IRE Scoville Scale: Tastefully Wicked

The train station is bustling with people. I check my reflection in a glass encasement as I walk through the turnstile. My demure grin doesn't betray me yet, I wonder if anyone knows that only an hour ago, your tongue was writing poetry on my clit?
Inking long, fluid, lyrical sonnets on me, your muse.

How your weathered hands pulled me closer to you?
How the first pass of your tongue made my clit sing,
and threatened to tear the silken spider webs binding me to this inanimate reality?

How your wet suckling lips elicited a blistering chorus of hallelujah?
How my hands paraded through rich hued hair while you peered up from your feast between my thighs?
How your volley of wet, streaming ballads reduced me to a poor caricature of myself?
How the certitude of you making me masturbate while we fuck made me cum on your tongue?

Can they tell how deep you were inside of me?
How I was nothing except what I was feeling at that very moment?
How I whispered for more?
How I cried obscenities when you gave it to me?

Do they know you held my now tightly pinned hair in your fist while you fucked me mercilessly from behind?
Do they know how much I longed for it?
How much I loved it?
And what I wouldn’t give to be bent over in front of you,
singing sweeping hymns in praise of your cock-wielding genius.