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Say that submissiveness is a wavelength

simply seeking proper context. You wet


yourself, you say, because your secret strength

comes from dreams of cum, of cream, of stout jets


arching up from between your legs. I’ve squished

juice from you, pinched your lips until, like grapes,


you ran down my arm. “I drip when ravished,”

you squeak. “Je mouille comme une folle.” What escapes


between us is slick. We burble. We rave.

We read the patterns with a soothsayer’s


prowess that you sprinkle and dew. Always,

they say, you will come again. That this wave


in you will come out. Call these kisses prayers

to all that bucks and groans, gushes and sprays.


My French is very bad but I believe that, “je mouille comme une folle,” translates into, “I’m as wet as a crazy woman.” We all should be that wet.