The arched nest

I dream of an hour when I pull you inwards and lift your skirt like the predator’s first  strike on its glossy prey and grab your donk to my pray.
You squeak in shock and shout to deplore, to find myself in fruits of amour. My love for you like the deodar wood tall, from shock you turn to awe, from disgust to lust and a dry push to a wet thirst.
The ancients cautioned of a bird that nested not on a bare tree, you bring to fruition that parable.
You arch so enticingly that were Egon shiele to spy, would shoot paint onto his canvas with his tiny cock. So let me never stop to cum and you eternally wet for let me ask you this, would leaving this nest that we build on a tree so high with your moans a plenty ever do it justice?