The Enslaven

Once upon a collab cheery, while I bantered, without fright or fear he

Rouse many a quaint and curious volume of pleasured moans -

Yet while I streamed, nearly napping, suddenly there came a fapping

As of someone quickly slapping, slapping at his fleshy bone

“I-it’s a specter!” I reassured, “slapping at their many a bone-

Only this and nothing more”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December

And each separate ID member, fought some ghost they had saw -

But eagerly I wished to bone;—stupidly I had sought to moan

From that man I had long since known— known as the damned Connor

For the common and pale leech whom the sisters name Connor—

Spoken of there for evermore.

And the silky, smooth, unheard rustling of my nether curtains

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“It’s a ghost wanting to enter at the front door

Some pale spectre wanting to enter the front door; —

This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my voice grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Connor,” said I, “or Master, I’m sorry, please no more!;

But the fact is I wanted a fapping, and so gently you came a slapping,

And so faintly you came whacking, whacking at my bottom door,

That chat scarce heard you I am sure”—and so I opened wide the door;—

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness diving, long it stood there dancing, jiving,

Spouting, stabbing, substances no mortal ever dared to put in before;

But the silence was broken, and the other members had awoken,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Connor?”

This they whispered, and I murmured back the word, “Connor!”—

Merely this and nothing more.

Back towards a chat concerning, I let out my passions burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that just something at the window;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

At loss to him, I fall and shudder, while he says many a flirt to flutter

the butterflies at my belly, upon which he turns to jelly

Not the least obvious made I; not a second silent passed by;

But with mien of the virgin Mary, I perched atop his pleasure pole

Perched upon a busty phallus, that thing which made me whole -

Perched, and sat, opening the doors

Then this wretched Welsh beguiling my whimper into moaning,

By the girth and stout of his cock, and the sweetness of his words

“Though thy nethers be shorn and shaven, thou” he said, ‘art sure no maiden,

To sheep fornicator enslaven, begging for me yet whilst you stream horror-

Shout out, your lord’s name, and make your chat say “I abhore her!”

Quoth the enslaven “Connor!”

Much I marvelled, with unseemly howl, with squelches heard so plainly,

As he plowed forth, on verge of creaming - into me he bore

For I could not help but keep squealing, as to him I found myself kneeling

Blessed to cede to this lengthy member. Not my peers, but to his seed I am made to remember

On this scandalous December

But the Welshman, feeling it was lonely, his phallic bust, moved only

To steal my lips, as if all so far had not been enough,

Nothing farther I could utter - neither a moan nor a mutter -

Til i scarcely could cease to shudder “I shall persist you undead whore -

Until night of morrow I will breed ye, as we have done before”

Then pleaded I ‘No more, no more!”

“Startled at his passion broken by backtalk so rudely spoken,

“Hopeless”, said he “this foreign harlet, an undead masks her,

Bought with the coin of many a master, such a thing awaits only disaster”

Thrusting fast and thrusting faster til my songs became fitting of such a whore

Til the dirges of my innocence left my throat unable to sing no more

of ‘Con-Connor!!”

But the Welshman still beguiling all my sorrow into smiling,

Straight into me wielded his baby stick in front of chat, members and all

Then, upon my climax nearing, I betook myself to thinking

I am undead, not departing from moral strife, but from a maiden’s life

Knowing this I cede to the white, as at last he stabs his pike

I moan “I am your wife!”