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Poetry

Weather Balloon

Over and over 
he brings me 
to the edge 
of the bed, 

those penetrating eyes, 
that penetrating hand 
drills into me until 
the pressure mounts 
and builds. I ask,
 
“Are you into squirting?” 
and his eyes spin wild, 
“Only one way to find out.”
 
His answer holds
a supplication 
and an offer. 
They tumble 
from his mouth. 
I catch them both,

and I deny them,

holding water back. 
I will not test him.
Better to let him wonder 
in the winter morning slush, 
still a stranger to the rush 
of springmelt flood. 
I am not his lab. I won’t 
be an experiment that fails. 

By Peach Berman

Smutty wordsmith exploring kink, fetish and power dynamic in narrative and verse. Expect characters of many backgrounds, genders, and sexualities with peculiar desires and rich inner lives. Indulge with me in all things sensual and weird.

8 replies on “Weather Balloon”

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