Vacation


I’m going to be on vacation for much of March! My new work schedule allows for some down weeks and I’m going to take advantage of those as mostly unplugged, while I work on my house, dive into some longer writings, and spend time with my family. 

I will have some things scheduled intermittently while I’m taking a break, and will pop in occasionally to read your beautiful words. 

Love to you all! 

Liquefied


storm’s eye entrusted
within your palm,
glowing fury extends,
momentarily calm

closing space,
meeting trepidous skin,
lightning flashing,
gooseflesh begins

circling orbs,
as breathing catches,
creating peaks,
heat stinging like matches

slowly and deliberately,
traveling lower,
crackling and buzzing,
gaining power

or maybe that was you,
the eye of the storm,
shooting streams of light
against my form

finally reaching
my pinnacle of need,
with back-arching, sheet-twisting, lip-biting greed

my body awake,
every molecule alive,
thrumming and humming
in overdrive

then you touch me,
pure energy on skin,
and I liquefy
into a thunderous din

Photo is mine

Composition

as the morning breeze
whispers the melody
we made,
the sting and ache
echo last night’s chorus
with each movement,
replayed

the warm sheets still hum
our candlelit din,
a masterpiece composed
over willing skin

oh please, Maestro,
may we play that
song again?

-image credit Pinterest, reworking of some older prose

Write Me

Write me in lead, verse in unending lines,
In loops and curves, without any rhyme

Write me in sonnet, without any words
In fingertips, buoyant, like the wings of birds

Write me in symphony, with only your eyes
Be the conductor, between willing thighs

Write me in love song, with fists gripping tresses,
In fevered gasps and moans, and sheets left in messes

Write me in lead, Sir, a powerful refrain
Then, erase me, my love, and do it again

-image found on Tumblr, source unknown

Placement

img_5011

restless,
shifting weight from foot to foot,
as He positions the prickly jute, 
concentrating on the way He winds it ’round,
on the way it comes to rest upon her skin, biting,
and not on He who is doing the winding,
He whose flesh grazes hers,
whose breath is heavy and hot against her neck,
whose soft, yet forceful lips leave a slightly wet, cool trail,
as He works his way ’round, up, through, and around

her loose fingers stray,
following that loud, ass-backward, inside voice she has,
the one who keeps shouting and pushing herself to the forefront,
the unsettled, messy girl who needs

and wants,
and needs

that noxious voice which permeates, 
spreading its unwanted tentacles nimbly
under the surface of her skin,
first taking hold of her thoughts,
then conquering every ribbon of unwilling, aching muscle

she tells those fingers to reach down
and to adjust,
to find and target each tiny imperfection,
to, with her selfish actions,
demand perfection and symmetry,
to fidget and forget about trust,
and patience

she overpowers,
she deceives

she defies, not only Him, but her

she knows what she needs,
but doesn’t want to know

so, she bucks and she pushes against the very binding she knows she truly needs

desperately

His binding,
His will,
His way

one last time, though she’s been warned,
she commands those deceptive fingers
to reach out,
to touch His tie

He slaps her wandering, distrustful, hand,
hard,
an echoing crack, a lingering, itchy, throbbing sting

and she smiles

a smile of defeat,
of humbling,
of placement

and then, she disappears

img_7046

-image found on Tumblr, source unknown; shared as part of Masturbation Monday

Lingering…

I ‘m trapped in a lingering haze today,
Spellbound, thoughts in flight, stuck on replay

Your captivating lure, a mist upon my skin,
As achy reminders echo last night’s din

Whispers hovering in fevered clouds,
My inner voice howling, remembering how

Your stringed pins gripped fiery flesh, trapping desire,
And your hands drew salacious wings, stoking the fire

Until your commanding words set my wanton spirit free,
My body your vessel, aching to please

How the air abruptly changed when your flesh merged with mine,
And our breath became one, how there was no time

Then our hearts became fluid, melting from within,
One consumous puddle, an ocean of sin

Quiet

img_4234
silky silence born of necessity,
of circumstance,
needing only to please,
sheer will forcing her voice as quiet as the midnight breeze

please, oh please,
don’t stop,
her inside voice begs

in her silence,
bright speckles of need pirouette behind eyelids involuntarily shut tight,
the space between the muscled arch of her back and the soft gray sheets whisper-calling his name,
her prickly gooseflesh the Braille,
a trail of wordless munition so eagerly read with his ravenous lips,
hungry teeth,
and nimble-teasing fingers,
the twisted fabric gripped in her palms,
screaming surrender,
her pointed toes crying out to the heavens…

oh God, oh, God,
please

and her eyes,
those wanderlust, dive-in green eyes plead-snapping open,
orange flecks glowing pure fire,
they are anything but quiet

her eyes are never quiet,
no,
they speak the loudest of all

-image credit Tumblr

The Forest 

I’m lost in a forest of the tallest trees, inundated with wickedly bent, sinister trunks, and thicket so dense my feet can barely move, the air damp and heavy, sitting like rocks in my lungs.

