Down, dead, dried,
Its the evening's sign,
Spears of horny grapes
And the blueberry vine.
We had all eight
The feeling's sublime,
Still a glass was filled,
The glass numbered nine.

An arm on the slap,
She wasn't blinking,
Her breast, lined deep,
Expanding, shrinking.
She saw me jaw-dropped,
Number eight, still starring,
Drank her wine, turned to me,
Oh God, she's daring.

Stood, she came closer,
"oh boy, I'm in need."
Her index on me,
Her breaths had speed.
"You chose the boss, know me."
I wished it that way;
My dick in her all night,
She on my dick all day.

The vines now sealed,
The drinkers were done,
Got darker outside,
Mid night gone, it's one.
Still a customer, cursing the owner,
For her unsatisfied thirst,
"These fruits won't do the job,
You need a sip of lust."


© theholysins

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