Gushing-gust. Rammed, slammed, damned as I can slow
downward thrust. From above. From such thick stem
lusting-lust heat, then seed. Round cheeks aglow.
Round chin in shambles with spit, cum and phlegm.
Bodies are round. Muscles are a myth. No
sinew, no bones, just bliss. Just lunacy —
that “rave” in crave. That moan quake. That widow
maker. Fat stem in quim. In cosh. In glee
as I plumb the depth of your throat. Convulse.
Gag. Try to stand up. “Back to your knees, cur.”
This is a game. I play to win because
you play to lose. To be used on impulse
with a thrusting-trust. — Fuck like a centaur.
Cum like a sphinx. Without grace. Without pause.