Beneath the dripping 💧canopy of twilight, where the air hangs heavy with damp, I am the quagmire—soft, yielding, and thirsty. My fenland trembles at your steps, each one a deep press into my sodden heart. The oyster groans 😫with delight, its wet song swelling as the ocean—Oh Sion—moves closer, each wave a promise, each squelch a prelude.

The bog breathes loud, 😫a chorus of need, its muck clinging and cloying, pulling your currents into my depths. Your weight awakens the swamp's hidden pulse, a low, resonant quaking that spills through the reeds and cattails, shaking the still air with WET, shuddering harmony.

Your fingers trace where waters gather, sliding 🖕through the velvet mire of me, and I quake 😫😫😫😩😳🗣️🗣️👁️👃👁️—loud, insistent, unrestrained. 🗣️ The swamp moans beneath the weight of your touch, loud and wet and endless, the slick earth parting, 🤲 surging, reforming. Every movement draws you deeper, every sound echoes through the fenland like a hymn to the primal, the ancient, the raw.

The quagmire swells, sucking 👅🍆and sighing, pulling and pressing, loud enough to drown the cries of the nightbirds above. My swamp is alive with you—gasping, gurgling, quaking until the air itself is thick with the music of desire, the wet symphony of drowning and wanting more.

I hold you here, tangled in this trembling expanse, where the fenland echoes my need, and the bog shakes with wet surrender. Together, we are the quake, the swamp, the endless yielding, loud and alive in this symphony of desire.