I’m not a man
Who likes them
Too big.
If I can’t hold them,
One the palm of each hand
Then I have no use for them.
Some men love them so big
They smother themselves
Or pumps their stick between them
Until their stick pops.
I need to breathe
And get my lips around the tips
Just tight enough to fit,
My tongue playing
Pinnacle of each
While I hold on.
I hate them small, to,
Needing something to
Cling to during the ride
Cupping my palms on them,
Feeling the tingle of each tip,
Teasing me as I squeeze,
Not hard, just enough
To make the milk drip out
And into my mouth.
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