Popping His Cherry

I whisper, to his zipper,
"I'll be your filthy hooker."
He's; confused,intrigued, uncomfortable.
This mixed expression sliding,
plain across his face.
I know the look he's displaying.
He's not sure if he really heard,  
what he heard.
I live for this moment.
I kiss his finger tips
to relax him
and slip them  
around my neck.
So tiny compared to
his massive grip.
Softly, I beg,
"Pin me down by my
throat and fuck me, please."
I live for this moment.
He shakes his head no
and removes his hand  
like my skin is a lit stove top.
He motions to leave.
"It's okay",
is all I say.
I give him a look
that would melt
anyone, who carries a dick.
Puppy dog eyes,
above whore lips
that I bite seductively.  
Slipping onto the floor,
into an almost prayer position:
knees bent, head bowed.  
I've got him now!
I live for this moment.
He gives in and
sits back down.
He's got no idea  
what to do with me
and there is nothing
that I love more.
He gently touches  
the back of my head.
I plead, "Hit me,  
It gets me wet."
A tortured look  
crosses his face.
I live for this moment.
A look that says,
I don't want to
hurt you sweetheart.  
An expression that wonders,  
who taught you
this was alright  
and a soothing tone  
that demonstrates  
protectiveness when he  
imagines all I've been
subjected to.  
I live for this moment.
Knowing what is  
about to ensue,
I am soaking wet  
through my tiny
red panties.  
He sighs,
than strikes  
the side of my face.
The moan that escapes  
my mouth, hits him
directly between the legs.
His boyhood hardens
through his clothes.  
He has surprised himself.
He feels powerful making
the female kind, submit.  
I live for this moment.  
He tests me,  
rhetorically asking,  
"You like that?"
I shove his hand
down my throat,
until I can't breathe.  
I gag.  This means yes.  
With momentum now,
"You do like it, you slut!"
He hits me again.
This time harder,
His cock too.
Like a shark
who tastes blood,
he loses himself
to the rough and
raw sex that he wants
to put me through.
I LIVE FOR THIS MOMENT:    
I beg him to stop.
He keeps going.
I yell for help.
He keeps going.
I cry.
He keeps going.
He's got a race to finish
and he does.
He finishes  
all over my face.
He yanks my head/
his canvas,
backward by my hair.
He cries out in a way,
that surprises even him.
I live for this moment.  
He postures as if he
just killed his wife in a
crime of passion,
as if he was standing
over his dead lovers body.  
He breathes hard.
He struggles to make
sense of all that has
transpired within
the confines of this,
pay by the hour, room.
He hugs me the way  
you hug somebody if you
just saved their life.
I'm confident, I have.
I live for the moment
that I wake the Devil up
and show him,  
for the first time,
how to slam  
this type of Heroin/ heroine