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Image for the poem The pleasing generation.

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.
Written by SweetOblivion
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