#5955 Feb 1, 2013
She said to me.......
"Adrian, you big hunk o' love,
Don't worry about a thing
Just sit down and relax
I'm doing all the work
Tonight, let me be in
Charge just this once
I want you to take off
All your clothes and
Look at me, watch my
Body move to the rhythm
Of sensuality tonight
When I come up to you,
Put your hands on my
Naked hips and cup my
Butt as I move down
To straddle your lap
Don't hesitate to kiss
My lips, for I will want
Many kisses and sweet licks
Just don't rush, for I'm
Running this show of love
When I push my breast in
Front of you, that means
You better be ready to
Suck on them and make
Me moan really loud
Show how pleased you are
To see my body pressed
Against you as I slide
My wetness down upon your
Hardness, combining us
As I whisper into your ear
To move faster, push me
Down onto the couch and do
Me with meaning and love
Don't let me be left hanging.."
Since: Apr 12
#5956 Feb 1, 2013
Congratulations to you poets on this thread.
#5957 Feb 1, 2013
A mere three days before
I lost my virginity
(in an unrelated encounter),
we shared momentarily
a couch and then suddenly more.
Your hot thick tongue
into my mouth,
filling it, infiltrating it, violating it
with your hunger, as I
freed your massive breasts
from their industrial strength containers
and pawed them while you
milked me with your practiced hands,
down to the very last drop.
Yours is the tongue I've remembered
through all these years.
Since: Dec 12
#5958 Feb 1, 2013
My sweet darling
For you I breathe
You regulate the rhythm
My resplendent lover
The cicerone of Love
You have shown this woman
What is Love
What is Love
Dazzling waves upon the sea
That warms my heart
My precious Love
My treasured Love
You have shown this woman
What is Love
What is Love
My illustrious Lover
Since: Jan 12
#5960 Feb 1, 2013
Dude how many copies do you have in your garage!?! Tell me you didn't do that publish it yourself thing and are stuck with a house full of books??
#5961 Feb 1, 2013
Adult movie theatre. Room No.2. I entered in oblivion from the rainy streets, not knowing what to enter. But I had to know.
(Did she really say that the last time I spoke to her ? Did she mean it ?)
At the front row, the slutty girl sits on the lap of a faceless man. He is old and wrinkled. Ugly.
Her legs wide spread, she rides his yellow parchment cock into her honeyhole.(Bare breasted – little blue skirt but no underwear – heels – blonde – old fashioned glasses with a golden shiny frame. Glamour.)
(Her curly red hairs in the dust of dawn. The little diamond smile. Malicious blue eyes of Lapis lazuli.)
She moans, and looks at me. Invites.
(I cannot resist – confused. I seemed to have lost all feeling in my legs. I am as erected as ever.)
Undresses me, tastes.
(I am sucked off in a sixth rank adult movie theatre room by a strange unknown girl who is having anal sex with a man without eyes, it occurs to me.)
And puts me in.
(And when the music stopped, the laughter. And the sex was great.)
I take her from the front.
Light flashes of the seventies shoot through the cabin.
On the screen, two women are having a go at a large man. They also moan. They call him names. And moan-moan-moannnnn.
The room is ruby red and corny. Used toilet paper on the ground. An Oak Eggar flies clumsily above our sweating bodies in search of a way out. Two white voyeuristic eyes rest on its wings.
(Sweet smell of c um.)
(Haha – ha – ha.)
But does she bow ?
(She nearly pissed her pants. Haha – ha.)
She almost c ums by touching her nipples.
Her peeping holes devour our flesh. With an empty mouth–
#5962 Feb 1, 2013
I should quit this shitty job.
She should slip off her dress.
Where there’s nothing,
there should be something,
a delta of morphine and honey,
the flickering fluorescent light
of a crinkly yellow flower.
I should fall asleep beside her
and sometime later wake up in the dark
and not know what city I’m in.
#5964 Feb 1, 2013
A cork-walled room
with a leather stool and
hooks for the ropes to go
through, rope in bright
colors and the whips
on a rack by the door.
All this to generate
your best gasps,
that special smile.
Tied to the chair
you’re thinking of him.
How he did this
the first time, gently.
How the rope felt warm
around your waist.
How the rope in
his hands said to you:
remember me, that I
did this for you...
