That's no lie!!! ( NOTE: MATURE READING "R" RATING)

I'd love to explore every inch of you, whit hands, lips and tongue.
I'm sure You would enjoy it, I'd make sure you had fun.
I would look for all the places, that make you moan, and gasp alot.
And when I was finished, I'd do it again, just to make sure, I didnt miss a spot.
Softly, I'd kiss your lips, tender, easy, and slow.
Then, I'd kiss you passionately hard, then south my lips would go.
Down your lovely neck, to your perfect brests.
Then I'd take my time, but no way Would I rest.
I'd use my tongue to lick, first one nipple then number two.
As I suckle one of them, my hand plays with number two..
While my hand and fingers, pinch's, squeeze's and plays
After a few more moments, My lips are on their way.
Moving south and downward, is where they're going to stay.
As I pass your belly-button, my tongue licks it just to tease.
Then I am between your thighs, Now it's time to please!
My tongue goes to work, doing what it does right
You spread your legs open wider, so I fit between them perfectly right.
Then you feel the pleasure, that my tongue is giving you
You let out a moan and sigh, loving what I do.
Time ticks by so slowly, you dont know how long it takes
But then you feel the tingle, and your body starts to shake.
Then You gasp "oh my gawd it feels so good, yes I'm almost there!"
Then suddenly You feel the sensation, as you gasp a breath of air.
Then your hands take hold of my head, and you say that I must stop

But you know it's already to late, you're about to pop!
Your body goes electricity wild, as it starts to explode
You feel the rush and the wetness, as you spill your orgasmic load.
Then you pull me up to you, you look deep in my eyes,
 And you say, "I do love you, and sweetheart, That's no lie!"

 ©PAUL (ChryWizard) POSNEY 11/19/2019


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The bow of my body lay suspended by your charms

hung in mid air with the lightest of touch

Fire glazen eyes burn through naked flesh 

Shudders tentatively meet the tips of your lips

Rib cage to Belly,

belly to hips,

to thigh

Breaths lay untaken

Tension rides the sinews 

Pleasure languishing in every  stroke 

Your heated approach has left me starving,

Unlocked, ready, awashed with drippings

Flooding senses overridden

I thought no meant no?

In My Mouth

We should be more than this.
Every time I close my eyes we kiss.
Just want your snake bitten lip, in my mouth,
with my hands moving South.
It's about time we found an end,
to this game we call pretend.
We both know this is more,
and it's time we explore.
I won't runway if you give in,
it's about time to sin.
See I've been waiting for you,
I know you love how we do.
And I got all the time in the world for this....
just to feel your snake bitten lip,
in my mouth.....
-Jay Pierce
Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written about one night 2 years ago that has never let me go! 

One Second

My 30's 2014+
I touch your skin,
But I feel your heart.
I graze your face,
But I tremble from your soul.
My lips caress ever so slowly slightly against yours,
But I feel it inside me.
My chest pressed upon your chest,
My blood is rushing at maximum speed.
My body moves without me now,
Controlled by our spirits,
Slowly touching inside us.
I can't pull away.
I do not want to.
My body sweats from within,
Dripping of lust.
Evaporating from the heat of your heart.
Each second intensifying,
Getting harder and harder to breath.
I latch on like a chain link,
No chance of letting go.
Our bodies just messengers of our souls.
Then your breath grazes my face,
If I was standing my knees would buckle,
My muscles would give.
No strength in the world,
Could make me stand.
I open my eyes,
We stand all alone,
Surrounded by nothing,
But our love and our souls.
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See her? She has it all.
He sleeps at night
and dreams of her.


Even the Moon
grows jealous
of his dreams.


He see her every day
on the train;
they do not speak;
she sits in one place,
he in another.


She looks
good enough to eat
he thinks.


He can't wait
until they speak,
until they meet,
make love,
sit and smoke;
have a joke.


See her? She has it,
he doesn't, he sits
looking at her
he has the hots;
inside he wastes,
inside he rots.

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Whatever else
her Polish accent
didn’t do
it didn't stop


her quest for sex
and Benedict
nigh on gave in
one or twice


(who was counting?)
time on his hands
(a rare event)
or caught unaware


and thinking
do I dare?
and he had to admit
even against


his better will
she was
a lovely dame
and such


Sophia said
you want to?
he looked passed her


at the door closed
the bed fresh made
as if she knew
bins all emptied


of their dust
and muck
you want me?
you want to fuck?


he looked
at her blue uniform
the greeny top
the tight pressing bra


the eyes ice cool
I don't know
he said
what if some one calls?


or the old guy
comes back
to his room
for some reason


or other?
Sophia stood
always the excuses
always the worry


of others coming
or going
she said
come on


she said
sitting on
the fresh made bed
have me now


make up
your mind
he gazed out
the window


the snow was settled
trees hung
white with brown
not just now


he said
as she spread
herself down
upon the bed


one leg raised
a glimpse of thigh
caught as in a mirror
of his turning eye.


