by Sopphey Vance
A book in hand, legs crossed.
I can't keep my eyes of her skirt.
Why does the wind play with it so?
Did she pick a too short one for a picnic?
An occasional petal disturbs her reading,
but I push it away before she can avert her gaze.
Her nose will wrinkle in disdain,
and I know this book is one of her favorites.
But, oh is she kissable.
And when she kisses me, my breasts swell.
Do hers do to?
Should I kiss her against the tune of the printed pages.
Maybe she won't notice.
But she always notices.
She flips the page, moving her hips closer to mine.
Nudging my hand with her thigh.
Her breath quickens
as my hand takes advantage of the wind's advances.
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