At my back I feel you grow,
your bristle changing speed from
fast to slow, slow to fast,
your hands quick to cast aside my
buckles and lace, my well-made face
full of false confidence I can't hope
you won't see through.
Tiny pins, miniscule needles,
my skin at your clench and rake
begins to smart, to start to take
the colour of your seamless move
from sweet to firm, from firm to
heated slamming
and a running of the octaves.
Please, please, please.
I have no words but these.
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