Celine sitting on the floor, naked, leg apart, knees up, exposed. Grinning at me.

“Do you think my pussy is pure poetry?” she asks.

I wait a beat before answering. “Very much so.”

This answer pleases her, for her smile widens, and then it dips, toward her groin, her exposure, her open cunt.

“Not impure poetry?” she asks.

I’m not sure how to answer this. Partly it’s because Celine is looking at me now, an intent, intense look, and while she’s looking, her fingers are inside her cunt, making small circular motions. A sigh, of pleasure, no doubt, escapes her lips. And then another. And her fingers slide from her sex. Between her fingers, a skein of slipperiness shows, stretches. Celine smiles again. “What about my cum juice? Is it pure poetry too?”

“It is!” I declare. “Every part of you is pure poetry.”

“Even my most secret thoughts?”

“Yes!”

“No matter now naughty? How perverse?”

“No matter ... What are your secret thoughts?”

“Do you need to know?”

I nod.

“Okay. How about this one? I want to suck Nils’ cock after he’s been fucking Marci. I want to taste her on his cock.”

She tastes herself then, and then she slides her two fingers back inside herself. She sighs, half sigh half groan, and closes her eyes. This time she masturbates with purpose. It doesn’t take her long to come. Her orgasm is pure poetry.