An itch to be scratched -
A lust unmatched -
An empty bed -
’Let’s go!’ she said.
And on the summer’s afternoon
we loved until we saw the moon.
Exhausted, laying there exposed
upon my belly, I proposed
she scratch my back to top it off -
and soon she did, so soft, so soft.
Nails as sharp as ’Wiltshires’ creep
like slugs upon a compost heap
across my sweaty skin until
I feel an itch she can’t quite kill.
’Just up a bit.’ She hears me say.
’Down a bit...the other way.
Up a tad. You’ve gone askew.
Slide across a touch or two.
A little harder. Damn it! Swat it!
Keep going, yes, you’ve almost got it.
Listen woman, can’t you tell.
You’re nowhere near it. Bloody Hell!