Drips trickling down to fall from your shirt.
The queasy scent of milk too long in the sun.
Every movement calculated to avoid the pain of an injudicious contact with
Your HUGE breasts
You're not your own.
Belonging to, controlled by a blindly seeking mouth...
With rosebud lips...
and hands like starfish...
that pull you close...
and need you...
And when the seeking lips close over you
and the tiny tongue works
and the starfish pulse against the heat of your body...
And you forget the wet, and the smell, and the hurt
And simply feel...