The thong sings a song, maybe more like an alarm sound than a symphony but who cares?
The thong sings a song, a mix of impatience and invitation. A little bit of dare, a lot of teases and just for good measure, you can throw in a little coyness.
The thong sings a song, more like a demand or an urge. A little itch that has to be scratched, a little game that has to be played. A reunion of the utmost importance.
Ah, silly thong! why did you have to be red?
The thong sings a song, an impatient anthem to be precise. It's tempting, sincerely turning the head around and breaking the resistance. After all, it's made to be tossed aside, or torn apart.
The thong sings a song, a silent request of the utmost importance. It's more or less like a fancy little ring, except it's for the ass, not for your finger. It's embellishing what doesn't need more than a little bit of fabric.
The thong sigs a song, a deadly warning. It's the last bastion of defense between the slick slit and swollen peach and the impatience of the lover. It's the last efforts to be made before the claiming, yes oh yes the Thong sings its swan song, right before the taking.
Ah, silly Thon! Why did you have to be this good?
Why did you have to be so tempting?
Why did your life be so short-lived?
Well, because good little things aren't meant to stay on. That's why!
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