Michael the Poet's favourite image of Anya Sonder
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Anya always says to "book in advance, get in my pants", this is an ode to Anya's Pants.
Anya stands, hips cocked just right,
Fingers teasing, slow delight.
She tugs her pants past silky thigh—
I watch, wide-eyed, heart running high.
Denim clings, then peels away,
Inch by inch, the slowest play.
My hardness grows, a pulsing mess,
At just the glimpse of lace and flesh.
Black lace clings to curves so tight,
The fabric sheer, the lighting right.
That peachy ass, a perfect sin—
My breath’s all fire beneath my skin.
She bends down low to free her feet,
Her cheeks rise high—my need’s complete.
Each bounce, each jiggle, smooth and proud,
My throbbing heat is crying loud.
She throws the pants, then struts my way,
Her ass still swaying, on display.
She doesn’t speak, she doesn’t ask—
She knows her power, knows her task.
I grip myself, can't take much more,
My c%$k's so hard it’s getting sore.
One look from her—I'm close, I'm done,
Her naughty glance signals fun.
Anya stands, hips cocked just right,
Fingers teasing, slow delight.
She tugs her pants past silky thigh—
I watch, wide-eyed, heart running high.
Denim clings, then peels away,
Inch by inch, the slowest play.
My hardness grows, a pulsing mess,
At just the glimpse of lace and flesh.
Black lace clings to curves so tight,
The fabric sheer, the lighting right.
That peachy ass, a perfect sin—
My breath’s all fire beneath my skin.
She bends down low to free her feet,
Her cheeks rise high—my need’s complete.
Each bounce, each jiggle, smooth and proud,
My throbbing heat is crying loud.
She throws the pants, then struts my way,
Her ass still swaying, on display.
She doesn’t speak, she doesn’t ask—
She knows her power, knows her task.
I grip myself, can't take much more,
My c%$k's so hard it’s getting sore.
One look from her—I'm close, I'm done,
Her naughty glance signals fun.