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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.