Song of Passion

Tonight, his chosen instrument is unlike any other he’s used. It’s beautiful, with a long shaft of soft walnut brown and an earthy smell. Slightly lighter in feel and a bit more flexible than oak, it is bound to create a unique feel upon her skin. When he holds it, he looks much like a conductor….and he is.

As her eyes close, she slowly exhales, all the warm air leaving her lungs. Her forehead leans slightly forward, making contact with the wall, the coolness of the light gray paint chilly against her flush skin. Inside, there is silence, but it is not a silence absent of sound or feeling. It is the silence born between them. The silence OF them.

Behind her, she hears his movements – the slide and shuffle of his feet on the floor, the spectacular whoosh and whip of the walnut through the air, varying with every stroke, the sharp crack and whip as the walnut meets her skin. From her own lips, there’s the involuntary hissing intake of air or low moan as each strike lands. Sometimes there’s even a stifled scream or the rapid rise and fall of her chest and eyes which fill with tears. It hurts, but the pain is brief, it is only on her surface. In an instant, it is absorbed, transforming into a deeply penetrating, aching pleasure, a tantalizing combination that makes her want more. And more. It’s deliciously overwhelming.

With each strike, the contact with her skin causes a chain reaction. The displaced cool air as the walnut cane makes its way toward her backside is a sharp contrast to the instant ribbon of burn as it lands, but then, oh god…then her body begins to truly play his tune. The wood which looks so rigid bends and flexes slightly with her contours, and it vibrates. The silky vibrations travel the length of the cane and back to his hand, back and forth, an endless loop until it’s pulled away and readied again.

Awakened by that bite of pain, her flesh is alive and her mind made open, acutely aware and ready for what is to come. 

Every single buzz of vibration creates a radiating hum that travels from the surface of her skin, deep into her bones, and it never dies. That hum remains, it’s melodious rumble becoming louder and louder, taking up more and more space inside her, taking over. She welcomes it.

Unclipping her from the cuffs which were bound to the wall, he lies her face down on the bed, still humming. Gently, he strikes her back and works his way down the length of her, increasing in intensity, turning her over to do the same on her front, the harmonious whiz and whir of vibration absorbed with each and every strike, her body a melody, a constant hum barely contained by her skin. It’s so loud, she wonders if he can feel it too. The look in his eyes makes her believe he can. And when he touches her, that hum is no longer contained. It overflows into him, and he into her. She is the verse to his chorus, the lyrics to his chords.

Together they are the sweet song of passion.

-photo found on Tumblr; shared as part of Kayla Lord’s Masturbation Monday prompt

The Beginning

arms held above by command,
she shivered beneath stealthy hands,
the white candles liquified,
she closed her lusty green eyes
and savored,
each moment the heat drowned her flesh,
arching her back and drawing breath
in sharp hisses,
short pours had her writhing,
while the longer had her biting
both of her lips,
his teasingly soft caresses
and contrasting, pinpointed presses
drove her mad,
but the cool rigidity of the blade,
is what stunned her senses and made
her still,
as it slid over her skin,
stripping over and again,
and just when she’d thought he was through,
she saw his coy grin and she knew

he’d just begun

-photo credit


*Mature Content

“Don’t move,” he said, backing slowly away while pulling the camera up to his face, one rugged hand gripping the curve of the case and the other wrapped around the large lens. His thumb and middle finger delicately and  deliberately squeezed and turned, slightly this way and that.

She could hear the friction of his knees against the sheet as he scooted back and forth, positioning himself for each shot, his breath quickening with each movement.

Preventing the usual, “Yes, Sir,” in reply, the ball gag rested snugly between her teeth, wrapping around to clasp tightly on the back of her neck at her hairline. She didn’t even nod in response. She was still. Captivated. Mesmerized by him. All she wanted to do was keep watching him, watching her. Her eyes replied for her.

With a few words or the grip of his hands, he lead her to where he wanted her, and she followed. She moved when he moved her. She shifted with his words. She did anything he wanted.

Every click of the shutter sent a shiver down her spine. She could feel his energy building, an electricity growing. Every so often, she’d catch a glimpse of his eyes and the bulge in the front of his jeans. His hunger was palpable; it emanated from him in waves, making her insides hum and forming goosebumps on the surface of her skin.

Without notice, the world around them melted away. It was only his lens pointing at her, and her looking back. There was no peripheral, no background, no noise in her head. There was no sound, other than his movement and his breathing and his words. Nothing else.

