Long Panties Poems
Long Panties Poems. Below are the most popular long Panties by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Panties poems by poem length and keyword.
Title: Jungle Love (Under the Stars)
(Verse 1)
We’re lost in the shadows, hearts racing fast,
You’re my muse, love and hate, I can’t resist this blast.
Underneath the moonlight, in this midnight ride,
Your touch ignites a fire, can’t keep it inside.
(Pre-Chorus)
Got the world spinning, we’re breaking all the rules,
Every kiss is magic, making me a fool.
Take a breath, let it out, feel the tension rise,
In this car of secrets, babe, we’ll own the night.
(Chorus)
In the jungle love, we’re dancing like the stars,
Rocking all night long, in this game of hearts.
With your whispers sweet, pulling me like a spell,
You’re my heartbreak queen, and I’m under your spell.
Oh, oh, oh, take my panties as a token,
In this jungle love, let our bodies be the token.
(Verse 2)
Helicopter drop-off, yeah, we’re high above,
Feeling like a dream, lost in your love.
Heartbeat syncopated, we’re one in this heat,
In the rhythm of the night, babe, let’s never skip a beat.
(Pre-Chorus)
Got the world spinning, we’re breaking all the rules,
Every kiss is magic, making me a fool.
Take a breath, let it out, feel the tension rise,
In this car of secrets, babe, we’ll own the night.
(Chorus)
In the jungle love, we’re dancing like the stars,
Rocking all night long, in this game of hearts.
With your whispers sweet, pulling me like a spell,
You’re my heartbreak queen, and I’m under your spell.
Oh, oh, oh, take my panties as a token,
In this jungle love, let our bodies be the token.
(Bridge)
Oh, the way you move, got me purring like a kitten,
Every little touch, feels like we’re forbidden.
The night won’t stop, it’s just begun,
Underneath the heavens, we’re forever young.
(Chorus)
In the jungle love, we’re dancing like the stars,
Rocking all night long, in this game of hearts.
With your whispers sweet, pulling me like a spell,
You’re my heartbreak queen, and I’m under your spell.
Oh, oh, oh, take my panties as a token,
In this jungle love, let our bodies be the token.
(Outro)
So, let’s ride till the morning, feel the passion rise,
In this territory of mind, love’s our wildest prize.
Underneath the stars, yeah, we’ll never fall,
In this jungle love, baby, we’ve got it all.
Oh, oh, oh, let our hearts be the token,
In this jungle love, where every word is spoken
The rain---sounds like catapults fired on our roof
drops like palm kernels---splash on the back cover
of our black pots, Stamping the roof like horse
galloping on a narrow bridge. Is it war ? we ask
ourselves. And its comes along with Jealous wind
beating trees to pulps. The plantain treesare no more
standing with their toes but lying belly faced to the
ground, the palm trees in razzmatazz dance to the
calypsos Of the wind their hips fixed but their hairs
swirls
The sound of the wind
plays the tune of an invincible piper who was well
paid and skillfully trained. The African rain Is like
a tornado sent by a weird mate to greet a foe his,
competitor So as to end the play of his dancers stop
the beat of his drums and gongs. On his feasting day
as he refuses to settle the ground
We in groups
of seven, eight, nine ten---at the heart of the town,
nooks and crannies and front of our compounds
with belly flashed open unto the maker chanting
poems in unison to tell how beautiful we love it
when it pours.
With sandy coloured panties,
we dance In ecstasies to the unrhythmic beat of
the rain drops, splashing dirty waters on each
other body parts a sign to depict our new happy
days ahead whoever misses out this fun is a loser
we dance dance!! dance!! and dance the winner
the best dancer Is carry on the shoulders with
awards of applauds and joyous loud wailing
calling loud his name in repetition.
At times we catch little fishes In the frontage
of our homes as the nearby rivers, and
streams overflow into the dirty clean streets
with drainages stock by polythene nylons---
and our joyful mothers, who sing songs of
melody In their heart for a heavenly pour
to greet their water pots for a cool drink,
are seated in poetic manner l while some
stand at akimbo thinks the disasters it
might cause them their roof to cure.
