Dry Spell
by Peter Loaf


The plains of Kansas, hot burning sun
The dust storms threaten, dry spell begun
The farmerís daughter
Her windmillís water
Tanker truck thieving, water war won

Out checking cattle, later that day
The tanks near empty, the cracking clay
A sound from behind
Her wrists in a bind
Ring gag and blindfold, she cannot stray

Her clothing ripping, stripped to her skin
Her captor brutal, the games begin
Her nipples pinching
The wrist rope cinching
Tied to the tailgate, head in a spin

A hostage taken, a whipís caress
Blind tied and helpless, screaming distress
She blindly follows
Off to the gallows
The motor starting, cannot contest

Two miles to highway, taken inside
Hogtied beside him, the death of pride
A taste of Sodom
Hand on her bottom
The farmerís daughter, taken for ride

Finger fuck fiddle, cock in her throat
Hands bound to ankles, smells like a goat
The tires singing
The whip thongs stinging
Ass up and helpless, escape remote

Two hours travel, bumpy dirt track
Semen soaked captive, given no slack
The truck is stopping
Her bottom cropping
Her captor carries, around the back

A collar locking, a chain attached
Ass up position, vulva attacked
Her cherry popping
There is no stopping
Her screams of passion, bottom crosshatched

Taken to cellar, chained to a wall
Pussy juice crimson, giving her all
Three men come visit
The pain exquisite
The farmerís daughter, a thing to ball

A week of service, ten times a day
Three man rotation, they come to play
The daughter praying
Her father paying
Ransom collected, left on display

The windmill spinning, the water well
Naked and helpless, her passion smell
Hanging and hurting
Hot urine spurting
The farmerís daughter, her private hell

Dry Spell

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