Tiramisu and Worchestershire Sauce

He enters into her cautiously, sanctimoniously

whilst she plays the dutiful mother.

For her it is solitary:

the delicious sensation of firing transmissions

rocketing from one synapse to another;

as she is with the friction of alien flesh when it slips it into her feverish canal.

He is a foolish man conscious of the darkness of what is unsanitary for him;

unlike the tiramisu ice-cream  winding away unnoticed

spiralling down the sides of his fingers then disappearing

sticky sweet and wet beneath his navy corduroy shirt he wore especially;

too eager for her willingness, he gingerly step in and out of movie-goers legs before

impatiently taking the seat next to her, the icecreams raised like beacons

at either side of his nervously bobbing head.

She is  watching his eggs on toast with worchestershire sauce being devoured;

both the sight and sound of the movement of his lips as he sucks the sauce from his plate she likes;

thinking about her labia, how these are parted with his tongue sounding like the sea in her ear,

and how his fingers hastily find her centre and miss.

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