You kiss me
and our lips melt into each other like smooth wax.
Your warm spit enters my mouth like a gift,
luscious and wet.
You are inside me,
outside of me,
all over me,
the urgency of your desire
a thick veil wrapped around me.
Your wanting body
pressed flush to mine,
so hard against my softness.
We rock together in syncopation.
Our dreams are complexly intertwined,
a woven lattice pattern
similar to the black lace trim
lining the edges of my panties,
the boundary of which
you have pushed aside
to enter me.
You penetrate me to the depths of my being.
You touch me,
Rolling and flowing over me in sensuous waves,
surfing and riding me,
you are all pulsing and fluid,
you retreat again,
like the fading of the tide.
Then you are gone.
Again and again,
you count coup on me,
body and soul,
harming me with this terrible pleasure.
It is not possible to emerge unscathed.
Counting coup refers to the winning of prestige in battle by the Plains Indians of North America. Warriors won prestige by acts of bravery in the face of the enemy, and these acts could be recorded in various ways and retold as stories. Any blow struck against the enemy counted as a coup, but the most prestigious acts included touching an enemy warrior with the hand, bow, or with a coup stick then escaping unharmed. — Wikipedia
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