Becoming Poetry

In his hands I became romantic verse;
I never wanted more because I felt
The tension in his voice that was so terse,
Commanding me with every sobriquet,
He knew would turn me on and make me sense
The power at his disposal; as we dreamed
And loved and lusted through to recompense.
He made me shun rewards, until I'd creamed
Around the meaty predilections posed,
By yearnings that my impulses soon shared:
Salacious to the core that he disclosed,
Through revelations, that only he dared
To murmur, as I came: the sweetest curse
That he could muster in romantic verse.