Step right up, take steady aim,
A practiced throw, a flickering flame.
The prize? A plunge, a gasping breath,
The sudden loss, the sweet unrest.

Your lips, a whisper, a coaxing sound,
Soft as a ripple, breaking the ground.
I’m steady, poised, in perfect form,
Aiming to raise the storm.

The waters churn, just a hint, a sign,
A teasing dance, a taut, thin line.
Each drop of rain, each thundering sigh,
A signal that I’m reaching high.

With each breath, the air grows thick,
The thrill of control, the rhythm slick.
A shiver runs through trembling skin,
As I guide you to the brink, within.

The crowd, they murmur, none can see,
The weight of this quiet, sweet decree.
But I feel it all, as you begin
To quiver, shake, and let me win.

One last step, the waters rise,
Your breath a flutter, heavy sighs.
I tilt my aim, a quiet grace,
And you, my prize, fall into place.

A splash, a gasp—delicate, loud,
A crown of liquid, sweet and proud.
The game is done, the stage is set,
But neither of us will soon forget.

And as you rise, the eyes avert,
A soft, red flush, a sweet dessert.
I stand, content, my work complete,
Your shame, my triumph—bitter-sweet.