Bechamel - a filthy poem

I stir the bechamel the way you showed me,

the surface becoming glossy.

You arrive behind me,

whisper in my ear,

Don’t you dare stop stirring.

A thrill shudders through me

even before you lift my skirt,

find my panties wet.

Slut, you say, and they become wetter.

Your fingers enter me fast and rough,

lifting me onto tiptoes.

I clutch the counter’s edge for balance,

keep stirring.

Your thumb rubs my clit

and I tremble as you bite my neck.

I am barely holding myself back,

barely able to stir.

Cum for me.

And I buck at once,

sound and squirt and pleasure

released with your permission.

You leave me, still stirring,

my thighs glossy.

Encourage me

Would you like to read more poetry from me?

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