Where the Thunder Strikes
Forty-second floor, window walls black as pitch, Outside the storm rages, a violent bitch. Lightning cracks, illuminating our stage, On this bed of purple velvet, locked in a cage. My six-foot frame towers over your slight form, Five-foot-four of trembling flesh, safe from the storm. But not from me. Not from the hurricane in my veins, Not from the fucking punishment that reigns. The first thunderclap, a deafening roar, I grab a fistful of your hair, slam you to the floor. No, not the floor, face down on the plush bed, "Ass up, you fucking whore," is all I've said. Your cunt is dripping, soaking through your lace, A desperate, slutty puddle all over the place. I tear the panties off, they rip like cheap cloth, Expose your swollen lips, I'll have them both. My dick is iron, veined and thick with rage, Ready to defile you, turn the page. I spread your ass cheeks wide, spit right on your hole, Then plunge my cock inside, to take control. The second boom of thunder shakes...