Lap lap lapping at my chamber door

Little Pudding Boy's mom is a favorite among the neighborhood boys who often eat at the small island of her pudenda.

They lap up the moist, warm pudding and she lays back and sighs and thinks of the softest things.

Intercourse is strictly forbidden, though, on account of past transactions wherein one over-excited boy bore a new hole into the interior thigh of Mrs. Pudding Boy; a wound that is slow in healing and a wound that aches with memory.