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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: June 28, 2016

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Submitted: June 28, 2016



Even as
her husband Brian
shags her,
Nuala thinks of Una.

Even as his body
pounds into her
in passionate gaming,
she wants it to be
Una there not him,
not Brian.

She lies there
allowing him his pleasure,
his need,
listening to his sighs,
and grunts,
and 4 minute workout.

Even as he shudders
himself to a big climax,
she feels nothing,
but a tingle of regret
and unearned sweat.

He lies back on
his side of the bed,
taking large gulps
of bedroom air.

She just looks up
gives the ceiling a stare.

How was it for you?
He asks eventually,
turning to gaze at her,
a look of satisfaction
on his face.

It was good,
she lies,
best yet.

He smiles,
and puts a hand
on her right tit.

Have you heard
from that friend, Una?
He asks.

No I've not,
she lies,
looking at his eyes,
and how innocent
they are,
how childlike
he seems.

He tells her
of his day at work
in soft utters;
she listens on and off
thinking of the sex
she'd had with Una
that afternoon;
how hot and wet
she'd been,
needing a hot shower
to get clean.

She lets him talk on,
hoping he won't
want sex again that night;
she's not up to it,
all she wants
is sleep and rest,
not more sex
with him,
the 3 minute trier,
and boring pest.

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