James Alexander

The Sun

You come home to me
full of him
and let me kiss you
and put my fingers in your sticky cunt
and feel how hot and slick you are
and let me lick you everywhere
and taste his cock in the darkness
and I tell you next time
I want to watch:
I want to do this in the sunlight:
it is what I want.

I want you to let me watch you prepare.
Cut your pubic hair,
one foot up on the bed,
me so close I smell your anticipation,
dewy bush by white sky,
the pale S of your hips,
the curves of your pale cheeks;
see you dirty smile at me
as you paint your nails scarlet –
wink –
and I look at the darkest line of your cunt,
amongst the thick hair,
the line he’ll prise open
and you tell me about him:
how he fills you completely,
how you first did it in his car outside our home;
how he came in your mouth, how you drank it,
and how, later,
you kissed me with his taste on your tongue
and I didn’t notice.
You say you need him like the sun.
You say he gives you life;
he gives all of us life.

I lie in bed listening
as you laugh in the living room:
I am naked, excited, heart thundering:
I hear the bang of some machine,
some furniture, your cries
and I stand in the doorway, lost,
but then you’re there, both:
he has you at his waist,
balls hanging under your ass,
face over yours
and he fucks you hard against the wall:
fucks you on all fours on the floor
as you stare at me, biting your lip
as he comes hard inside you –
eyes closed, sighs – and you reach under
and cup his balls, squeeze,
turn and kiss his lips
and crawl to me,
lie on your back,
cunt oozing
and I kneel before you,
him nearby, panting,
and I suck his taste from your body –
sour and masculine but also sweat, of you –
and I try to fuck you but I’m too small –
you’re too wet –
and he laughs and nudges me aside,
makes you sigh as I stand,
leaning for a better view
finally coming when you do,
me onto your pink-brown jerking nipples
as he fills you again
and you laugh, coming too –
a tired, exhausted,
thrilled laugh
with hunger in it –
with lust and longing and desire.
We are spent but you want more.
Like the sun, you wish only to burn
and burn and burn
until the death.


James Alexander is a published poet and author.

Spread the lust

The Erozine