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.