The Power of Her Head

While it is true I can take her captive
within the bounds of my arms,
she can release me with the gentlest attention.
And although I can snatch her up
and bear her helplessly above the ground,
she can more easily lift me to heaven
with the tip of her tongue.
When she drops to her knees
she elevates herself –
High Mistress, Grand Inquisitor –
assuming her power over me.
I beg, I blaspheme, I bargain, I pledge.
Yes, I could clench her mane and hasten her pace,
or hold her rock fast for the crashing of my surf,
but knowing her,
loving her,
I yearn for the skill she may hold in reserve,
and am devastated when she shorts me
in slackjawed defiance.
My pleasure is as intense as she wishes,
lasting as long as she wills;
slow and loving,
rushed and brutal,
as she decides.
She can tease me with little laps and girlish giggles,
or terrorize me with shredding teeth and mosquito faces.
It is as she wants it to be.
And when my round is spent,
the choice is hers
whether she nurses and cleanses
and eases me back to terra firma,
or jerks herself away from the crime scene
and tosses the smoking gun to the floor.
She may even torture me with mischievous nips
when she knows it is then TOO much
while gleefully demanding to do it again.
She may spit.
She may swallow.
She may rub it in.
It all depends on where her head is.