Mont Blanc

(Juste un peu plus)
 
The tip of my Mont Blanc hangs in expectation,
Ready to deliver the following sensual line,
Her skin is quivering with anticipation,
My gentle grip on the barrel will be divine.
 
I spread the font with want to haunt and taunt,
An attrayante choice of words will voice the need,
Gliding across the top she writhes in pleasure,
Shaping the expressions it takes the lead.
 
(Oui s'il vous plait) I play with splendid array,
Every pulse pounds quietly and implicitly,
(Oui, oui) everything is taking form from the storm,
Flooding my lips in a chorus of litany.
 
(Oh mon chéri) I slide without rush or hurry,
A soft throb of lexes flexes all along,
But my digits toil steadily, heavily…
Torrid amidst a florid speech of diphthongs.
 
My Mont Blanc lingers easy between my fingers,
Floating lightly, tightly, slightly above her skin,
Juste un peu plus, she inquires with fascination,
“Just a little more because your poem feels like sin.”