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My Butt Plugs Went To The Ballet

                                   Erotic Writing
Sex Poems
In the afternoon, I said, “Ah, my favourite place – a quiet hotel room on a weekday afternoon, with two naked men.” In the evening, Matthew Bourne made magic, filling the stage with stunning, prancing, dancing half-naked men. In the afternoon, some serious progress was made on my arsehole and two nice men fucked it successfully, passing me between them. In the evening, two glorious, rugged male ballet dancers danced with a wilting sleeping beauty, passing her, literally, between them. In the afternoon, I watched men fuck and sigh and run their hands over each other, in exploration and enjoyment and affection. In the evening, the angel gave his hand to the prince, and I thought for a man to offer his hand to another man, can be both sexual and non-sexual at the same time. In the afternoon, my body was given pleasure in the most direct possible way. In the evening, a dancer polished a spoon in time to music, and I felt a different sort of pleasure, at attention to detail and cleverness and theatricality. In the afternoon, my threesome was crude and basic and sensual. In the evening, the ballet was cultural and highbrow and beautiful. But the threesome was also beautiful and the ballet was also sensual. Matthew Bourne made one man fall back against another man, and I thought – I know something about that. Matthew Bourne made the good fairy fight the evil fairy, and I thought – maybe I know something about that too. In the afternoon I yelled when the big butt plug got right up me for the first time, and a hand was clamped over my mouth. In the evening, I nearly cried because sleeping beauty was so beautiful. I so loved this afternoon! I so loved this evening! (Of course it meant that, out of necessity, My butt plugs went to the ballet!)
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