urging her on with slaps to her flanks
faster and faster, she’d lather, she’d pant, churning through the foamy tide, then stiffen,
gripping him tightly as waves overtook her,
a tsunami of orgasms, sweeping him up in their swell.
Exploding, he’d coat her bowels with cum that she’d be pooping for days,
just like the bruises on her bottom, a badge of honor she’d wear proudly,
a physical tribute to their symbiotic sharing.
She thought of herself as a butterfly at such times,
transformed into her true self, the hellish pain of foreplay and sex
taking her to her own special heaven.
Such degradation took her to a sub space so low,
her whole other world felt Wrong, this sin was so holy.