Baby I loved
to come up alongside you
like a snake and from behind
then push. Push
inside you, through you,
stretching that brown button
just to hear you groan that
groan, like you were worried: like
maybe you needed to
feed the meter or maybe
forgot to send something
certified mail. Or maybe
like you were going to
die if you could not
take me to
#5965 Feb 1, 2013
She’s two Altesino Brunello di Montalcino gone.
Her in the corner. Sweet
bottom bouncing, henna hair
red and swinging like a bell.
My black shirt unbuttoned
I’m tapping ashes into
a plastic cup. I don’t know
where anyone is.
She shouts waiting for
the next song: This!
Is what! I was born!
And she’s on her knees
hands and lips and the vodka
on her tongue stings my dick
but not very much.
And the sun is rising
out the dirty window.
And she’s doing that which
she was born to do.
While I close my eyes
all of her husband’s
#5966 Feb 1, 2013
You Again !
So really what's your problem ?
If you judge me by some of my poetry you might be fooled because I started out (some four years ago) looking kind of sweet, at least on the surface, and then if you dig a little deeper you find me disgustingly real (jk). Then hopefully you accept me. Then, eventually, you'll admire me (jk). These poems; this poetry and this prose are all about perception and what it doesn’t do.
Does the bride who wears white and dreams of wedded bliss expect to remain so? Not if she’s realistic. Even if she made it to her wedding night she’s still going to spread those legs…...which is just a prelude to one or more downfalls…....then what?
We can do the tender side of love but we’re OK with the roughest edges you can show us. We’ll struggle to be defined as anything — certainly erotica, for lack of a better word, will be our niche, but I just want to see where it goes.
It’s about pinning down the intangible with what we do have: words and images, some original, some borrowed, but pressed into one beautiful web site.
My Motto: "Become Whirled.' What that means and will continue to mean will be largely up to you, so if you think you want to be included in the next poem (pinkies crossed there will be another) then come on big girl (or big boy, sorry not sure of your gender) give it to me.
PS: And if you don't like what I post here, just don't visit here.....pretty simple advice me think.
#5967 Feb 1, 2013
Oh, just STFU and G & FY!!!!!
#5968 Feb 1, 2013
afflict me with your love
infect me with your poison;
you paralyze me to the point
I can’t breathe, you’re beautiful
and you’re kinder than a kiss
of a butterfly as you gyrate
your hips into mine; you’re
unforgettable like a sun star.
I want to be in your poem
laying on your sleeping seas
A tongue of fire
down your middle
waves like whip cream
#5969 Feb 1, 2013
I was an eighteen year old lover
who tried to go through
her bedroom mirror
she was forty
Her mouth was a raspberry fish
She tasted like jawbreaker red
This boy tongue licking the glass
I blew apart inside her,
super-bright truck headlights,
the shudder of
a chair collapsing
under God’s immense weight,
Made from forever
spilling like hot August
star rose petals can’t
But the jackals
that came afterwards
and no known address.
The next today
who waits for the beautiful you
#5970 Feb 1, 2013
Opening her eyes, after a while she said to me.......
"Baby, sleep seeps into my bones
Like hot water into a sinking teabag
My face is fire, eyes heavy, mind a cartwheel
Of wheeling bodies and sandbags
I haul myself to solitude, away from the buzz
Trudge and slump
My idle hand seeks to make a plaything of you
Hisses between white hills and grey cloud cover
To a slumbering country of pinks and troughs
Where it plays
Staccato rhythms, the lark ascending
My middle finger circles, a motorist on a starting handle
A dynamo whirring
Cranking, shooting a Tesla coil hum through my wires
Static shivers along once-sleeping skin
Or perhaps you want to play
The fireman to my traction engine
The stoker of my coals
I feed the furnace, steam seeps between my thighs
The boiler of my soaking wet pussy builds and sends
Hot, damp power through my body
White fills my vision
My body shudders and shakes, reawakened
Reborn, renewed, replenished
Bolts fly from their housings
An engine explosion
A singing, ringing crescendo of steam and smoke and white-hot metal
A hissing hot leak
Your fingerprints dance over sodden skin
An aftershock blooms large and causes
Tender flesh to tremble again
A second spike
Lightning: a modern Prometheus cries “Live!”
The fog of sleep lifts
Dawn hits and my nerves turn to busy industry
I wake for the first time since
Opening my eyes
And trundle, alert, a purring machine....
Baby, I'm sooooo ready for you..."
