Jeevana, before a long break

This, Jeeva, will be our last day
For an entire month and a half,
For your lover returns from the shore
Herding back his fat grown cattle and staff.

Lie back for me, Jeeva, like a corn flower
And let all inhibitions take flight,
For the evening still is young, the sun recedes,
And there are hours to go before the night.

The room tantalizes in your fragrance,
Your being illuminates the corners cold,
As birds faraway take to playful wings,
Let me loose myself on you, be brave and bold.

In the kitchenette the kettle issues its wheeze
And you stir gently on my finger as you rock,
Your eyes are fixed at the approaching clouds
And my key, as its oiled, turns on the lock.

Moan, soft Jeeva, moan with the kettle on the side,
For that holy water that wets my hand
Is the very water from which all life came,
That led men into battle, in search of Promised Land.

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Jeevana, first caresses

A countless number of chats, many texts,
A few calls and after a meeting over tea,
We are in silent agreement that the day is come,
And we are meeting discreet, unknown to the clergy,
Behind closed doors, on a day of a moderate sun.

Subtly, I pull yourself to me, with a
Deft touch just about your waist,
While you offer no resistance, come pushed my way,
The veins of your throat tightens, and with intense eyes
You look at me unknowing and knowing what to say.

I was drawn to you first by what you said and wrote,
By your drawings and sketches and shares of
Freedom and such. And now, after effort, after making it here,
I know that I need you, to hold and probe you deep
And to hammer you so you crack, you open; and weep.

Closer, and I run my right hand through your top,
Ruffling your waist, my left cupping your bum,
And you breathe in and hold it up, expanding your chest,
Your full breast inside your shirt heave and prop.
You whisper that you’re not sure whether this is just right.

I plant on your chest the first warm lips’ caresses,
And draw you to my body, holding you firm.
Your mouth opens in slight, caught in some strange desire,
Through your top I take my hand up, and grip your nipple tight.
You coo a sharp half note, and whimper soft and slight.

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Two Friends, fucking

You claim you two are friends, and
You wear the same coloured knickers too,
But, you always say just to use my hand,
And she insists in gasps that I strike her through.

But, you tell me, when I ask, in your serious way
That she has had initiation done and ripped,
While yours, had had you through all foreplay,
But, has not with a dick your cunthole whipped.

She wants me on top, and she holds her breath back,
While you sit on my face, grinding me in,
Making me lick through your heaven-given crack,
While she tells me to waste whatever come is to sin.

Between you, then, my study of human friendship goes,
From styles of dress, preferred brands to lip balm of sorts,
To what sounds one makes when you tickle their toes,
And at which point it becomes reverie from short, stern, snorts.

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