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You met her in a field
beyond her house
during summer recess
that last one


before you both left
school for good
you'd walked
from the big wooden gate


by hedgerows
where birds sang
and flew out
pass you


sky blue
as if Monet
had been at work
my mother thinks


we've been doing things
she said
you said


you know what I mean
she said
a steam train
passed by


over by the far hedge
we have
you said
I know and you know


but I don't want her
thinking we have
Judy said
you frowned


the white
and grey smoke
from the train


into the sky
so it's a kind of
knowledge thing?
 you said


who's to know
and who isn't?
some people matter
she said


especially her
I’ll never hear
the last of it
if she thinks


we have
the grass was dry
and the earth hard
your shoes had seen better days


so we're here
in a field
where she could
possibly see us


and you're worrying
that she thinks
we have done things?
Judy sighed


and looked back
at the house
surrounded by fields
she's probably watching now


she said
following our movement
you looked back too
hands in the pockets


of your blue jeans
has she binoculars?
you said
not that I know


Judy said
doesn't matter
she has eyes
like a hawk


how are you
going to convince
we haven’t
done things?


you asked
she looked away
from the house
and sat on the grass


with you following
she sat cross legged
pulling the skirt
over her knees


you said
shouldn't look
didn't get a chance


too slow
she said
getting old
you smiled


I’m 14 like you
if that's too old
I'm Monet's aunt
she laughed


this isn't
solving the problem
she said
there isn't a problem


you said
just a matter
of perception
or not


as the case
is meant to be
what do you mean?
she said


your mother thinks
we have
and we have
yet you want her


not to think that
you replied
yes that's right
Judy said


maybe she wants
to think that
you said
why should she?


Judy asked
maybe she doesn't trust me
you said
she doesn't


Judy said
but she should trust me
you nodded
I see what you mean


so she should trust you
not to do such things
even when you have?
you said


it's the thought
that counts
she said
she put her hands


each side of her
on the grass
you could see
her cleavage


where her
blouse buttons
gave a little


you said
it's the thought
that counts
and the thoughts


hung around
your head
wishing it
had not been


a hay barn
but a cosy
warm bed

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Lizbeth lies on her bed, hands behind her head, staring at the ceiling. All that way out to the darn farm cottage to see Benedict and not even a kiss. All that showing of skulls and bones and egg shells, and where his father had given him a parch of earth to grow stuff, but not a single hint of a kiss or cuddle. She closes her eyes. His double bed was there, the room with just him and her, his mother downstairs, his father at work, his siblings out playing in the fields or some place, and he talked about birds and such. She had put on her best black short skirt, white blouse, and clean underwear just for him, and did he notice? Not one jot. She even waited sitting on his bed while went downstairs to ask about lunch for her, hinting maybe, might set him going, her sitting there legs crossed, skirt risen up. He came up the stairs in bounds and she thought, here he comes for it, and all he said was: cheese or ham sandwiches? She said cheese. Off he went again. She even bounced on the bed to see how the springs were. Not to good. He had a model Spitfire hanging from the ceiling in his room. There was a fish tank full of bones and skulls and birds eggs. She imagines how it could have been. He coming upstairs with the sandwiches, seeing her there on his bed, her skirt risen up, showing thigh...but no, she hates pretending. He brought the cheese sandwiches up and sat next to her on the bed and talked about the work he did on the farm across the way. He didn't seem to notice her thighs. She ate the sandwiches, looked at him as he talked on about maybe one day being a cowman and such. If only he had, she muses, opening her eyes, looking at her untidy bedroom, LPs on the floor, a box record player, soiled linen(as her mother called it), a small plate, a cup. If he had only hinted at it, she muses, just put a hand on her thigh, touched her hand, said he loved her short black skirt, but no, not a word about it. She had ridden all that way on her bike to see him and hoped that he might this time, but no; all she got was cheese sandwiches and a cup of tea(downstairs), and his mother asking her questions about her father and mother and work. Benedict smiling and looking at her, then his mother, then her again. Still a virgin. She can't say she hasn't tried to lose it. She'd read somewhere that  King Henry VII's mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, had him when she  was thirteen years old. How old was she when she had sex? Lizbeth muses. She can hear her mother downstairs banging away with pots and pans. A bad mood day. She had moaned at Lizbeth when she came in from her bike ride to see Benedict. Room untidy, clothes everywhere, tidy up. Words words. What if he had though? She thinks, turning on her side looking at the wall, what if they had done it? She smiles. What if they had on his double bed, she laying there seeing the Spitfire above the bed moving overhead, him entering her, she lying there, hands around him, eyes open or closed, looking at him, the hair, the quiff moving. But he didn't. She runs a finger down the wall. But what if he had though? another voice in her head asks her, what then? She thinks on it, running a finger down the wall again. She didn't know. She remembered asking the girl at school about it. What's it like? She had asked her. What's what like? The girl had replied, grinning. You know, sex? The girl had told her. Detailed each aspect. But to her now, it was all theory. How did she know without doing it? The girl could have been all talk. And that thing about self relief was yuk. She turns back on her back, the ceiling is still there boring her. But it wasn't just a fact of losing her virginity, it had to be with him, not just any boy. She wanted it to be with someone she liked and someone whom she would remember years to come. She knew there were boys in her class at school who probably would if they could(doubts with some) but that wasn't it. He was a hard fish to catch. Was that the phrase? She'd tried four times, and nothing. Even in the small village church he'd said no. That would have been memorable, even if the church benches were rather hard to lay on and it wouldn't have been that comfortable to do it, at least it would have been done and with him. But he hasn't and nor has she. She wonders what would have happened if they had and someone came into the church at that moment and found them at it? Especially some one like her mother or older or some old dear who had a heart attack. Then there was this room, not long ago. She had actually got him here and still no joy. Her mother had been out shopping, the room to themselves, silence, bed. Nothing. Except frustration on her part. In the corner of her bedroom, up on the ceiling is a spider. Black, big bellied. A web in the corner. It waiting. She hates spiders. What if came down in the night? She watches it, making sure it doesn't go anywhere. She ought to hammer it with her slipper. But she doesn't. She closes her eyes. She came that close to doing it. If only. But if onlys are fictions, she muses, turning on her side and opening her eyes. The room bores. The untidiness is part of who she is. And if they had, would she have a kid at fourteen? What then? Maybe she would call him Henry or Henrietta if it was a girl. No she didn’t like that name. But they didn't, so names don't matter. Maybe next time, she thinks, maybe next time he may. Tomorrow is there just another hopeful day.

