His Thinkin' Spot
He tells me.. he does his best thinkin’
with his hand between my knees,
fingers travelling north
where pleas are never 'please'..
more intentionals on hot breath,
exhaled low against my neck..
those three words-- “Open for Me”
Tracing warm to hotter curves,
parting paleness that pearls..
he presses into my beginnings
from slick end to end
with a flick of his wrist..
stroking wet epiphanies,
--his ego, Relentless--
that hidden thumb counting heartbeats,
far inside my shadow's trembling..
The heated pride.. dark eyes on mine-
he, thinking hard against my thigh,
arches my back and my insides..
When his notions swirl, hitting tight,
he palms the hot spill of idea
shaped on liquid lipbite-
his fingers taking Oh So Slow notes
in conclusion blooming forth..
I whisper~tell him..
Nothing impresses my Virgo wetness
... like his heavy~pettin’ intelligence.