Usually at nights mother goes around
Our beautiful clayed hutmaking little
amendments to our brown blistered
basket
mouthed roof and the drops it had
sneaks through. And the prayers our
hearts we pray its rains no more---lets
little ocean is our comfort.
https://youtu.be/hdZqDP0vMfk
In a drunken stupor, I fall down on my comforter
Baby blue sky covered in fluffy clouds of cotton.
I kick off my shoes, faded pink chuck Taylors
And make clumsy work of my shirt buttons.
I slip an oversized shirt over my head, Bart Simpson,
And pull it straight passed over my bra and panties, past my knees.
Now in the dark, on my bed, I hear the door creak open.
I turn to see your silhouette, and I hear the door behind you locking.
I sat up, before you lunged on top of me, and smacked me in the face.
I tried to push you off, but a little girl is nothing against a man.
Fear pinned me down with your arms, the look in your eye was crazed.
I yelled out as you punched me again, before stifling my breath with your hand.
I felt your fingers probe underneath my shirt, rough and groping.
The straps tore at my flesh as you ripped my bra apart.
I tried to push your hand off my face, I was having trouble breathing
But when you took your hand off and I gasped for air, it fell back against my cheek hard
I stopped trying to push you away, tears streaming, afraid you’d hit me again.
I bucked when your course fingers pinched, it only seemed to excite you more.
I cringed as you raked your nails deep down my stomach digging in.
You stopped at the top of my panties before yanking them till they tore.
Panic sliced through me as I felt you unclasping your jeans, understanding swept me.
I knew then what you intended to do and my blood ran cold at the thought.
You took your hand off of my mouth and threatened to kill me if I screamed
But I yelled anyway begging for help, preying that you would be caught.
I was silenced by a stinging blow that sent me hard against the head board.
Too disoriented by it to yell again before you were done taking off my t shirt.
Through blurry eyes and mind I felt your eager hands pillage and explore.
I was smacked again for screaming at how badly your fingers inside me hurt.
You showed no mercy as I screamed in pain against the palm of your hand.
You only continued to probe and play, talking dirty to me, making me talk back.
Through bloodied lips and wrenching pain I was abused by this man
He made me say unmentionable things about him, while he cruelly laughed.
But what of Aysin? She'd be here by three.
What seemed to me the perfect metaphor
(young Ankara was her, old "Stamboul", me)
was not an easy drive - five hours, and more!
It's midnight in my Turkish hotel room.
The good news is, the mosque across the square
is one of Sinan's - soaring through the gloom,
two graceful minarets piercing the air.
The bad news is the teenage Turkish boys,
all three of them, on duty as night porters.
Ingenious at thinking up new ploys,
they pound my door to offer sparkling water
so they can ask more questions. "Is it true
that Elvis is alive? What do you make
in salary? This trip, what will you do?"
"I've got a Turkish girlfriend" Big mistake.
Appalled and fascinated, they demand
to know how come a foreign guy like me
can "pull" a Turkish chick. How was it planned?
I say she'll be arriving here at three.
"What? You, and her - in HERE?" Dark eyes dilate.
"It hasn't been discussed. I just don't know."
"They do like this, the women in the States?"
It's nearly half-past two before they go.
I try to stay awake, but suddenly
there's banging on the door. I must have dozed.
"The Turkish girl is here. She's pretty. See!"
There's Aysin, wearing figure-hugging clothes.
We clinch and kiss. I kick the door to close it,
although this room (no aircon) is a sauna.
Young Aysin is a beauty, and she knows it -
as do three pairs of eyes, around the corner!
She has a brisk and breezy bedside manner.
We'll both sleep here. She's sure I wouldn't harm her.
Comes out of bathroom wearing, like a banner,
both bra and panties under her pyjamas.
But when I want to, I can be persuasive.
Some kisses, compliments ... "Don't be afraid ..."
