Wood Oven

How many times have you come to our house, in the garden, to bake pizza in the wood oven.

Every time you bended over in front of the oven and looked at the flame, red as your hair, burning and then calming down leaving the bricks of the vault white and ready to receive the dough, here, those times I would have wanted to get your skirt up, pull off your underpants and get inside you to feel the warmth of your vagina while my wife, behind me, would have penetrated me with her precious rubber cock.

The oven that opened wide in front of you was a metaphor of your cunt wide open in front of us.

And you have not yet understood it.