His Finest Master Piece

He stands ahead of me underneath this rainy and soggy beach.
I would like to give him a speech as to why this beautiful piece
of art stands alone staring over the ocean that is his home.
The monster in me wants to take his lust six feet deep but
the mood of the rain. Those thoughts become the deceased.
Instead they increase my appetite to drink my finest wine
in the cabinetry waiting to be unleashed along, with his
mind, his master piece . . .  

I allow this art to tend his needs upon this ocean creek,
sand between his feet while mine are wrapped around
his body, his art grinds in my gallery. I told him to
paint his passion inside of me more than satisfactory
so he sticks his brush, his penis deeper, mastery.Said
he had a bad day so he uses that against me and paints
part of his picture with rage he grinds harder against
my rib cage. My vagina instantly gets more engaged,
I’m wet, he sweats, the ocean hits his back while I
bite his neck. He paints even harder no regrets he
paints me like he sees the world he calls this piece
neglect . . .

As the rain flows more he softens up his core and
we lay on the ocean floor. His mind is filled with
pain that he won’t let anyone explore. I kiss his
lips to reassure sucking on him in places he
adores but that penis makes him roar. I soar
from his balls to the back of my throat walls
your pain is a cold war so invade your stick
inside my trap door. I’ll savor your wine but
you must begin to pour and stroke your every
doubt in and out. He calls that part of his
painting the drought . . . to be continue