Too Perfect

Reminder

Reminder

Every now and then I have to remind you whose mouth it is.

I love when one of my poems from my deleted blog finds me!

Touch

There is nothing of yours that touches anything of mine that does not excite. 

Before

The others, the ones before, the ones who have shared you, those who thought they owned you, and perhaps you too believed they did, until us, when you discovered what owned actually means and gave yourself to a slavery you only dreamed of before, liberating and eternal, no matter the distance.

Thoughts Noir

Dreams own me as they once owned you,

Love in flux, odd and as uncertain

As the next flick of the crop

Or tender touch, one after the other

To your perfect, swollen, pink clit.

Dreams. Not imagination, but something deeper,

A recognition of what lives inside us both,

You a siren from the forties, but less dressed,

Waiting forever for the pleasure and pain

I cannot help but offer, both of us somehow,

Enslaved.

I love it when I find a poem from my deleted blog that I can repost to my new on. In this case the poem found me. A Reader from London refound me and shared two. Thank you!

Beyond Words

The knowledge that you will,  with or without bonds is intoxicating beyond words. 

Pretense

Let's not pretend that any touch means anything but "mine."

Sometimes Submissive

Sometimes submissive has nothing to do with ropes and chains. There are no harsh commands or red marks left by hands and crops or chains. It is simply staying still as I take you in. Look at you, a woman no one would suspect contains such passion. Savoring each curve and your perfect skin. Knowing all that others cannot see, all that would amaze and scare and thrill them about you

is mine

This is How I Want You.

This is how I want you,  spent from hours of touch and penetration,  no part of you  innocent or unfilled,  your body trembling,  your throat raw from moans and cries of orgasm,  the sheets pulled loose by your clinched hands,  your nipples tender,  your clit throbbing,  beautifully abused,  you clamber up,  and whisper,  “Please” as you reach for my cock and draw it to your swollen lips. 

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Tumblr killed my original poetry site, The Other Poems, after 8 years and 12,000+ followers. If you would be kind enough to share this poem, I may find some of my friends and followers.

After

After.

After. After it all. After the rough filling. The bruising of your softest tissues. The marks. The taking of more than your body. After one more orgasm than you believed possible. After you are left breathless and limp. Spent. After all that, still... the tiniest of smiles.

Hopefully Enough

Hear them rustling behind you. Footsteps. How many? I promise you. More than you expect. Hopefully enough that when they are done, you will realize how desirable you are, and not just to me.