Quite Tightly

Bare, for black shorts and sheer camisole,
She doth sit before me on the bed,
Eyes fixed on me, peering to my soul,
I want her so, but she hath plans instead.

"Hands behind your back," She bids of me,
Whereupon she binds them at the wrists,
Sits again, but closer, as to see
The boldness of my passion yet persists.

Such bliss cannot be measured, nor explained,
The ecstasy that lies between her lips;
An ode to paradise -- joy uncontained,
Until she feels the slightest thrust of hips.

She stops, unties me, hurls me on my back,
Cuffs each wrist (quite tightly) to bedpost,
Blindfolds me -- my world made darkest black,
And she goes silent, floating like a ghost.

For a moment, I'm not sure she's there,
I want to call her name, but I am shushed;
Her heat envelops me, from everywhere,
Exquisitely slowly -- nothing rushed.

Her body writhes and dances on my own,
I clutch her hips and shove her onto me,
Every muscle tight, and hard as stone,
Climbing t'ward our mutual ecstasy.

Finally, our passion's dam gives way --
Climaxing together, locked in embrace,
Foreheads touch, and all else melts away,
Her stray hair dancing lightly o'er my face.

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.