K. Barratt

It was her 18th anniversary on

This planet and she was being caressed

For the very first time.

And with each caress

She realized she was the earth itself,

All valleys, and hills, and caves,

And the space between her teeth,

Warm, sweet and wet, was a world

Unto itself, the threshold to more,

To plus, to one and one makes two and

Yet one. And her back, a roller coaster

For tongues and hands to slide and bounce

on the firm melons of her buttocks,

Whose previous job description of

Providing cushioning for seats

Seemed now unfairly understated.

The moon was shining, painting her,

Appropriately enough, silver, for she had become

Mercurial, rising and falling with quasi mechanical

Precision, to the rhythm of the caress.

And there was ravaging and there was finesse;

And the motion of her hips was primeval,

Like the grunts from her throat, and she lost

Herself in the shakes until she forgot her name,

And she screamed, and she laughed, and

She thought she was having an asthma attack,

And then she floated in the warmth,

Something like bubbly, frothy milk,

And sank into a space where she cared for


And on her 18th anniversary on this earth

She lay, glowing and moistened, on his bed,

Sleeping soundly to the soft touch of the caress,

Her crumpled clothes thrown shambolically over his desk.


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