The Storm
by Peter Loaf

The coachman driving, the coastal road
The horses winded, hauling their load
The storm clouds threaten
The sun is settiní
A soldier waiting, the secret code

His musket centered, the driverís nose
The brake heís pulling, his terror shows
The rain drops splatter
It doesnít matter
The musket booming, flopping death throes

The carriage curtains, the girl inside
Her pistol popping, buzzing beside
Highwayman dragging
Hoodwink for bagging
Stripped of her clothing, taken for ride

High on the headland, the driving rain
Lashed over saddle, his ropes detain
Her secret mission
Total submission
The bait is taken, struggles in vain

Hand bound and naked, hoodwinked to boot
Noose on her windpipe, uncaring brute
On knees positioned
With great precision
Head bag removing, top of the butte

Ninety feet rocky, the crashing surf
Highwayman holding, edge of the turf
Captor disrobing
His pecker probing
His power complete, she is his serf

Pussy rip thrusting, facing her doom
His pecker stretching, gates of her womb
Her will heís breaking
Her secrets taking
Passion storm coming, the thunderís boom

Panic and passion, perched on the edge
Her hipbones creaking, his meaty wedge
Gripping his phallus
Feeling his malice
Her secrets spilling, breaking her pledge

The code discovered, the war is won
His captive keeping, his fount of fun
Proud beauty broken
His furnace stokiní
Subbie lust lover, the best bar none