Lone Rider In A Pink Triangular Dust Bowl

Screams swirling ,
tingling freshly washed skin..
doused with extra holiday weight.
Her blouse,
hanging tightly
around young firm breasts,
sings to the aroused eye
with beautifully hard nipples.

There's movement within that screaming skin,
searching desperately
for that perfect lay;
she stirs,
quivers,
suffers silently,
in mortal pain for something...

..REAL.

Something she knows
will never reach her again
in the way it was meant to exist.

Onward she travels,
a lone pussy
electrifying her systems
without any result.