Cynful Hours

His fingers' pace grueling
That swivel in her hips
His Baby Girl mewling
Making her world eclipse

The storm begins to rage
Heat between her thighs
Taken to her cage
Left merely to sigh

Hours go by, as she waits
A faint whisper making her ache
Locked behind his Commanding Gate
Her pleasure, his to break

Hours go by, and he returns
Baby Girl's face all smiles
Knowing she'll be fine, she yearns
For him to make her alive for awhile