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| Aug 19th, 2009 09:44 PM | ||
| MetalMilitia |
Quote:
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| Aug 15th, 2009 09:23 PM | ||
| Krythor |
A short poem, from the point of view of a frenchman "Oh my, Where are my manners? let me take your coat" I put out my zigarette, and lightly touch her throat "Why are you so tense? Iz it something I said? Have another glass of wine, and take a seat zere on le bed" With a move so sly and french, I sidle in real close I slowly remove her pumps, and now I see her toes "Your pieds look tired, please, let me rub them for a while" With a hint of hesitation, she says "d'accord then" with a smile "You feel so tense" but little does she know my master plan Like butter on hot croissant she will melt within my hands "Do you have a boyfriend then, if I may be so bold?" "We just broke up" and I can tell the wine is taking hold. "Let me move to your shoulders; don't be afraid, I will not bite unless you want me to" I say, and she replies "well I just might" Things are heating up now, and at tremendous speed "if you just slip off that top then I can give you what you need" At first she acts surprised, I think I might have moved too fast "I just meant a massage," next thing I know her fluster's passed So things proceed as planned and she is nice and calm I gently bite her ear and place my hand upon her arm Slowly she turns and I stare into her green eyes "Haricots verns" I say, and I let out a heavy sigh And what happened next I cannot tell you here Lorsque vous devenez mine alors je peux parler de vous salir |
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