The Tool Shed

Miss Dulcet transudation was her name
And no sighted man could avert his eyes
From the sweltering beauty of her frame
And especially those debutante thighs...
Somehow always on warm weather display
As fugitives from her hothouse skirt
Which she would raise in a welcoming way
Whenever her beau was soon to insert...
His cock, to cure, in her sodden cunt!

And with her ankles in his iron grip
She marked each thrust with a carnal grunt
As her cervix withstood the ramming tip...

Soon after seized by her orgasmic grasp
And celebrated with a muted yell
And followed by a restorative gasp
When down on her bosom, depleted, she fell...

To sense the semen in his straining balls
Dying to storm surge her labial walls!