Sunday, 15 January 2012


For Megan


So, fat with mead and humble,
to the bedchamber we stumble,
to partake in lustful fumbles
there upon the bed of straw.
And my lord, with fingers itching,
moves to loosen all the stitching
of his codpiece which is twitching
and to the floor does fall my jaw.
For my lord's professed protrusion
is naught but an over-stuffed illusion
and he is under much delusion,
if he thinks his member great.
There is nothing worth the shock
of finding oneself under-cocked
so my chastity belt stays locked
until Sire's pants regain my trust.

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