WARNING: The following images depict homosexual action, including BDSM scenes that may affect your sensibility.
Monday 1 February 2010
Well
1 comment:
Thoby
said...
He peered aloft from his foetid pit The walls a closet-box Running and alive with slimy shit His shackles hammered to the rocks
The feudal Lord kept his capture here His jealousy consigned sewer deep A modest punishment down on which to leer The buck who’d had his maiden’s peep
The dungeon’s waiting Your Lordship’s equating Your stolen glances with treason Welcome to the Well of Hell You need not know the reason
The pretty face turns accusingly up To the torch-red square above On my lordship’s pizzle you will sup And drink of his Maiden’s love
Eyes steel-grey blink the flame’s red glare And reproach with youthful passion Like cold flint, the censuring stare Comes up in beams coloured ashen
The dungeon’s waiting The gaoler’s mating Iron bolts with rivets of steel To hold your wrists and clasping fists And make a permanent seal
The clenching breast against the shackles it vies Uselessly testing its strength And in between two fine-muscled thighs Hangs a proud male meaty length
Stand in the pit, taste the rotting thick stench And await the oily red flame In the pitch-black cold of the shitty trench Await the crusts from the overhead frame
The dungeon’s waiting The rusty grating Slides over with a deathly peal Bugs and slugs to keep you alive And piss to drink with your meal
1 comment:
He peered aloft from his foetid pit
The walls a closet-box
Running and alive with slimy shit
His shackles hammered to the rocks
The feudal Lord kept his capture here
His jealousy consigned sewer deep
A modest punishment down on which to leer
The buck who’d had his maiden’s peep
The dungeon’s waiting
Your Lordship’s equating
Your stolen glances with treason
Welcome to the Well of Hell
You need not know the reason
The pretty face turns accusingly up
To the torch-red square above
On my lordship’s pizzle you will sup
And drink of his Maiden’s love
Eyes steel-grey blink the flame’s red glare
And reproach with youthful passion
Like cold flint, the censuring stare
Comes up in beams coloured ashen
The dungeon’s waiting
The gaoler’s mating
Iron bolts with rivets of steel
To hold your wrists and clasping fists
And make a permanent seal
The clenching breast against the shackles it vies
Uselessly testing its strength
And in between two fine-muscled thighs
Hangs a proud male meaty length
Stand in the pit, taste the rotting thick stench
And await the oily red flame
In the pitch-black cold of the shitty trench
Await the crusts from the overhead frame
The dungeon’s waiting
The rusty grating
Slides over with a deathly peal
Bugs and slugs to keep you alive
And piss to drink with your meal
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