August Third – Remnants of a Hot Day

Your cock aches
to fit into me.
You hold it in your fist;
make me take it.

I tell you all about
how much I loved it,
all about our last
visit,
all about our last
bit of play,
on your commute into the city.

Hang up;
watch our videos;
lock yourself in your sleeper.
Brace yourself against the door.
Grit your teeth.

Come,
growling my name.

Better there,
lonely without me,
than between her legs,
still calling my name.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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