Bedsheets.

I let my imagination takes us to crisp white bedsheets, your hand is trailing up my inner thigh and I quiver. I open my month to protest by you tongue is following your fingertips and my voice is caught in my throat. I can feel the warmth of your breath against me and my heart starts to pounds. I am trying to think of reason to get your eyes back on mine when you tongue traces me and I forgot the words I was thinking. My thoughts become clouded by the thought of you inside of me. I am moaning because my words had betrayed me, the left my lips in broken up, panted syllabus. My attempts to get you to stop only have you eager for more.
My legs are shaking, my toes are curling and my mind is on fucking you. I can feel myself becuming a part of you. You start working your way back up on me and I can feel you pressed against me. You are dying to be inside me and I am open and ready for entry. You slide in and I feel whole again, just like the last time we were loving. I am literally empty between the time when we are dressed and when you slip yourself into me. This isn't sex baybee what we are doing in poetry, and they said we could only do this shit verbally. We are reaching the peak, this is better then verbal Ecstasy. Seeing how high we can go you increase the speed, word spilling onto the sheets, mixing with the rest of you and me. When we through you hold me in your arms and you rest your head on me. The bedsheets are crumbled and still white despite the to fact that we just got dirty.

Damn my imagination keeps running wild on me.