Although at first her tactics are evasive,
by dawn, impressive progress has been made.
In some old film, Pacino says a thing
that I've found true. We don't recall the sex.
It's details which strike home. Some song she sings,
the angle of her chin, some light effect ...
As things reached crisis-point, she grabbed my arm -
"You hear it?" It was starting! It was there!
The muezzin's song, just like some ancient charm,
was calling Stamboul's faithful to their prayer.
You took me so far from myself, that I forgot who I was
A stranger looked back at me in my own mirror
I heard a little girl crying inside, but yet I couldn’t see her
What was that shadow under my dress?
Daddy’s little girl, singing a song, “You ought to been there when the Lord saved me.”
I sang well, yet I was still waiting to be saved…
Don’t you all see me, drowning in hurt being strangled by darkness?
What was that shadow under my dress?
Daddy, daddy, daddy… But you’re my daddy
Fathers sell not your daughters as whores, for if you do your nation will be turned to
Whoredom…
Daddy, daddy, daddy… But you’re my daddy
What was that shadow under my dress?
Being led around by darkness bound by the invisible leash of my innocence
Nothing was the name that he gave me…
If you love me you won’t tell, was the silence of that song he played for me…
What was that shadow under my dress?
Reaching around in my world of darkness trying to find something, anything to hold on
to…
Beyond the point of feeling blue…
Each day, molestation was nothing new…
What was that shadow under my dress?
Asking what more do I have to take before being left alone…
Confusion choked me…
Why?, Was the only food I could eat…
Why didn’t anyone help me? Why was I left alone?
What was that shadow under my dress?
Taking a bath was like bathing in the lake of fire…
Red raw rashes, whips and lashes where the clothes that he gave me…
It was actually a relief when he only beat me by a tree…
What was that shadow under my dress?
Cursed from the day I was born, being taught before I could walk how to pose for
****…
My panties pink with flowers, being pulled off of my body every midnight hour…
Sexual deviance being sown into my DNA
Innocents told me, that’s just the way Daddy’s like to play
What was that shadow under my dress?
Time has passed and Daddy’s gone to and been released from Jail…
Over 22 years he was locked up a sexually violent predator civilly committed never
supposed to sleep outside of a jail cell…
Throughout my life those who have heard my story considered me blessed…
Yet I still struggle and pray one day I can truly understand what that shadow was
under my dress…
Form:
Erotic Errata
by Michael R. Burch
I didn’t mean to love you; if I did,
it came unbid-
en, and should’ve remained hid-
den!
***
Less Heroic Couplets: Marketing 101
by Michael R. Burch
Building her brand, she disrobes,
naked, except for her earlobes.
***
Negligibles
by Michael R. Burch
Show me your most intimate items of apparel;
begin with the hem of your quicksilver slip ...
***
Warming Her Pearls
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Warming her pearls,
her breasts gleam like constellations.
Her belly is a bit rotund ...
she might have stepped out of a Rubens.
***
Cover Girl
by Michael R. Burch
Cunning
at sunning
and dunning,
the stunning
young woman’s in the running
to be found nude on the cover
of some patronizing lover.
In this case the cover is a bed cover, where the enterprising young mistress is about to be covered herself.
***
First Base Freeze
by Michael R. Burch
I find your love unappealing
(no, make that appalling)
because you prefer kissing
then stalling.
***
Nun Fun Undone
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
Abbesses’
recesses
are not for excesses!
***
Less Heroic Couplets: Sex Hex
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
Love’s full of cute paradoxes
(and highly acute poxes).
Published by *Asses of Parnassus, Lighten Up Online* and *Poem Today*
***
Retro
by Michael R. Burch
Now, once again,
love’s a redundant pleasure,
as we laugh
at my childish fumblings
through the acres of your dress,
past your wily-wired brassiere,
through your panties’ pink billows
of thrill-piqued frills ...
Till I lay once again—panting redfaced
at your gayest lack of resistance,
and, later, at your milktongued
mewlings in the dark ...
