Apples to Orgasms

On a tuffet she lay,

As each dwindling ray,

Kissed her muffet like summer’s last lover.

Splayed without care,

And as perfectly bare,

As the autumn-blown branches above her.

Hand on her thigh,

Welling up like the eye

Of a storm, calm, awaiting ascent.

Moans from her mouth,

Sent the birds soaring south

For the winter of her sweet content.

Like a spider,

Her fingers crept nimbly inside her,

And tickled her pink till she’d swoon.

At each lithe, little diddle,

She’d fit like a fiddle,

Strung tautly, yet just out of tune.

Pleasure’s perennial petals

Fell gently and settled

By the bed of her chasm,

With each season that came,

So came she, in the same

Way one might compare apples to orgasms.

The joy it would bring

Her to usher in spring,

Made her flesh and her spirit both swell.

Delighted, she found,

Flowers bloomed from the ground,

In the spots where her honeydew fell.

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