New Move

First meeting, fevered,
Me in my little red dress. Him?
Faded jeans.
Cuban shirt.
Smelling like a man.
I dampen as we meet, a hug, dry kisses on cheeks,
But then my heart stops:

"Want to go out? Or just up to your room?"

I know what he means.
I know there is a right answer.
I know.

He leads me upstairs:
Glassed elevator a fishbowl to our kiss,
Soft carpet passing us like ghosts,
Harsh key reader clacking us inside.

At once my face hits the cold table,
Pinned there by his iron hand,
My dress already high above my ass.

"Fuck!" I cry, oblivious, knowing what's next:
He's described in perfect detail what he'll do to me,
His new move:
Studied,
Proven,
Pondered,
Perfected,
Tested (on his wife...)
And now ready for deployment:
A new drone or rocket,
A missile.

Enhanced performance.

He starts, proud, probing,
Cock stirring,
My body forced against the table.

He loves this. Loves me.
Loves my cunt,
Though he calls it a pussy.

And I'm loving him,
Loving his cock,
Though he calls it a dick.

But it's not working, this new move,
This miracle cure for my slow orgasm,
This promised land of climactic, red-rage exploding
Fireworks...

He's preening, after.
Full of pride, yet
Empty where it counts:

In my cunt.

"How'd you like my new move?"
"Fuck, baby," I croon, slack, "so good..."
...but I'm reaching for my Lelo.