To the Hilt

Tip of your tongue
Coils down my belly
Dips into my navel
Following the trail of hair
Till your chin rests

My blood rushes to harden
As your mouth opens
Teasing me in
Inching to be impaled
But slides without resitance

The friction of your grip
Your fingers claw my thighs
Watching as I shut my eyes
The pleasure like a saber
Drawn from my sighs

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