Mia Years

 

Measured in Mia Years, five months of celibacy feels like dog years —
and I’m overdue for trouble.

What is one forgotten night to five months
but a blink of an eye?

I wish I knew.
I wish I could feel, I wish I could remember that last time.
A whisper lost to the wind.

I am a woman.
A fully grown woman with needs, just like
a lustful man who can’t control his.

I can’t jump on the first good-looking man I see.

What if he only wants my body
and tosses me aside when he’s done?

Except I want him for his body —
and everything between his thighs.

Am I wrong for being honest?
Or just not him?

Such a double-edged sword.

My nails dig into his back while he squeezes the sheets.
My walls grip him tighter than ever before.
It’s not enough for him to know my desires —
I want him to feel what went unappreciated for so long.

My breath races like a 5k,
sweat tracing my skin.
Our lips tango while my toes curl,
untouched — until he wraps them in his mouth.

He drives deep like the big girl mama raised,
gold chain glinting against his perspired chest,
then flips me, arches me, shapes me into his need.

I bite the sheets to muffle my screams.
He tugs my hair, breaking barriers,
I tell him not to stop.
He smacks my ass as if to say,
“Noted, mama.”

He goes deeper, walls trembling,
tears of pleasure falling.
I scream. I shiver.
I make a puddle on his sheets,
and he finishes on my backside
while I shake, handled like I deserve.

But who will find who first?

© 2025 Mia J