Air

There is a beauty
in the way
the lacing of your thumbs
across my throat
as you move your cock
deep into me
drives my senses
across a desert looking for water.

Pressure at a perfect point,
magical how you know
just where my sweet spot is.

Tension in your jaw
and the glisten on your forehead
shows the war
you are fighting
to not clamp down
and hammer your claim
far in
where it cannot be reached
or challenged.

I have no survival instincts with you.

I should know better than to play with fire.

But all the same
I push the tension from the base of my spine
up to my shoulders
and I roll -
serpentine,
antagonizing,
taunting,
enflaming.

I see your teeth as the gates of lips
are a portcullis
resistingly opening
as the horde
of my thighs
hips
dripping cunny
swarm your defenses.

And like a good daddy
you capitulate
just enough
to
cry
out
in
delicious
agony.

Waves crest,
dark clouds roil,
and my core reverberates
as you pound into
a body
made for you.

La petit mort.

I’ll be disciplined later,
but as any good girl knows -
the show is worth the price of admission.