deepundergroundpoetry.com
The pleasing generation.
When he was sure that we were all alone,
I slid under his arm - church doors thud closed
In my head to this day - the fractured stone
Once masked the echoes of my cries. His blows
On my raised rump, then, seemed extremely rough.
My well-whipped rear recorded violence,
Brewed beneath black beams. When he took off
Half-masted panties, eager reverence
Allowed my hands to spread my pale, heart
Shaped cheeks that he declined at first. He lied.
Tears trickled as my Master's growing part
Intruded, penetrated, thrust inside.
He'd no time for tranquil veneration.
Now, I ache alone sans excitation.
I slid under his arm - church doors thud closed
In my head to this day - the fractured stone
Once masked the echoes of my cries. His blows
On my raised rump, then, seemed extremely rough.
My well-whipped rear recorded violence,
Brewed beneath black beams. When he took off
Half-masted panties, eager reverence
Allowed my hands to spread my pale, heart
Shaped cheeks that he declined at first. He lied.
Tears trickled as my Master's growing part
Intruded, penetrated, thrust inside.
He'd no time for tranquil veneration.
Now, I ache alone sans excitation.
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