Drunk, in panties and bra, both askew,
She’d begun to attract quite a queue
“Look,” she said. “Tell you what;”
I can’t screw the whole lot,
But I’d say I can screw quite a few!”
A certain inevitability
Young and innocent, though well developed,
She panted, she sighed, her heart galloped.
Her clothes fell away;
She would soon, come what may,
Be undone, his cock sweetly enveloped!
Tough as
Though he’d licked her and fingered her first,
“It’s like fucking boot-leather!” he cursed.
She sobbed “Don’t stop, my love!”
With one more mighty shove
And a loud cry, her maidenhead burst!
Candlelight
The soiree became rather debauched…
Wenches whipped, raped, their pubic hair torched!
The old Marquis de Sade
And his friends partied hard…
Poor whores, underpaid, played with and scorched!
Royal balls
She was nervous, and not without reason.
The King’s Ball! Highlight of the season!
And if, then, perchance,
The king asked her to dance…
Or to fuck? To say no would be treason!
No flies on her!
That attractive young spinster, Miss Carson
Had afternoon tea with the parson.
“Amusing,” she wrote
In her journal. (I quote):
“Aren’t men’s fly-buttons hard to unfasten?”
The secular sikh
Though a right proper sikh, with a turban,
He’d grown rich and gone a bit urban;
He screwed English girls,
Gave them rubies and pearls,
Loved a steak and drank beer and bourbon.
Friends without benefits
She’d not come, but she’d seemed to be close.
Later, though, she was strangely morose.
“Can we just be good friends?”
She said. “That, or it ends.
I just find fucking totally gross!”
Self discovery
When he fondled her tits and talked smutty,
Her knees sagged, she just went to putty;
She found, to her shock,
As she straddled his cock,
Lurking under her skin someone slutty!
Down on the farm
As a girl who’d grown up on a farm,
Teasing horses’ cocks, big as her arm,
Who’d got off on machines
Since her earliest teens,
Could a boy’s slim prick do her much harm?