Running Commentary
She’s got a mouth in bed that’d strip paint from drywall,
a torrent of filth unleashed the second that I crawl
between her thighs, where she calls her own race
like some fevered announcer: I feel your tongue, stay in that place.
She’s got a mouth in bed that’d strip paint from drywall,
a torrent of filth unleashed the second that I crawl
between her thighs, where she calls her own race
like some fevered announcer: I feel your tongue, stay in that place.
You’re so fucking hard I can feel you through the sheets,
she says, get over here and give me what this pussy needs,
deep and slow, then fast—I want it all,
she talks through every round, makes each one dirtier than the last.
The neighbors know my business from her broadcast alone,
every orgasm announced like a newsflash from the mast,
she tells me when she’s close, tells me when she’s there,
screams the kind of shit you cannot unhear into the air.
I’m cumming on your cock, she says—and that’s exactly what she does,
fingers digging into my chest like she’s lifting up a lid
on something animal buried deep, something that only surfaces in bed,
running commentary, every filthy word she said.