She kneels in deck shoes and nothing else
unless you count tattoos.
The acolytes from off-camera appear.
Surround her, as she sets to work
maintaining all six erect.
She deepthroats one after the other,
after the other, after again the one,
after another other, and so on,
in accelerating succession.
Till the choir takes the wheel,
soloing together –
backflipped beetle,
six legs pumping,
while she fingers herself till the boys climax,
and goo clots with a horror of ecstasy
her skull.
The lingams withdraw, spent,
while she gallops nowhere in a hell
of a hurry, yet on the knees,
riding barelip her fingertip steed,
blind with stud pollen, licking dollops,
camera dollying in to worship
each grinning, bitter gulp.
Willie Smith
aiurea press 