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Monday’s tongue is rough velvet. She likes to fuck
Standing up, wants me to fill
Her mouth with all six
Inches of hypothetical cock, while she maintains the fiction
That it’s eight, spitting curse words
As she gives me what I tell her I need

Tuesday’s got a need
Or two of her own. She wants to fuck
Me with words,
A cunning linguist, that one, who can fill
The empty spaces with a running chatter of fiction
While counting syllables, two four six.

Wednesday’s thirty, going on six
Likes to beg for each need
Wants me to help maintain the fiction
That she’s my little one, to fuck
Her carefully, fill
Her with only flowery words

Thursday’s got nothing but words
No repeated thrust of six
Inches – or was it eight – no hole to fill
She wants to be what I need
Wants to fuck
Wants that fiction

Friday’s the best at fiction
The best at choosing her words
Like cock, like cunt and fuck
But quitting time’s at six
And later I’ll need
More, to have my fill

Saturday has time to kill; to fill
My world and turn it into fiction
She has only one need:
To hear the right words
I close my eyes and count to six
And don’t think about how much I’d like to fuck

I fill my hand, I fuck
Myself with fiction and for a moment I’m not one but six
These days I need more than just words.

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