Except for the click, click of his shutter.

-older post reworked a bit and shared as part of Masturbation Monday.

-photo is mine

Not One

I am not one of you
I’m a sieve
A sponge
I adsorb your cue

I am not one of you
I’m a strum
A reciprocal vibration
I hear your hue

I am not one of you
I’m a bubble
A transparent vessel
I see right through

I am not one of you
I’m a translator
A personifier
I feel your askew

I am not one of you
I’m a palate
A canvas
I soak in, imbue

I am not one of you
I’m a double-take
A tip of the tongue
I’m Deja vu

I am not one of you
I’m a moment
A slide show
I’m a tribute

I am not one of you
I’m fluid
A vast, never ending sea
I’m complex me

Swimming in Circles

’round and ‘round and ‘round I go
hope in circles, love below 

waves behind, ripples ahead
undertow above footbed

in a school, both lost and found
yet chasing tail, ‘round and ‘round

off’ring scales like Rainbow Fish,
unrealistic was my wish

down below, I do belong 
the ‘round and ‘round feels all wrong 

aesthetic is not for me 
I must dive, exhale, be free

-image credit; shared as part of the  DVerse Poet Pub Prompt, Repetition


They say the pines a’whisper,
A rustling lullaby song,
As the breeze plucks at treetops,
And cool nights grow dark and long

But their sound does not lull, no,
It sings harshly of a bye,
Disappearing in shadow,
And cruel whispering of lies 

There’s no bogeyman hiding,
In the darkest nooks of night,  
It’s absence that’s a’haunting, 
Hollow howls in the moonlight

-image found via

Blush, A Quadrille

it’s crazy how I’m caught off-guard,
after all these years

how tearing down walls
left my smallness in the open

how your hungry looks,
whispery words,
tracing fingers,
make me blush,

it’s crazy how being off-guard
feels so at home,
with you

-image credit Tumblr; re-working of an older poem in response to DVerse Quadrille Night, Whisper

I Imagine


There she is. 

I’ve seen her a few times before, passing by on the nearby running trail, then inside the coffee shop afterward. Fidgeting while I waited, sipping my coffee, I’ve been hoping she’d be here, wanting to see her again. 

Standing a few feet away from the pick-up counter, leaning against the wall, she periodically looks up from her phone, while she waits. She’s probably thinking of what she’ll make for dinner, what errand she needs to run, or what bill needs to be paid, oblivious to my stare.

My eyes are always drawn to her, and today is no exception. In fact, I’m taken aback. I honestly don’t think I’ve blinked since I noticed her. I’d thought she was beautiful before, all natural and in her running gear, but…wow. Today, she isn’t wearing her running clothes, she’s dressed comfortably, with a casual elegance about her. 

She takes my breath away. 

Her light brown, knit sweater has a low neck, draping in folds to reveal her collarbones, and I can’t stop staring. I’m mesmerized by the way the thin bones angle slightly upward, her skin dipping down between the bone and the rounded shoulder muscle, begging for attention. They’re exquisite, perfect really. 

The drape of her sweater at its lowest point rests upon her full, round breasts, showing off their firmness. Dark and tight, her jeans hug the curve of her backside, which flows effortlessly to muscular legs, accentuated by the way the jeans tuck into her knee high, brown leather, riding boots. They have a slight heel, making her a bit taller, but still a few inches shorter than me. 

A sun-kissed, olive tone, her complexion is marked with a few stray freckles, my eyes dancing from one to the next, in anticipation.
Straight and sandy-brown, with caramel highlights, her hair hangs just past her shoulders, smooth and shiny. And with eyes a subtle brown, and thin, perfectly shaped lips a dark shade of pink, her face is kind, welcoming, content.

One of other women I often see stops to chat with her, and I’m instantly envious. She smiles as she talks, her expression at once tender and animated, emanating an aura of sultriness. Her hands move as she speaks, delicate and soft looking, with manicured nails on thin fingers. Shifting her weight from foot to foot, her hips move with a fluid confidence.

I stand from my stool to take a few steps closer so I can hear, not because I want to hear what she’s saying, but because I just need to hear the sound of her voice. Without looking, I listen, not wanting her to know I’m paying her too much attention, nor drawing any attention to myself. I hear a silvery voice that is smooth, airy and confident. Sexy. I get the feeling when she speaks, she means exactly what she says.

As I listen, I can’t help myself. I imagine.

