Circadian - An Erotic Poem

Circadian

Shrugging the chenille robe from

my otherwise naked body, I bend over

to pick up yesterday’s sweater from the floor.

“Let me see,” he says, reaching across the bed

as if his arm might stretch past the

indentation of my body, the wrinkled sheets,

just to touch the bareness of my backside

before I get dressed.

“I thought you’d be bruised,” he says.

I reach back to squeeze the flesh in question.

“I’m tender,” I tell him, “but I could go again.”

Dizzying warmth runs through me as I recall

last night’s steady stroke of the paddle,

not so softly and not too hard but just right,

so right that the paddling was like sex, my body,

his body, and the paddle a stand-in for his cock,

rocking me forward and back. I met it

with my hips, my hands grasping the blanket

I knelt upon, I gasped as I realized

the paddle might make me come.

My head was made of light as we paused,

my ass still bouncing in the air even without

the paddle. “That was incredibly fucking sexy,”

he growled and I pushed my hips back, sure that

the glisten of moisture dripping down my thighs

would be invitation enough, but just in case

I begged him, “Please, inside me, please,” no other words

possible but he was already grabbing me and

halfway inside, everything behind my eyelids

glowing amber, body turned to fire.

Slipping the sweater over my head, the morning sun

striping the bedroom walls through Venetian blinds,

I slip back into bed, my back to him so he can cup

my warm and sore but unmarked bottom.

He rests his head by my shoulder and tells me,

“Then we can do it all over again tonight.”

Sighing peacefully, I tilt my head so that his beard and lips

are pressed against me. “Or we could start now,” he

offers, but I can wait, I want to wait, and so

I rise and walk through patterns of light towards

clothes, then coffee, then everything the day will bring.

Towards bed, then surrender, then sleep.