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She crosses fields to find him,
passing cows, over low fences,
along dust tracks. He's probably
at the farm, his mother said, he


works there after school some
days and at week ends if he has
time to spare, so she goes there,
her bike parked by the cottage


wall, on foot, treading her way,
warm morning, Saturday. He
sees her coming through the farm,
dressed in jeans, blouse and boots,


her red hair tied in a bunch, hands
in her pockets, mouth chewing gum.
Farm hands view her a she passes,
their eyes feeding on her swaying


behind, her tiny tits, not knowing
13 years had scarcely gone, then
turn away, back to their work of
milking cows or weighing milk


or cleaning cow sheds of shit and
straw. Your mother said I'd find
you here, Lizbeth says, eyeing
him, his face and eyes and the


way he stands. He views her,
sensing her non-countryside ways,
a towny, others'd say. Just doing
a bit, he says, got hay bales to


stack, tidy and lay. Can I help?
she says, I’ve nothing much to do?
If you like, he says, and walks
along to the barn and she follows,


swaying her hips, holding her
head to one side. He shows her
the hay bales, where they need
to be and how to stack. It smells


in here, she says, heat of hay,
he says, gets stuffy. She runs a hand
over the nearest bales. Soft enough,
she says, looking at him, her eyes


focusing, sniffing the air. Soft enough
for what? He says. To lay on, cuddle
on, she say softly. Best not, he says,
others may come. Not up there, she


says, pointing to a higher place above
their heads, there we'd not been seen.
Best not, he says, they want me for
work not to laze or shirk. She pouts


her lips, walks about the barn, touching
with her fingers, running palms over
the bales. Just a little while, she says,
unbuttoning her blouse, needn't be long,


fingers slowly working the buttons.
There's mice and rats about, he says,
could be anywhere in here. She pauses,
her fingers still, her eyes enlarging.


Here? she asks. He nods, seen them
about, a few hours ago. She buttons
up her blouse, gazing around. Shame,
she says, wanted to, you know, here


in the quiet, us alone. He stands and
gazes, takes in her slim frame, her eyes,
her hands holding each other and
squeezing. Another time maybe, she


says, some other place, somewhere
that's quiet, where we'd not be disturbed.
He nods, viewing her small breasts
tidied away, at least for the day, like


small babes put to bed, and tucked
up safe and sound. She kisses his cheek,
touches his arm, see you, she says softly,
see you around, and she walks way,


her swaying behind, tight in her jeans,
walking through dust and hay, see you,
she says, blowing a kiss, another day.

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