To The Man Whose Cum Is In Her Mouth

When, or If

The thing is, I always start tender and for a few moments, maybe more, you are uncertain how you will bring me pleasure, when, or if the caress will turn into a sharp slap, when, or if your tender pink nipple will find itself clamped, chained or twisted. When, or if, you go from lover to slave and back again.

A poem from my banned blog. Thank you to all who send me these!

A Reason to Celebrate the New Year

Somehow, in every place you offer,

I fit. Perhaps stretching the boundaries at first,

But always, in the end,

In the tightest, most forbidden places

That no one sees,

I fit.

The Sounds of Darkness

You can sense things. Hear my footsteps, or at least you believe they are mine, believe you are safe even in the darkness.

But the longer you are in the dark, you become less sure. Others want you. You know this. And they might or might not fill you as I do. They may be too much or too little, too kind or too cruel. You have lived and loved enough to know the truth of it.

And so you wait. Hopeful. Afraid. Unsure. Until you hear my voice and feel my touch tender on your love bound skin. "I will love you. " "I will love you forever." And you know now, whatever the pain to come, you are safe. You are loved.

Lost and Found

Lost and Found

It is the white space,  the place between anticipation and the residual pain of marks,  of lashes,  the moment of it,  as it lances through you and the pain does not even cry out,  it simply consumes you and there is nothing else, and you are no longer what you believed,  not submissive, for that does not matter,  not in your own particular kind of love,  you are lost and found in it,  all other worries exploded, no longer important, a single minded woman finally in a peace you cannot explain,  the world around you lost,  your soul, found. 

All of You

It has never been about what you would or would not show, what you would or would not do; never about just how hard or how loud you would cry out. It was never about how far the torture could go before you sputtered the safe word, or how, the next time we went further. It was not about your hunger to please, your messy desperate hunger, your submission. what you would or would not wear and where. The collars. The chains. The cuffs. It was not how or where you wanted to be filled, or marked with cum. It was not how, once you saw that fantasies could and did become real, you gave yourself to them. It was not how often, or how many. It was not the desire that matched, sometimes somehow exceeded mine. It was not the hair trigger that set your need off, the way your body, so exquisite and lush, writhes. All those are delightful and more than most women have to offer. more than most women are. but it has always been, always be, your ability to trust the love you feel, the desire rises, and surrender to the one man who knows, and wants, constantly wants, all of you.

Are you familiar with Literotica? If you are wanting a larger readership you may find it there.

I am, but I have to admit, I had not thought of them for a long time. Maybe I should submit a few things.

Surrendering

Surrendering involves trust, fear, a discomfort as you are exposed further than you ever expected when you began this journey.

The Moment You Were Mine

What was done or not done. What boundaries were crossed, and where pain and pleasure merged until each was forgotten, replaced by something more than either, consumption, writhing as one caress built on the next, And then, the perfect, most memorable moment of release.

I still carry that image, your face and soul lost to my touch, mine in the moment. Mine in eternity.

Another of my poems from my banished blog. I love finding these!

Timeless Night

A little laughter. A little conversation. A bit of flirting. The gentlest of foreplay. Time. Or perhaps timelessness. Paying no attention to it, only each other, with an intensity that is gradual, like crabs in a pot, the heat rising slowly, the dance growing, more and more frantic, the heat suddenly all, passion, and more, life turned to a desperation for each other, for penetration, need, until finally, the little death in a cry and overwhelming. Gasps for breath. until it begins again. A little laughter in our timeless night.

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!

Worshiped

I know. And you know every flaw I own. But for this moment, you at my feet, draped in lace and gauze, I feel worshiped. Worthy.