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An empress runs her tongue along the spine of a ship

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An empress runs her tongue along the spine
of a ship—of her ship. He trembles not.
Against her sleek muscle, his skin burns hot.
She frowns and tickles her troll valentine
with a shiny pink claw. He’s still. She whines:
u conchious, buoy? The wires hold him taut,
and bodily functions, he’s long forgot.
She neither knows nor cares. That’s the punchline.

She thinks that not even god tastes like this:
Crackling golden appleberry blast
Studded with thrills of her victories past.
He only blinks when she asks for a kiss.
They both know it: he is past submission
to ) (er Imperious Condescension.