Forward thrust,
Makes my head lean upward,
Forces the air out my lungs,
My lips to part open,
All while my mind is blanketed with electrified sensations of surrealism
He takes his time,
To fill my opening with his raw intentions,
With his measured strokes,
May it be short,
May it be long
May it be soft
Or deep and hard like the last one
His rhythm constantly changes,
The only constance is its smoothness,
Its preciseness,
Of its delivery
If he wants me to moan,
To groan
To beg for more,
His stroke changes its intensity,
The depth it falls inside my prize,
The angle he presents it between my thighs
He's in the position of control,
The position to weld his power,
To demand of my body,
To contempt my soul,
But the next time,
It will be my body in control,
It will be me making his body squirm,
His lungs scream ...
1Manview © 1999 – 2014
