by Louis "Satchel" DiFez
Winter Lust
Pulsating, her hands run down
Graze my bulge, Bonair's
6:28 AM
Throne, without a king
Strewn over the clear abyss
Calm thyself. Now, poop.
Feeding Time
The table is set.
Succulent smells fill the air.
Fried shitty foods. PAUNCH.
One Pump
Enter the darkness
Cavernous slit of pleasure
Love explosion . . . moan
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