The Monk
by Peter Loaf

The road to Dublin, the falling night
No inn or shelter, the failing light
They built a fire
He played his lire
The bandits creeping, no chance to fight

Her husband dying, defending bride
From branches swinging, so tightly tied
Stripping so brutal
Struggles so futile
The games they’re playing, the death of pride

A night of horror, there’s no escape
The bandits laughing, the endless rape
Her bottom beating
Her helpless bleating
Cold morning shivers, a hanging shape

The fog obscuring, the swirling mist
The monk comes walking, hung over pissed
The scene discovered
The girl uncovered
His hands exploring, nothing is missed

Body responding, his gentle touch
Half aware captive, she’s suffered much
His fingers probing
And then disrobing
His vows discarding, t’was ever such

Her pussy dripping, the bandit’s cream
Her bottom blistered, her fevered dream
His phallus finding
Her brutal binding
Her cries for mercy, his head of steam

His semen spurting, so high inside
Her pussy gripping, her hands are tied
Her helpless screaming
His lusty reaming
Orgasms crashing, can’t be denied

The Monk