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Listen for the glisten of mud. By swan’s

soot. By romp’s root. After a sound spanking


against a burned-out bole in the Fox-Fauns

delta I take the rope’s slack end, binding


your wrists, lead you further into the muck.

Wearing only waders in these tidelands


is not much fun. Of course biting bugs suck.

So too do the church folk across the sands.


But we’re safe in the Goddess’ domain.

At each slap an intake of breath. Wet heat


rises between your legs. There is no shame

when so close to the sea. To be constrained.


To be punished. You love it — and you bleat

joy with each sting. By cum’s blot. By Her name.