Ariadne
liked her *** best
on an armchair
or the sofa
with her lover
Bernice, in charge
of the *** games,
especially
those involving
sweat cream being
slowly licked off
of her body,
or a warm tongue
moving between
her naked thighs,
which, through pleasure
over again,
brought the warm tears
to her dark eyes.
And in moments
reflecting back
to her childhood
and her father's
cruel sadistic
abusive ways,
she wondered how
over the years,
she kept intact
inside her mind
and injured heart
and tortured skin,
the deep seated
capacity
to allow love
not to be spoilt,
or the places
he had tainted,
to be tabooed
to her lover,
especially
when she slowly
slides her finger
along her spine
or between legs
satisfying
her paradise,
her pudendum,
as her lover,
laughing, calls it.
But most of all,
despite the past
of abusive
hurts and foul touch,
she still has that
ability
to overcome
the dark years,
to love her hot
lover, Bernice,
that **** *****,
all too human,
and all too much.
