Tell Me

With kisses as soft
as a butterfly wing,
tell me I’m
your everything.

With a grip as forceful
as a vice,
tell me, command me,
don’t be nice.

With fingertips as gentle
as a summer breeze,
tell me I’m your good girl,
that I please.

With all your weight,
cover me like a blanket,
tell I’m safe, that you’ll
guide us through it.

With strikes as sure
as the beating of your heart,
tell me you noticed,
that it’s a fresh start.

With caresses as warm
as your whisper in my ear,
listen as I tell you
I’ll always be here.

Lost

the day is done

meet me at home

no more masks

imagination can roam 

open the door 

screw the lights

against the wall

pin me tight

tangle your fingers

in my hair 

tug it downward

hold me there

kiss me fierce 

no “how was your day”

let your hungry mouth

steal my words away

take my hand 

lead me down the stairs

give me that look

that tells me….beware

lock the door 

and in the moonlight 

let’s get lost in one another

lost in the night

The Sound of Silence

The striking is rhythmic, melodic, even. Rigid, thicker, and with much less bend and vibration than all the others, the oak makes contact with her sit bone muscles and her thighs, over and over and
over.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

No matter how hard she tries, she can’t keep her thoughts from distracting her focus. The deep ache of each unrelenting strike, especially the ones which land on the same spot again and again and again, beckons to her, willing her to let it all go.

When he pauses, she feels his palms travel up her back, cupping and squeezing the rising welts on her behind and down her upper thighs. She listens to the words he’s whispering in her ears. She knows what he desires. More than anything, she wishes to give him just that.

Closing her eyes, she leans back ever so slightly into each strike, hoping the extra momentum will silence the invasive voice. Her voice.

Yet, there it is again, telling her things she just doesn’t care to hear, things she desperately wishes not to think. In frustration, she whimpers, gripping and pulling at the sheets.

Why can’t I let go? Please, oh, please, just let go.

Attempting to relax into the sensations, she exhales, lowering her forehead to the cool sheet. Fingers twisting into the sheet, knees firmly planted and sinking slightly into the mattress, she breathes, in and out, savoring each thud that takes her breathe away. She shivers a bit with every cool whoosh of air, her breathing naturally beginning to pace itself with the oak rhythm.

That’s when she hears it, the tink-tinking of the metal ring at the dip in her neck, feeling it’s tink-vibration travel through the circling leather on which it rests. Slowing, it registers that it matches the beating of her heart.

The room fades away, and there’s only the tink-thump, and the vibrating hum deep inside her, desperate and building, begging to be released, the one matching, no, dependent upon, the thwacking on her behind.

Tink. Thump. Thwack. 

Tink.

Thump.


Thwack.

Silence

Exposed (limerick)

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At first, it struck her as quite absurd,

Body responding to every word,

But his words always guiding,

Coaxing desires from hiding,

Revealed their true selves, no longer blurred

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