Slow Sunday

Lying dormant, nestled in a cold December Sunday,
Lethargy my friend and constant weekend companion,
Never showing the world my weaknesses for selfishness,
Telephone off the hook and online distractions offline,
I open the book that keeps me warm and aroused,
It never fails to banish the annual winter blues,
Lying prostate, gazing upwards with hungry eyes,
Words forming and engaging my waking mind,
My right hand absently strokes my chest of hairs,
Reading about a girl and her insatiable habits,
My stomach quivers even for my well known palm,
Yet it's only a bit player and part of the journey south,
Deep South down where there's a stirrin',
Awakening from a slumber by slow strokes,
Blood pumping and flesh growing from touch,
And excitement through words and memories,
This preferable semi soft, semi hardness,
Tender touched and tender felt,
Trying not to let myself grow too hard,
Preferring this twilight skin as I read her words,
Minutes I last until one stroke too much,
Sends me into true stiffness and a speeding up,
Of breath.. And chest rising... Fist forming,
Away are thoughts of tickles and licks,
Softness of skin and yielding body,
And onto the yearning for openness,
Wantonness and willingness for speed,
Imagery of legs parted waiting for me,
Lip bit, nipple pulled and breath heavy,
Eyes staring up into mine, pleading for fulfilment,
And I am so willing, so happy to please,
I plunge deep and my fist pulls hard,
Fast beating on a rock hard muscle,
Pleasure enfolding me as my semen readies,
A pulsating eagerness to emerge in spurts,
I can hold back no more and I let fly,
Full force of my eruption, sky high and free,
Muscles taut and breathing erratic for seconds more,
And then the warm feeling of contentment,
As I sink deep into bed and sleep