The Man From Porlock

Man from Porlock

In Bangalore, on India’s shore,
did wealthy British Sahib Peake
for gentleman friends and more
a glorious sporting tent bespeak:
erected within a week, its tables all of teak,
Its poles were pine, its canvas fine.

At the back, behind a screen
was Peake’s navel party seen:
each saree-clad without a gown,
professional ladies of the town.

Their skin shone a golden brown
Their hair long glossy black and down.
The navels exposed to the air
Attracting gentlemen’s stare.

Each guest would first have a wash
Then be wrapped in towels posh
Carried to a bench by four
Who would then dry him more.

The towels changed for saree wraps
Constrained in silk the hapless chaps,
Waited in helpless bondage tight
Whatever the whores thought was right.

Straddled, a navel would present
For lips to lick until she’s content
Any man who failed a whore
Whipped would be until he’s sore.

But if the navel owner was pleased,
Into a yoni his manhood was eased
Another whore’s wet yoni lips
Covered his mouth her juices as drips.

Soon another pair would attempt
To try to arouse him, ignoring consent.
After the four there might be more
Leaving the guest spent and sore.

An encounter with Peake’s navel teams
Would be enough for a week or more
Pleasing them was an ordeal, it seems
Few men can satisfy more than one whore.

Oh shit! I need an ice-cold beer:
The Man from Porlock’s here!