A Sense of Joy

He cultivates my garden carefully;
And tells me I must only pluck when told;
He'd like me smooth and girlish and quite free
Of anything too adult; his hand's bold
Enough to slide across me and to stroke
The smoothness; he will check if my cunt's moist
And spread enough for him; let darkness cloak
Desires he fulfils, once he has voiced
His needs explicitly; then I must find
The stem that he's selected I employ
To bring me to the place where a new kind
Of pleasure's felt; and he can sense the joy
That wraps around him and ensures he'll harden
And, then, press in to cultivate my garden.