When you were virginal,
sweet as eucalyptus,
we did not understand
the miracle of repentance,
and I took for granted
your obsessive distance ...
But now I am happily unbuttoning
that chaste dress,
unhitching that firm-latched bra,
tugging at those parachute-like panties—
the ones you would have gladly forgotten
had I not bought them in this year’s size.
Originally published by Erosha
At the foot of Burgos’ Castle
Looking toward its beautiful Cathedral
I learned what it means:
"To tide down by the pylon"
Or "to go down to the Moor Muza."
From waist down
It was the first time
I saw and rarely admired
My girlfriend's chestnut or mussel.
The hair around it
Reached almost to her knees.
I wanted sex
And to do it like the calf and she calf
From Quintanar de la Sierra do
But she told me no
That, first, tide down to the pyle
Or to go down to the Moor Muza
As I wished
And adorn the banks of her mussel
With the two chevalieres we brought
Because " so this delicacy
From a pretty and sandunguera woman
Will taste better."
I grabbed the two chevalieres
A typical Burgos sweet
Cracking them hard on their chestnut
Making a paste of milk
Flour, butter, and yeast
Sugar, egg, and a pinch of salt
Plus the tartar from her big lips
And cute nymphs
Plus that sticky nectar that flowed
From her and meatus.
I began to lick and eat
With an infinite hunger
Lifting my tongue from her anus
To the top of her Venus’ Mount
Biting her ********
As if it were a man's cock.
She realized
In a non-fake ******
That I was getting hard.
Sweetly, she said to me:
"Bring here that your hill with two eggs"
Taking it with her hand.
I don't know where she's taking it.
She didn't take it to the path between her two ****
Nor along the paths of the anus.
She took it to a blackberry bush
And there, almost, she killed it bleeding!
We didn't have sex.
She said to me:
-I think you'll be happy
With this wonderful snack you've had
Of partridge or rabbit
Of turtledove or quail
Adorned with local chevalieres.
Maybe another day
Your redwing will enter my nest
Or Il eat that your cream filling churro.
We set off along the path that leads
To the Church of Saint Stephen
Hopping, skipping, and singing:
By Maurice Chevalier’s
"Paris Will Always Be Paris".
Without realizing it
I was walking with my fly half open
Saying she to me immediately:
Come back, come back to our place of love
I left my panties in the grass.
I answered her smiling:
- You¡
I'll buy you another one
Or go without it
That so You wear it much cooler
And better.
He saw her, as soon as he entered the room
It wasn’t her beauty, although she was pretty;
pretty drunk. It was her voice that he heard,
The giggle, that hideous giggle.
She sat on the sofa, glass of Jack Daniels in hand
The bottle, on the floor, half hidden along side the sofa.
He grabbed a drink, not too strong
And moved in on her.
“Hi” he said, fancy a drink? unknown to her
He was already pouring her one.
“fancy going somewhere else”?…. she giggled
He stroked her hair, sliding his hand onto her shoulder
Slowly moving down her front, stopping
Just before her breasts…. testing the water!
He paid compliments, she fell in love.
She staggered across the room
Was it the drink or the heels?
Maybe that’s why no-one helped or advised.
Friendless! Or did they know her of old?
As they stepped outside the room, she glanced at the stairs
But he had other ideas, he held her hand tight,
And walked down the hall towards the basement door
Checking that no-one was watching he opened the door
Switched on the light, to reveal a precarious set of steps
Confidently he walked down…quietly, willingly she followed
They stepped onto a cold stone floor…. their steps echoed
She could feel the dampness!
In the empty room, except for one cupboard in the corner
He swung her around, pushed her back to the cupboard
And in a flash she could feel his fingers at the top of her panties
In a second they were at her ankles!
She looked upwards and heard the noise of music and laughter above her
She then felt herself being lifted and sat on the stained top
He lifted her dress, and fell to his knees...... the music had gone
She had only felt pleasure like this a few times before,
She felt like screaming, but as though he knew, he instinctively
Put his hand over her mouth…..
