Pounding music. She’s dancing, always packing, a grunge-goth Mistress of tuneless nihilism. Torn fishnets, punk attitude, air punches. Shrieking the lyrics: fuck government, fuck Jesus, fuck fake.

She sneers, knows I’m that preppy princess from happy-snappy election pics. Irresistible, she circles her prey. Tongue violates my mouth. Fingers find my knickerless pussy. Stunned by oozing acceptance of subversive seduction, she ravages my cunt.  

Anarchists have phones, daddy dearest.

Grudgingly accepted yet closeted; I’m marketed as the Virgin Mary. Hypocrite: voters will see your daughter impaled on a strap-on. Screw you, screw the fat-cats you’ve enabled.

I’ve cum, you’re gone, father.