Turn the page.

Virgin pulp broken with the sordid anxiety of my quivering black pen.
I spew my goods all over your clean pages, as you moan in post-papyrus pleasure.
Draw on me, you scream.
Write it to me dirty.
I use my biro with proficiency you have never felt, and you yell out to the whole world what I yearn to feel.

Never have I satisfied, or been satisfied this much in my life.
Steamy passion burns your very lines to the soul of what I am, and through you, I make rote what I could never wrote before.
You yell through my ink.

Love smeared all over the page.