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What I Remember of New Year's Eve
by Airen McNally
(07/28/04)
Jennifer's low-cut blouse and chilly breasts,
black bra, goosebumps, and mischievous demeanor.
Pineapple dipped in fudge fondue,
brandy splashed over ice. Her tongue catching
a dribble off the lip
of a coffee cup, sucking
the last vapor off an ice cube, thumbing
my crotch lightly before storming the kitchen,
palms against the counter, humming a purr
as I fluttered in to chase. Her satin panties
and the after-smell of her just-passed
period. My saliva dripping off her clitoris, streaming
into warmth. The taut embrace
of her cunt as I fucked her, counter
creasing the jelly of her buttocks,
as her legs commenced to cup up
into my fiercest grip and push. Her knuckles
beating against my stomache as she fingered herself,
hair rosemary scent hanging in the back of my nose,
cheeks tissue paper under my clenched teeth,
as we lunged forward into the shake of lit
senses, sweating out the old year
in tantric grunts, and hearkening in the new one
with shrieks, whimpers and sudden aftershocks.
©2004 by Airen McNally
Reader
Comments
Airen McNally, an
Iowa native and Milwaukee resident, is Production Editor
of The Cream City Review, and Editor of Cant.
He has work forthcoming in Castagraf. You may visit
his Web Site.
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