Miss Cleaves says,
come over,
bring a bottle,

I’ll put on some music
we can smooch to( Mahler?)
so he goes over,

picks up a bottle on the way,
medium priced,
not the top shelf,

and rings her bell.
Glad you could come,
she says,

her voice silkier
than silk,
warmer than hell.

He follows her
to the lounge,
takes off his jacket,

undoes his tie,
slips off his shoes
(new carpet).

Take a seat,
she says ,
I’ll get us some glasses,

he watches her move,
the best of all *****,
he decides, glancing,

taking in,
******* in air,
sitting there.

On goes the Mahler,
the 1st, the Titan,
she said it was, last time,

the time he had
a *******
before the 2nd movement,

had his hand
up her skirt,
feeling around.

In she comes,
swaying, smiling,
carrying the *****,

big eyes,
blue like lakes,
her bust,

busting to get out,
and flop about.
She talks of work,

business doing ok,
could be better,
if only and so on...

He senses her hand
on his thigh,
rubbing back and forth,

fingers walking,
her voice yakking on,
and the music

piping through,
he thinking
of that time

she had him
do her good,
eyes shut,

seemingly blind,
taking her
from behind.

Then the doorbell chimed,
in mid game,
who the heck is that?

she said,
getting off the bed,
walking to the door,

leaving him
buck naked on the floor.
There was laughter;

about to take a bath,
she said,
to whoever.

A painting on her wall,
foxhounds, chasing a fox,
horse riders on a hunt.

He thought, laying back,
relaxing, thinking of her,
wanting her, her lovely

buttocks and ****.
More laughter, more talk,
the whoever was still there,

while he lay **** naked
as mother nature
intended, bare.

That was then,
she never came back
for 15 minutes or so

and he had gone to sleep
on her bed, pillow
holding his head,

seemingly dead.  
Now she's on the ball,
getting him fired up,

getting his pecker going,
smiling, music piping,
but outside there's snow.