Some late night fiction to keep you going till the morn’. And till new Red comes along. This is a his/hers poem. The italic part is his point of view, the italic bold part is hers.
I make no secret out of the fact that you are the friction in my jeans. You are the rosy scent between my sheets, the tingling in my stomach, the dizzy in my head.
You are sensations, temptations and everything in between. I get so happily drunk of your companionship and just having you near me gives me a spontanious hard-on. I’m not kidding when I say that you only have to wish me a good morning and I feel the blood rushing towards my cock at such a frantic pace, that I wonder if my nethers are going to explode.
You get me high as a fucking kite.
And I bloody love the friction.
The dizzying sensation I have in the morning that makes it seem like I’m on a rollercoaster, about to go down.
That terrifying moment before an orgasm where you think you might actually explode because it’s just that good.
The wet pool forming between my thighs and the wet drool forming between my lips.
The hardening of my perky nipples, turning rose-red and enjoyably stiff at the feeling of your fingers on them.
The quickening of my breathing, my pulse, my heartbeat, all due to one dirty word uttered by you in your deliciously juicy accent that makes my legs tremble.
You are the friction in my jeans, the warmth in my body, the beat of my heart.
You get me so high, I never want to come down, because I’m scared I’ll never be this happy again.
And, for your information, I fucking love the friction too.