Waiting to be hooked

There in the hard grey light right after dawn, when
A woman wakes early from dreams to dab and pick
At her need for the certainty of male root. She groans,
Thinking of blowing sir: she'd hiccup cum from soft
Lips. Early fantasies blare and drone off and away
Into a forgotten, silent reverie, but she remains,
Lying placidly at her master's sleep-stilled feet,
Looking through a five finger grille, feeling the ache
In her pretty, patterned, cotton nightdress, that
is easy to lift and tug out the way, given the usual
Conveyor belt of his lust for the tight snail-line
From the well of her juiced arousal (that is unending).
 
There, dreaming of the noose of master's hands
That will tighten into choking fact, when he stirs;
Until then she'll let his sleeping sighs sail slowly by;
But suddenly, the delicate and now tilted folds
Of her hidden humours will invariably be stretched
By awakened hardness and the urgency of need
To grind its way into sodden pussy. He must go
Deeper, opening her up, prepared to pour
Into the tight, taut labial rim, enveloping him,
Filling the still pool of her delight inexorably,
As her so-excited thoughts dart here and there:
Fat little slut-fish, waiting to be hooked and taken.