She dwells under the desk

from artnet.com

By his feet
in the box of space,
The shoebox,
she sits and waits.
Or sits and obeys.

She likes the comfort of his legs,
his shins
his well-known knees.

This is where she dwells;
Under the desk
whilst he works
and works.
Where the money goes,
she doesn’t know.
Family? Leisure? Business?
It’s not her business.

His face is blurry
in her mind.
But sharp and clear
when he gazes down between
the gap that divides them.
His eyes meet hers.
And an order is issued
more often than not.
She never
never
refuses.

It’s her turn to work.
Her hands ready.
Her mouth eager.
Lips licked,
bitten.
Buckles unbuckled,
zips unzipped.
She releases him,
allowing a low growl to escape.
No matter how many times
regardless of the familiarity
excitement still stirs her.
She is wanton.

She likes the feel of him.
Hard and soft in her palm
against her lips.
Pulsing
throbbing
responding to her caresses.

She is adept at this.
Most work alludes her
but she is good at this.

Her tongue
teasing the tip.
She strokes,
long and firm.

Sometimes
she wishes
she could see his face
at the moment of
satisfaction.
She wonders
how well he hides it.
And she knows,
always knows,
when his pleasure
has peaked.
She knows
when to place her lips over him.
She tastes him.
Keeps him clean.
Never spills a drop.
Never a drop.

And she’s quiet,
but for the growl,
heard only by him
through the vibrations in his belly.
All in all
she is silent.

And the cramped space suits her well.
It keeps her wanton
promiscuous
immodesty
safely in place.
Down.
Locked.
Safe.
And his desire
is satiated.
Whenever necessary.
Whenever demanded.

At dusk
they leave,
both grinning their pleasure.