With short hair, tight jeans, and a flowery short shirt,
she strides down the street to go to her office.
Leering eyes, jerky motions of the neck,
the head in discordance with his movement,
he is the jackass that has a dangling member in the middle of the street.
Down member! Down – says years of human civilization.
But the uncouth mind knows no restraint, gently strokes the beast.
The sun comes out from behind the clouds to reveal all –
her petite mounds outlining the shirt, a thing of beauty
his erect lack of respect in stark crassness.
She meets his eyes but doesn’t look below the neck,
never losing eye contact with the wannabe ravisher.
The pointy tip of the tongue penetrate the shut door made by his lips,
a drop of saliva lust hanging.
She walks up to him and stands close with penetrating eyes
his saliva rolls down the chin.
Slap!!
She walks off with her short hair, tight jeans, and the flowery shirt.
His saliva yields to gravity,
his lust falls to the dust to make a brown globule,
the erect member goes into a shell like a tortoise’s neck.
Whipped for life, his rapacious desire.
Dhaka
27th April 2018
© S M Shahrukh and Traces of Orange, 2018
(Photo from @aniket_pretium)
traces of orange 