Honey Pot

He grips my hair; clutches a metal chain;
My hand slips to his thigh: he nods, approves;
The metal's cool around my neck; it moves
To draw me close to him, where I remain;
I kneel to please at his pace as, again
He draws me in; and, gently, his voice soothes
My nervous disposition; he removes
The fear his cock will choke me; let it gain
The foothold that he wants between my lips,
Unaided by his hold on my top knot;
And he will pull me forward; his prick slips
Across my tongue into the honey pot
That is my mouth: it serves and slowly tips
Him over - as I gag, he comes a lot.