Scrambled eggs

Today I have some this-might-actually-be filthy poetry for y’all, featuring scrambled eggs, unshaved legs, and some memories of past fucks.

The first time I fucked you
I shaved my legs.
Rather than steal your shirt to wear
while cooking scrambled eggs.

The second time I fucked you
your fingers made me come.
And I wanted that more
than sucking her wetness off your thumb.

The third time I fucked you
we tried something new.
So I know I’ll always be
the first girl who ass-fucked you.

The fourth time I fucked you
I was falling apart.
Exhausted, you still held me
while I cried over my broken heart.

The fifth time I fucked you
was the one with the piss.
You told me that you loved me
with something sweeter than a kiss.

The sixth time I fucked you
was an absolutely surprise.
More experienced now, more certain
I could look into your eyes –

 – and ask you if you’re sure.
I know what a big deal this is
because I’ve fucked you before.

The sixth time I fucked you
I hadn’t shaved my legs.
Didn’t care about how I looked
as I sucked your cock and cooked you eggs.

The sixth time I fucked you
I knew you were in love.
I saw it in how you touched her:
gently, as though with a kid glove.

The seventh time I fucked you
hasn’t happened yet.
I’m incredibly excited for it
For spanking, biting, come, and sweat.

The first time I fucked you
I was nervous, anxious, scared.
Tomorrow, when I fuck you
I’ll be far more prepared.

Prepared with lube and sex toys,
Butt plugs with bases flared.
Emotionally too, no longer shy
to stand before you bared.

The seventh time I fucked you
I will not have shaved my legs.
I’ll tease you, wearing your discarded shirt
while you cook me scrambled eggs.

An ‘A’ in oral
Guitar strings create calloused fingers

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