There once was a sub in a dungeon so dank,
Whose Mistress said “Fill that gourd with your sploogy stank!”
He blinked and he gulped, his mind full of dread,
As visions of pie filled his trembling head.

She pointed and smirked, “Now, make it your chumkin.”
And thus began The Great Pumpkin Fuckin’.
He stroked it and poked it, gave it a tap,
Said “Mistress, it’s cold!” She said, “Stuff that gap.”

He carved out a hole with a wiggle and squeak,
Too small at first try, it pinched his poor beak.
So he widened the rim with a squish and a slurp,
The pumpkin gave out a most slippery burp.

He lined it with oil, the kinky fool,
Thinking “This’ll be fine, this’ll feel cool.”
He stuck in his tip with a wiggle and thunk,
And gasped as the gourd gave a tight little clunk.

His hips went a-thrustin’, the seeds went a-flyin’,
He moaned and he whimpered, near close to cryin’.
His balls made a plap and the smell got obscene,
Like autumn and shame and cheap Halloween.

Then came the tremble, the sploosh, and the sigh,
Pumpkin guts dripped down from his thigh.
He looked up to Mistress, face orange and glum,
She grinned and said, “Good boy… now lick off the cum.”