Hot Snow

Info PopThisCherry
17 Nov. '22

As I kneel,
pop a load of your hot snow on me.
I see your wraparound-hand,
furious in its target of my face.
You are natural and uncut,
a most frightening monster in the month of December,
the head playing peek-a-boo,
and I attempt to charm and coo
this leaking pipe that shall shoot the cream I seek.

Cream on me.
It’s dripping on me now with urgency.
I seduce the tip of your head:
It nudges the nooks of my nose and chin,
the corners of my eyes.
It, I think, is becoming overfriendly,
and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I feel your sticky love upon my skin.
We delight in our shadowy sin.

You’re so hard.
Let yourself explode, shard-by-shard.
I want to feel that profusion, so shattered.
Do you want my lips to blow?
You needn’t ask twice,
but I’m afraid before I start to suck
that you’ll burst with all the strength that mattered.
I want to see your will cracked,
and with I on my knees and you looking down,
there’s no way we could ever go back.

Hot snow,
let each and every white morsel go.
Assign me to be your whore for the hour.
I am captivated by your muscle,
I am taken over by your power.
But with all our teasing touches, we reap what we sow.
My face is frosted now,
covered by the blanket of your grunts, your groans.
This fever burns any chill we had,
and the tip of your body is the beginning of mine.