To a chorus of giggles and squeals,
Brunhilda, in leathers and heels,
Applied to a client
Her cane long and pliant,
Creating a criss-cross of weals.
Necking and petting
A young woman, who’s frightened of snakes,
And the long necks of swans and of drakes,
Has as well a great dread
Of the serpent in bed,
Every day when her husband awakes!
Heavens to Betsy
Betsy Jones is no sexual sluggard,
Prefers sex, in fact, when it’s rugged.
She likes being eaten,
And tied up and beaten
And doesn’t mind much being buggered.
Heavy breathing
That old rodent-like chap, Mr Sloan,
Gets his rocks off at night all alone,
Vicariously
And hilariously,
Mouthing fragments of filth on the phone.
Milk
When a breast is confined in white silk,
Or else satin, or aught of that ilk,
It is bound to elicit
An urge for illicit
And rapturous suckling of milk.
The razor’s edge
There’s no reason at all for girls shaving,
Except for erotical craving,
But half of the fun
Is in having it done,
And the prospect of then misbehaving!
Barnyard bliss
From the barnyard came cackles and screeches,
From chickens and other small creatures:
Content in the mud,
Amidst feathers and blood,
Knelt the farm-boy, with unbuttoned breeches!
The work-around
“Oh you cannot put that there,” she said,
“Until after the day we are wed,
For I’m saving that niche,
But you can, if you wish,
Put your thing in my bottom instead!”
Rearing to go
She was nude, on all fours, with a saddle:
With some fellow mounted astraddle.
She whinnied and bucked
And screamed out to be fucked,
While he spanked her bare bum with a paddle.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder
By involvement in carnal relations
With ladies who’ve had amputations,
Exotic delights
Are in store for your nights,
And some curious new variations.