Cunning boy

Your tongue, like molten wax
grips as it strokes,
warm and silky, with papillae
providing just that good touch
of raspy yum.

And your teeth, catch just with
the slightest edge to push,
against a rhythm slow and steady
just backbeats, building up and slowing down,
ever present, demanding attention.

You focus without focusing, just a beat of tooth and tongue,
with molasses sex rising,
like the heat of a summer night,
and the climax of voice
and tongue and tooth and throat together.