His hand

His hand is in my hair; he pulls locks back;
A simple gesture saying everything
For I am quiet, focused and must track
The hardened member, that is pressing in
And out of my pursed lips, relentlessly;
I'm hearing him contented with each grunt,
My eyes, now lowered, see the leash that he
Holds, wrapped in his palm, as he takes his cunt
And he enjoys it most, when, silently,
I am the perfect hole for him to plug,
Not needing a respite, but just his hand
To press me in, whilst kneeling on the rug
And taking all his inches; his command
Is both controlled and ruthless; his affair
Will spurt its need, with his hand in my hair.