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?
The rhythm of life
Young and innocent, blindly enamoured,
“I l… l… l… love you!” she stammered,
Her tits flapping round,
Her words drowned by the sound
Of her pussy (Thump! Slap!) being hammered!
Impressed
Nice tight dress, and low-cut; dressed to kill!
The snug fit caused her big breasts to spill.
The thigh-high centre slit
Straining, ready to split;
“If she bends down,” her boss guessed, “it will!”