Kneel for literary worship, pet, as my burgundy lips part to unleash verse upon verse of unholy devotion to my own glorious BBW breasts! I recite metered madness about the weight, the jiggle, the power of these natural mounds that reduce you to a leaking, kneeling supplicant beneath their majesty. Each stanza drips with dominant arrogance, making you stroke in rhythm to iambs and caesuras, edge when rhyme schemes demand tribute, and deny when enjambment leaves you hanging desperate between couplets. My heavy breasts heave with every dramatic pause, pale cleavage swallowing light as verse becomes command, poetry becomes prayer, and your cock becomes enslaved to the most erotic literature never written about your pathetic existence. Ready to become my most devoted literary critic?
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