Another Poem About Fisting

It was like a dream. (Do I say that all the time? I think I say that all the time. But it was.)

I needed her close and she knew it. I’ve been a bit sensitive, hard to reassure. She wanted to show me I had nothing to worry about. She wanted to show me how she felt.

She did all the right things to make me swoon and fill me with desire for her. She played me perfectly, like dangling yarn for a kitten. By the time she pulled down my panties she could see how wet I was, dripping. I covered my face and she chuckled, laying next to me and pulling me close.

She kissed my face gently and whispered sweet things until I looked her in the eyes. Her sage green serious stare. Her fingers gently touched all of my wet places. I purred. She said words like ‘forever’ and ‘favourite’, promised things that make my heart mushy and my knees weak. And as she spoke she kept that eye contact and slid her entire hand inside of me.

She held me there like that, still, eyes searching each other. I could feel myself throbbing around her. I could feel that we were breathing together, one rhythm. This is why I want to write poems about fisting, the whole universe is her hand and my pussy. I cum with my entire being.

She fucks me like this while she watches my face, kissing my cheeks softly. She tells me I’m her favourite, she tells me I’m beautiful, and smart, and that my pussy was made for her. She tells me I’m magic. My brain has melted and she’s fucking my soul, holding me like a baby while she blows my fucking mind.

I’m hazy afterwards, my head buzzing with her pillow talk, pussy throbbing from her rough love. I’ll feel her there for the rest of the day, tender against my pelvic bones. Tender in the places I opened up for her. Tender for her love and sweet nothings.