Swiping and slashing, I claw at the overgrowth’s sharpness, aching to lift my legs and move, grasping for vines that might save me. Yet, I don’t want to be saved. I crave absolution. 

On tattered, tired, and bended knees, I offer you a ridged branch, begging for penance, desperate for your command, yearning for you to envelope me in the shelter of your palm. 

Help me be my vine.

And then I wonder, how heavy is that staff? Is the weight just too much?

You answer, you deliver. You take and give, give and take. With each strike, a little of you infiltrates me, suffocating the darkness, penetrating every fiber of muscle, saturating each porous bone, filling and filling until you seep up through every follicle and pore, spilling out and bending to my every contour, forming a shield upon my flesh that no thorn can puncture.

And now, I can weave my vine, with threads of you in the center, the strength in its core. 

Together we can conquer; we can see the forest though the trees. 

Stitched


On humble, bended knees, I wait
Eyes closed, listening for his gate

Slow, ascending footsteps near
I feel his presence more than hear

Butterflies flutter as my insides smile
Not unlike when I walked down the aisle

Leaning in, warm skin on skin
Arms around me, he begins

Light brown hue and earthy scent
Jute unraveled with intent

Where his fingers end, rope begins
The prickly strength a part of him

Diamond shape and knots are wound
Lastly, crotch rope tightly bound

Friction criss-crossed, his will spun
Earthly stitches weave us as one

Awakening spirit, whole self to life
I am His, more than his wife

~photo credit pearltree.com

Home

Behind the soft brown scarf, she could see nothing but blackness. The precise squeeze on her nipples and the pinpointed pinch on her clit were just the right amount of pain-pleasure to keep her on edge. Arms cuffed above her head and legs tied with the prickly jute, calf to thigh, she was completely exposed to him, in more than flesh. Butterflies swirling in her belly, she folded into her smallness, anticipating him.

Her hearing hyper-aware, she picked up on the slight tinking of the metal pulls being lifted, then the gritty slide of wood against wood as he opened the red wood drawer. She knew which drawer it was as soon as she heard its uneven slide – it was the drawer of impact implements, and her heart began to race.

As she lay there waiting, breathing already a bit labored, the mini clothespins on her nipples were quickly becoming the center of her world, so much so that she forgot about the impact until she felt the whoosh of air, followed by the first landing. His releasing of the clothespin from her clit had caused a surge of blissful agony, followed by an engorged ache which thumped to the beat of her heart. It was so sensitive, she could feel even the slightest shift in the air, so the crop’s swift strike brought about a guttural, almost panicky scream. Oh, God. She knew there’d be more. And more.

The strikes came, in a quick rhythm, one after the other while he watched her face contort and her back arch in love-hate of every single strike. In that moment, her entire being focused on the sound of the crop on her tender, swollen skin, on the delicious, rhythmic pain on her clit and the glorious pinching of her nipples. 

Landing harder and harder, the strikes came in rapid succession, until he stopped, abruptly, leaving a silence that was just as loud as noise.

In her stillness, she heard the click of a button and a simultaneous buzz – she knew that noise! Oh, God, she knew. 

Strike, buzz, strike, buzz. Over and over. Again and again. 

There was nothing else, only he and her, the pinch and the strike and the buzz.

Layers of pain-pleasure flowed, one on top of the other, like conflicting currents, flooding her brain. Feeling the overwhelming evidence of her arousal, cool against the heat of each landing, she could even hear her wetness with each strike of the crop and pressing of the buzz.

Desperate for release, the humming in her center flowed outward to her surface, consuming her. It was all she could taste, all she could smell. She felt like she needed it more than she needed to breathe. The coil he had wound so deeply in her core was so tight, it pulled at her skin. It clenched every muscle and clamped shut her eyelids. She was afraid of its impending intensity; she was afraid of letting it go. 

But, it wasn’t a choice.

Ripping and slicing through her entire body, her orgasm took over. It was viscous and glorious and painfully heavenly, causing her to writhe and struggle against the restraints. The grunting and moaning sounds coming from the back of her throat didn’t even sound like her.

When she finally began to float back to earth, he pushed inside her, grinding and slamming into the puffy ache, pain-pleasure rocketing her body right back to the same heightened state from which she thought she’d returned, and then beyond. And further. Until he’d taken all he wanted from her.

Removing the scarf, he looked her in the eyes. All she saw was his dominance reflecting her surrender. Infinite love.

She saw home.

-image found on Tumblr, source unknown; included in Matsurbation Monday, week 130