Whirlwinds

Tongue in twister traces upon her nest
stirs those swirls in succulent savory streams.
Moans howl like a hurricane of approval,
thighs spread to embrace the fury
when that throbbing funnel slips inside,
while the mind spins form the tilt-a-world ride
around and around that ramming shaft,
before the gale climax showers semen
upon the orgasmic waves of contracting gasps.

It is the tornado that clings to the pillow
when fingers clutch the blankets
from the whirlwinds dreamt in solitude
where hands are substitute lovers
and night is the canvas of self inflicted cumming.

But in that dark the body stores the storm
ever waiting for the weather to change,
to lie on the bed in a gale of entwined force,
let the voice scream the rage of tempest poundings,
utterly bathed in the sweaty convulsions of eruptions.

Yet it is a realm kept beneath lairs of words,
and you never enter unless at first
there is a cyclone of sincere seductive suggestions
that blows open her gates with their breeze,
which leaves her land eager to be windswept
by the feel of a swollen, stiff lighting rod.