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Beneath the touch of urgency your clit
throbs and aches with need. I want to take hold

of your foot pressed against my hip, join it
with the one on my shoulder. Uncontrolled

carnivore’s greed leaves me giddy to grope,
to be groped. “Honey from your cup,” so bragged

the song, “makes me erupt.” That and the rope
around your wrists. The way your lips get dragged

out at each pull, in at each twist. — Your eyes
roll up. Your jaw hangs down. Your hips are round,

pierced through the center. Twice. I’ll leave a mess
in each. I’ll run roughshod between your thighs,

wild with the act of ruin, as I pound,
and I pound. It turns me on, I confess.