They’re a native folk, all superstitious,
Their warriors brutal and vicious,
Remarkably hung.
Though the girls marry young,
If you get to them first they’re delicious!
Compulsion
It was not just the fit, but her heat…
Her cunt salty, her mouth and breath sweet…
The soft heave of her breasts…
Whispered, urgent requests
He obeyed… but would never repeat!
Sweet talk
“You got nice little titties,” he wheezed,
“But they’re small, for a grown-up,” he teased.
“And your prick ain’t that big,
You fat, greasy old pig,”
She said, letting her nipples be squeezed.
Peep-show
Giggling, drunk, a bit drowsy and noddy,
She sprawled in the chair. A nice body.
Her skirt had slipped up,
One breast out of its cup.
Bloody nice, and her arse wasn’t shoddy.
Mouth feel
“Salty, squeaky when chewed, like haloumi;
Nice pussy, damn tasty and roomy!”
He went on at length.
She cried “God give me strength!
Quit the commentary! Just fucking do me!”
Stage door Johnny
Dearest Father, young Algernon wrote.
Met a charming soprano of note.
I dined with her last night;
What an utter delight!
Such soft hands, such a slender, deep throat!
Learning on the job
Though a sin, as he knew, lust burned on;
He was constantly hard and turned on,
So he went to a whore,
With whom fucking, and more,
Could be practised, learned in, (or learned on).
Jeans therapy
How he longed to get into her jeans,
By whatever duplicitous means.
He imagined her sighs,
As he stroked her smooth thighs,
And her squishy, warm, pink in-betweens!
Red letter days
They had markedly differing views
About which of her holes he could use;
Though her arse was taboo,
And her mouth, mostly, too,
On his birthday and such, he could choose.
The sexual imperative
“Bloody men all want one thing”, she said,
“They all just want to get me in bed.
Why in heaven”, she sighed,
Can’t they be satisfied
With a blow job or hand job instead?”