It was a rainy dreary day in the Pacific Northwest and I was in my favorite coffeehouse working on one of my poetical prose, a lost art of the 15th and 16th century. When this young woman came in that I guessed to be a university student, yet she dressed with class. A tight white sweater, short skirt that showed off her long tanned shapely legs (my weakness.) I looked her over as she stood in line and she looked me over where I sat with a mischievous smile on her full lips. Then I looked at the way she moved her hips as she sauntered to a table close at hand. Her? Our? Story in poetical prose of rhythmic stanzas that will curl a girl's toes.
No rings she donned,
“I’m a free woman” her song,
As she crossed her long shapely legs,
And looked at me impishly one table away,
I safely went back to my book and read.
I felt young eyes staring at me,
With self proclaimed liberty,
The phantom raising a glass of wine,
To make a toast only it can find,
So her eyes burned in me.
Like an itch you can not scratch,
At least not publicly,
Not wishing to look but wanted to see,
Her youthful beauty staring at me.
The phantom was giggling with glee.
I looked sheepishly from my book,
To her sensual long fingered hands,
Not a ring she wore left or right,
And thought what kind of man am I,
Wondering if she was tight or just right.
A cup of brew was brought to me,
Steaming hot latte, light and tasty,
A puzzled look I gave the cook,
“From the lovely young lady,”
His replied on the sly.
She raised her cup when we were eyes to eyes,
I did the same with a smile of surprise,
She placed the rim to her full wanting lips,
Never taking her eyes from me,
And lipped and tongued the rim passionately.
She had my attention in more ways than one,
Her beauty had me all undone,
And the lump in my pants was on the rise,
She gave her cup a stroke then two with long fingers planned,
As if it was I “her lucky older man.”
She made her way to my table,
I stood before she was able,
Forgetting the bulge in my jeans,
Her eyes were quick and a grinned limerick,
With sultry words, “Shall we go to your place or mine?”
She is a mid-afternoon delight
An older poet’s plight for lack of words,
To describe what passions held inside,
Her lips were hungry and tongue starved,
Her breasts were heaving though not very large.
Her navel moved beneath my lips,
And her thighs saturated with wantonness,
My tongue plunged into silky strands so wet,
I doubt I will ever recover from it,
She moaned and moaned again for the love of it.
Two hours gone her bare legs and body long,
Pressed against her poet as rest sung to us its song,
She left my arms in her slender beauty,
Finding her clothes from bed to front door,
“I really want more and my passions have soared, but...”
I watched her dress in all her loveliness,
All dressed said and done,
She took two rings from her right coat pocket,
Donning them on her hand with a smile,
Donned on the left finger next to the smallest one!
She smiled her impish smile and said,
“You wouldn’t have danced with me in your bed.”
She kissed me full and deep while I was stunned,
All said and more than done,
Young married women are—most lovingly lovely.
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