Faint grazes against your pale unclothed loins
make your tree twitch whilst you start a low moan.
My hands stroke your thick trunk, tingling your groin.
A camp tent pitches to grand heights unknown.

I’ll take seven moves to get to the fuck.
Six twirls and licks on the top of your tip.
Five sets of throat thrusts cause your hips to buck.
Four slurps from my mouth savor your cream-drip.

Three sequences of rocking and bobbing,
two sets of analingus and tongue flicks,
leaves your sequoia brick hard and throbbing
for my honey pot that’s ready and slick.

You poke and choke me after the daily ‘head’ ritual.
Then we writhe and scream in one synchronized pinnacle.