The Gentle Swish and Tickle of her Bangs – Sonnet Sixty-Five

The gentle swish and tickle of her bangs,
With every rock and flutter of her tongue,
That brush my dual held at base's lang,
With every tight-lipped pull and drawing rung.

With wetted other lips in quick withdraw,
That skate her seat to find in wayward roam,
The wetted rise, her lips caressed in awe,
Now driven hips will drive it risen home.

Her bending back to press upon my chest,
To guide left hand to breast, the right to feel
The moves of fingers weight, her drives possess,
The waiting nib that fingers' press reveals.

With deeper fills, her deeper drives embark,
Her deeper spills, expelled in perfect arc.