Bulge

Sometimes, I can't help but glance down low,
To his trousers, where secrets of bulge may show.
I try my best not to make it clear,
Just a quick peek, nothing to fear.

I wear a low cut top, a bra so fine,
Hoping he notices, hoping he'll join.
In a furtive glance, as I've done before,
To catch a glimpse of what's in store.

I imagine touching his soft, hidden place,
Would he feel uneasy, a blush on his face?
Or would he grow hard, excited by my touch,
Lost in the sensations, temptation too much?

But then he catches me, watching his gaze,
"What were you thinking?" he gently says.
I stumble, I stammer, my blush gives me away,
"No, nothing," I try, but it's clear as day.

He smiles knowingly, understanding my game,
"Shall we go?" he asks, offering his hand, the same.
Into the darkness, the car park awaits,
The night wraps us, sealing our fates.

He drives me home, eventually we part,
But the memory remains, imprinted in my heart.
For I love a good bulge, a tantalizing tease,
A promise, a temptation, a soft, hidden please.

When trousers hint, when jeans reveal,
The shape of his junk, a secret to steal.
But oh, when he wears snug underpants, just right,
The soft swell of his tackle ignites my delight.

It's like smelling coffee before it is seen,
My imagination fills in the gaps in between.
But it's not coffee I crave when the bulge is near,
It's the warmth of his touch, the closeness I revere.

To watch it grow hard, under fabric that hides,
Or trace my fingers, feeling the warmth collide.
The meeting of hands and his package so fine,
In that moment, his bulge becomes mine.