You save your seed for the perfectly pert with the pixellated pussies – shoulda paid more money, honey, to get the full on sex experience.
I’m sorry, but we’re all out of Kleenex; because I’m working all day and all night, and I couldn’t get to the shops to replenish the stock, but those socks I bought you last Christmas; the ones with the days of the week?
The ones you now use, weak in a daze, for your brief encounter, before a quick toss into the wash basket for an encounter with my briefs, are clues to your solo songs; a mish-mash of sticky footwear glued to my silken thongs.
I see you had fun on Monday, when I was out playing bridge and you had to scratch your itch.
On Tuesday, your ejaculate was an immaculate smiley; drips and squirts to top the finest graffiti.
Wednesday you were sleeker, yet weaker; little dribbles that faded to jaded scribbles.
Thursday was the day I came home early, found you surly; diverted from the pearly paste you longed to waste.
Friday – more sloshing for the weekend washing amidst my smalls; lashings of splashings from your replenished balls.
I wear the weekend with pride upon my own feet; preventing you from beating your meat as I retreat – a damsel in distress, seeking solace from the stress; gyrating on the wildest revolution of the machine.
The cycle is complete and yet the final evolution is to come – I make puppets out of Sunday.