Quite the gentleman, thank God, ostensibly!
Still, just one drink, she thought, sensibly.
One became lots…
Beer, wine, vodka shots,
And he fucked her, of course, reprehensibly.
Month: April 2019
A lack of propriety
Mister Beasel, the sweatshop proprietor
Cast a long, lecherous eye at her;
Pretty, deaf-mute,
She’d be lovely to root,
Like the other poor girls, only quieter!
Rollicking fun
A rowboat on a river, bucolic!
A bit of an afternoon frolic.
He giggled, half-shocked,
As the boat tipped and rocked,
As she diddled herself on a rowlock!
Initiation
She was buxom, big-arsed and plump-thighed.
The poor boy! He had no place to hide!
And him, scarcely developed,
Half-smothered, enveloped,
Bestraddled, cunt-struck, hers to ride!
Angling
In her quest for a suitable mate,
To a certain extent, it’s just fate.
She may hope, she might wish
That she’ll catch the right fish;
Tits and pussy, of course are good bait!
Truth will out
She dripped lace, and her gowns were of satin,
Of course her behavioural pattern,
Her lewd escapades,
Showed, despite her charades,
She was still nothing more than a slattern!
Beneath her dignity
When she woke the next morning, she thought “If I’d
Had a stiff gin, and been fortified,
Maybe, then… but…
To be fucked like some slut!
Well a woman, of course, was quite mortified!”