He stood up and as he entered her, her back arched and thrust
Her firm breasts forward, nipples taut, his mouth encased them
She could feel his teeth, intense power
Inside she was dancing!
A final thrust ensured they united together
She sat there gasping, he turned, slowly walked away
Then stopped and said, “I’ll go back up, our guests will wonder
Were we are”………. she looked, smiled and thought
No they won’t ……
What is it about me that gives you the impression that I am just your average
sleazy, easy, breezy, from the hood who can't possibly get ahead in life unless
you are by my side.???
Is there a note written across my forehead that reads:
"Warning,
do not respect
always neglect and,
never expect any goodness from this creature unless
legs are open and ready for business?
Does my azz have a "grab me" sign stuck to it
or is that what you would allow a strange man to do
to your daughter
to squeeze your mothers breast or are
the words "touch me" tattooed
across my chest?
Do my eyes unconsciously tell you to come over and try to slowly
slide down my panties
with your,
ridiculous lies
heard too many times
from too many guys
who've more than once tried
to get in between
or better yet inside
my thighs.?
Don't get me wrong, I'm being so sincere
I just wanna make it clear that
there is something that you hear
if my body tells you action like the movie genre
or do I look different in every scene like a world
premiere.?
Is bich my name in another language or,
do you see hoe somewhere on my birth certificate?
Am I not worth more than a single letter?...Ay!
or did I somehow give birth to you? Ay Ma!
Do my features confuse you or would you really prefer
a man...."Man".
How can my body speak a language that I have yet to hear?
Well before you get the wrong idea, let me make this clear.
When my azz say "grab me", that really just a lie
If my eyes say "come here" they really mean goodbye
Don't guess my name just ask and I'll let you know
and whatever my forehead region reads is just a bad typo.
It should go something like.... Always respect, never neglect, and only expect
greatness from this Queen no matter what her pulchritude screams.
The media degrades her as society points its finger and laughes
all the while she's searching for your support
the support
of her father
brother,
her son,
lover.
Why? Because she is yours....
Your mother,
Your Daughter,
Your sister, and
Your Lover.
So...why not?
Love her,
Honor her,
See her for who she really is and
not for what her body says.
My ideal love is a love that catches me by surprise.
The realization of intelligent things and conversations that literally take us anywhere.
My ideal love is a love that expresses ideal.
The ramifications that influence us to be who we really are in front of who we are.
A love that doesn't mind bargin shopping and putting together hundred dollar outfits that really cost $10.
The reality that its the most simplest of things that are most significant.
A spontaneous love that doesn't mind the predictability of living today before exploring the mystery of tomorrow.
Here after the after thought that we exist in the past as well as the present simultaneously.
If ever in need I'll do my best to provide all that I can for an ideal love.
Through these actions I believe the true miracle is achieved.
An ideal love that is beyond ideal.
Who sets the where and how we meet, the institutions of bliss where the masses are limited to love and longing.
To find patience and compassion sitting on the front lawn on the same institution.
As long as she provides a kiss that can send me outside of my own thoughts, and pull me closer to hers.
My ideal love wouldn't be based on a B.E.T movie.
A single expression that summarizes a scorned woman letting go.
A cliff note of lust soon as the next sceen fades to black.
Her panties pulled down not knowing the dude is secretly abusive.
140 minutes gone by to realize the last 5 mins were the ones that made her truly happy.
The woes of love.
My ideal love is a woman built with ambition but with a heart big enough to understand that without sacrifice nothing is truly accomplished.
A culture made in truth, ripped off by those who ignore that struggle is what makes us who we are.
The courage to walk out in front and be who we really are.
A real woman that doesn't mind lounging around the house that knows whom Budda and Huey Newton was.
This revolution of ideal starts the moment I realize that I never stood a chance.
The surprise of her lips against my cheek.
I drink from this remedy each time you open your lips.
So in silence I gasp.
As you caught me off guard,
My ideal love