Prolonged Encounter

The class of smile you cannot feign
A gift from some unwitting train
You came with me at your leisure
thinking home but I sought pleasure

Rigid tongue impeccably placed
mouth round cunt, hands on waist
Hesitations in your hands
awoke a sullen, sunken man

Why doesn’t he just fuck her?
Why doesn’t he just fuck her?

You taste just like an Irish whore
whose cunt and arse we kept before
I sense a quick-step in your hips
as I fuck your throat and your New Look lips

Eyes, tits glazed, face not phased
mind not swayed by your feminine ways
shrill imitations find no applause
as my cock distorts your vocal chords

Why doesn’t he just fuck her?
Why doesn’t he just fuck her?
Why doesn’t he just fuck her?
Why doesn’t he just fuck her?

Body nailed flush to the floor
save her pre-cum splattered faux Dior
Pinned in palm, moist grip fails
Smashing through un-giving rails

Scream in pleasure when it fits
bemoan, be groped, beloved tits
A rush, full thrust, the spark inhaled
my silent cushion lies impaled
Why doesn’t he just fuck her?
Why doesn’t he just fuck her?
Why doesn’t he just fuck her?
Why doesn’t he just fuck her?

 

© Owen Emmerson & Michael Whitehead (2012)

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