rose-coloured shades

Sometimes I dine with him at his hotel:  
Face-to-face amongst rose-coloured shades.  
My perfume blends with his cologne. He'll tell  
Me of his theatre trip and how he grades  
Performances precisely, making sense  
Of every mood declaimed throughout five acts.  
And then we go upstairs where he's intense:  
He gently strokes my cheek and then attacks...  
 
My bottom - a preliminary course -  
Which I've presented ruefully to him;  
My dress, cut down to bosom, is a source  
Of delight for us both, as, on a whim,  
He tugs silk further down and finds my breasts,  
When smacked, will wobble like the passing thoughts  
Of readers, whom his column interests,  
"They'd like your derriere," he laughs and snorts.  
 
The whiff of my sweet vagueness makes cocks rise.  
Beneath my belly there are column inches;  
I wonder will his clever prose disguise  
His pleasure in my presence, as he pinches,  
In raptures, my soft butt - he simply aches  
To see me naked, bar my collared throat:  
The velvet band ensures hardness awakes,  
Ready to paint my mouth with his cum coats;  
   
He finds this apposite - almost a vision  
Where he can find fulfilment right before  
He torments me with humourless derision.  
Sir calls me cunt or bitch and, sometimes, whore;  
Because these epithets seem to excite  
Him further, as he grabs my hair, as well.  
Then makes a viscous finish to the night,  
So pleased, I dined with him at his hotel.