I imagine what it might be like to trace her perfect collarbones with my fingertips. To walk up to her, reaching my arm behind her head to slowly move her silky hair to the side, so I can lean in and lick the dips in the skin, tracing up her neckline with my tongue, leaving a chilly, wet trail all the way to her magnificent breasts. 

I wonder if she’d be still, or if she’d sway, moving those fluid hips, shifting her weight to be nearer my touch as I cup those breasts, massaging them, biting them. I imagine that sultry voice, how her head might lean down over mine so she can whisper in my ear how good I feel, begging me not to stop. 

My stomach is in knots thinking of how smooth and delicate her palms might feel gripping my face, as my tongue touches those beautifully thin lips, reveling in the softness and warmth of her. I want to know how her fingers might feel tangled in my hair, how her nails might dig into my back as I make her moan. 

I imagine my hands covering her ass as I push her back into that wall, pulling her body into mine, our legs entwined, thighs pushing up between one other’s legs. My face is flush as I imagine her breathy moans when I slide my hand into the front of her jeans to feel how wet she is, running my fingers back and forth over her folds, finding her sweet spot to rub in small, quick circles. 

Most of all, I imagine those luscious, brown eyes looking into mine, filled with hunger while I tell her to come for me. 

My pants are quickly getting tighter, and my breathing has quickened, threatening to reveal my thoughts to those around me. I can feel the heat in my cheeks, and now I’m the one shifting my weight from foot to foot, trying to persuade my body to calm down. 

Needing to take a quick breather, I walk toward the restroom, heading in her direction. Just as I’m almost in front of her, she looks up, eye to eye with me, and smiles. I smile back, keeping eye contact until I’m past, then walk into the restroom. As I splash cold water on my face, I decide I must introduce myself as soon as I’m finished. I need to hear her voice, to see her smile again. 

Hurrying, I open the door and turn the corner to find her….but she’s gone. 

-image found on Pinterest, saved from; shared also as part of Masturbation Monday

The Truth Is

The truth is, I don’t need you. I can do this on my own. All of it. I am strong or soft, steadfast or pliant, cautious or free-falling, whatever I need to be to make it. I can live this life; it’s shown me I can survive. Vulnerably, even. This is my truth.

But, I want you. I want you so badly it consumes me. My soul yearns for yours on a level I didn’t know existed before you, and that only increases with time. We are inexplicably connected, you and I, and we always will be.

Not only do I want you, but I choose you. Actively. I choose you every moment of every day, no matter the moment. In sorrow and joy, pain and pleasure, anger and gratitude. During hands-in-the-air excitement and when overwhelmingly tired. Amidst it all, I choose you, with me. To be with me, and I with you. For you. Your smile gives my heart’s beating new meaning. 

Even when my struggle against myself pushes you away, I want you. In fact, that’s when I want you the most. I want to give you my trust on a soul-deep level, one that always lets you in. I choose to. You’ve earned it.

And, the thing is, I don’t want to just survive. I want to flourish. I will always challenge myself to grow and let go, whether it’s for you or not. I need to do this, it’s my nature. I long to be free, to be more and more me. To be. But with you, my soul soars freer. It’s so safe in your arms, I’m able to fly higher. And higher. 

You are my home. 

I wake, elated to be next to you. I revel in your touch, in your praise, and feeling you wanting me back gives my spirit new purpose. I want to love you with all that I am and hold nothing back. I want to surrender. More and more and more. Being a part of your happiness fulfills my soul. I want to do that for the rest of my life. 

You are my salvation. We are my church.

I don’t need you, but my heart and my spirit and my soul choose YOU. I want YOU. I freely choose to give myself to you. You deserve all I have to offer. 

I’m yours.

-image credit Tumblr

Clean slate

Tell me, do you see me?
Or am I just a dream?

My being feels it’s moving 
My thoughts are racket-grooving
Tell me, are things as they seem?

Cuz, when I speak no sound escapes
And in the mirror, I have your shape

Tell me, do you see me?
Or am I just a scheme?

Could my heart be playing very cruel tricks?
Cuz, I’m starting to feel rather sick

In my gut I have this twisted feeling,
Telling me your heart is tired, needs some healing,
Perhaps you need something from me?

Am I but a harrowed memory,
Playing repeat on your screen?

For, it seems to me the reel is stuck,
Your feelings are running all amuck,
And you wish you could be freed

Tell me, how do you see me?
What does this all mean? 

Oh, God! I just realized – 
Perhaps I’m better as unseen

And I wish that I could find a way,
To wipe your weary slate clean

-image credit My Body My Image