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The scent of her
is thick on fingers,
lips, skin, sheets;
she leaves a trail of pheromones
wherever she goes,
inspiring late morning sessions
of fast and frantic fucking,
the kind where it’s hard to get enough,
hard to think finished is finished,
hard to do anything
but lay around and love her.

The soft of her eyes
is inviting, enticing,
entrancing, intoxicating;
she looks at what she wants and takes it,
molding and shaping it
to be a harder, faster,
stronger, better version of itself,
so that she can swallow it whole,
and leave nothing else
for anyone else.

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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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