you and your cob

I see you and your cob...
so is that picture
that I might rob,
my imagination and all that could bring
should i tell, or just let the song birds sing.
the idea of a lady and her horse...
always has been wicked,
the thought, a little curse
the idea of Catherine the great...
teaming up with her studs, her mate
but shall we not go so far,
let's check that idea and bar,
before all gets out of hand.
speaking of your hand...
maybe you would so gladly...
invoke a trance...and rub...
feel the roughness of your jeans...
as you massage the cotton at its seams.
up and down,
and around.
fill the crotch with your wet.
make the split tail seep.
now to unzip...
the chill in the air...
does it make your nipples appear.
hard and stand up
take your hands…show me...as you cup,
in your hands...show them, present...
the rich dark nipples, with your scent.
and for the chill is in the air...
now reach into the unzipped
and with your finger's tip.
slide  it in and brush against your clit.
slower to fast...
in the paddock...your stand...in the morning dew
moaning and groaning, your hair askew.
harder still,
as your breast move up and down,
as your hand as my grasp
tight i clinch, as you gasp.
ride my hand...as it rapes
whisper to me...
as it snakes...deep into your womb
the golden filled tomb.