Dark Meat

Somehow, every Thursday

it’s always the same,

my husband in the corner

screaming my name,

tied up in a chair, pathetic and nude. 

He’s soft,

and he’s small.  I’m wet,

and I’m crude.

Black stallion from the precinct

in a pressed uniform

unzipping and stripping

the clothes that I’ve worn

on my way to the grocery.

Now, my ice cream is soup.

He pulls off his belt,

slips my neck through the loop,

bends me over the table,

spreads my legs with a kick,

splits my pretty pink pussy

with his milk chocolate dick.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Officer, 

for speeding through town.”

He just jerks on the belt

till I can’t make a sound.

All I hear is the smack

of his balls on my clit.

I’m gasping for air,

and my flailing has quit.

“I’ll teach you a lesson

if it’s the last thing I do.”

The room’s going dark.

He’s stirring my stew.

He’s pinching the berries

on the peaks of my breasts.

He’s scrambling my eggs

while he peppers my nest

with spatters of gravy.

It’s white and it’s hot.

He dumps his whole load

in my credit card slot.

There’s a tap on the window.

I’m nudged wide awake.

Just slow it down ma’am.

and I’ll give you a break.