Not what you expect

You've come to me in earnest,
A driving desire to become hot and sweaty...
Black and skin tight
suited up to play...

Holding me still
opening me up,
slipping yourself into me,
regaining your fit...

Positioning yourself in such a way
to cease the movement of my tongue.
Apparently this supports you,
Right there, on your bridge...

Strong hands pulling at my strings
Crisscrossing the laces up,
Pulling them tight,
Securing me to you,
Your prisoner as you pound away...

I thought you’d go on forever,
moving hard and rhythmic,
Seeming merciless with your fever...

The fierce tempo is quietening,
I can feel your blood pulsating.
Panting, releasing me with minimal movement,
casting me aside until it best suites you.
I hate being your running shoes.