At The Madrasa
At The Madrasa
On the floor, we three intertwine,
glances that linger, hands that align.
Many pages of verse we recite and tread,
A hand touches hand, no words are said.
Fingers trace the zippers glide,
A sudden warmth, a spark inside.
Bare beneath fabric, thrill within,
A rushing pulse under the skin.
Lips graze nipples, tender and close,
In the library, where no one knows.
Kisses that linger, tender and wet,
Stirring a fire, dripping hot sweat.
Heavy breath, our bodies collide,
Fingers penetrate, no need to hide.
******’s surge, crashing in flight,
lost in each other, moans of delight.
Among all the girls in the room,
Where passion and love bloom.
In warm embraces, the hours slip by,
Until our teacher lets us go with a sigh.
Copyright © Fatime El-Masri | Year Posted 2025
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