#5972 Feb 1, 2013
The snap of the buckle settling into place
The slight creak of the rope taking the strain
The devil is in the details
Where you are imperfect, the knots are just so,
the lengths carefully chosen,
the cup and curve and caress of hemp on your skin
calculated to tease and comfort
Your asymmetry is his perfect canvas
The collar sits flush against your throat,
emphasising the soft flutter of your pulse
The clamps on your tits are polished to a shine
You are motionless, as instructed,
but for a tremble of your chin and a flicker of your eyes
A lock clicks into place at your wrists
A strap is shifted one degree to the left
The set-up was effortless and the adjustments minor,
the accoutrements chosen seemingly on a whim
You wouldn’t know it, but the exact curve of your spine at this moment
was planned weeks ago
He cups your chin and brushes a stray hair behind your ear
You are complete
Each detail is exact, each angle aesthetic,
each nerve in you tingling and taut as intended
And now the minutiae are in place and his masterpiece is realised,
he will relish defiling it
He will spoil the calm perfection he has created,
he will soil his unblemished canvas
He will desecrate you
Oh, the devil is in the details, my dear,
but salvation is found in your flaws…
#5973 Feb 1, 2013
She said.."Let me be with you
Let me run my palm over your golden locks
And squeeze your hand as we walk
And breathe the warmth of the crook of your neck
And press my lips against yours
Let me drag my claws down your flank
And run my tongue up your jaw
And pinch your nipple in mischief
And inhale the musk of your crotch
Let me suck your c ock and clutch your arse
Let me buck under your hips and writhe and pulse
Until you spill yourself, groaning, into my aching c unt
And fall panting on my damp skin
Let me mop your brow
And kiss your mouth
And let me be with you"
#5974 Feb 1, 2013
By the stream that was once a river there is a dell where you will find me.
Where you will find me and make me…
And make me…
I will bite down on a fallen branch and press my face into the moss
and you will take me.
And the bark in my hair and the bites on my skin will be reminders.
And the scrapes on my knees and the welts on my thighs
will be my trophies.
The air will hum with screams that break through silence
and the minutes will last for years.
The sun will beat down as you beat down and I…
I will exult in having you make me.
#5975 Feb 1, 2013
On Sunday, I put you in white stockings.
I held the silk-soft tips open and you dipped in your toes,
Wriggling them childishly as I started to slide the stockings slowly up.
Up, up over your calves to rest atop your milky thighs,
Mere inches from your freshly-shaven slickness.
Your bit your c unt-pink lip in false consternation.
I made a note to f uck the levity out of you later.
You hadn’t done anything special to deserve a gift,
But I’d got you one anyway.
I pulled a white cotton negligee from its hiding place
And slipped it over your upraised arms,
Tugged it down past coral nipples and freckled flanks.
I bent you forward and the negligee rode up to expose your bottom
And a peek of pussy.
It was all I could do not to thrash your thighs there and then,
Not to birch your behind until slick turned to sopping,
Not to dip my thumb into your hive and come out coated in milk and honey.
You stood stock still, an expectant angel, waiting for me to blink.
I stood and placed a lecherous hand on your bare bottom,
Another on your chest,
And tipped your torso upright, signalling the end of your appraisal
We were masks, you and I.
Mischief capered under your doe-eyed surface;
Under mine, only the thought of ransack. Rampage.
But first, we’d play.
Dressed in your spotless, sacrificial whites,
You listened as I set your task.
You’d dust this room from top to bottom.
You would sweep its floor and beat its rugs.
And when you had exchanged your purity for its,
I’d stand you on the coffee table and have you spin for me
Like a mannequin on the f ucking shopping channel.
For each smudge, a spank.
For each blemish, a bruise.
For each streak, a strike of the cane, a snap of the whip…
A mark for each of your marks.
I’d beat out your imperfections and brand them on your skin.
I’d pin you down and pull your hair.
And f uck what was left of your levity gasping into the air.
On Sunday, I put you in white stockings.
But you went home, smiling, in bruises, wet knickers and sin.
#5976 Feb 1, 2013
"SHOWERS and STRAWBERRIES."
(Part One "Showers")
Such a long week and so devoid of release. One little cog jams and suddenly, no sweet and soaring sex for me. Nothing but tantalising teases and the little preludes that normally swell into full-blown symphonies. A long, long week with no sex but plenty of sexuality, plenty of seduction, plenty of sinful talk and sensual snaps. It’s enough to drive a girl wild.
The frustration is immense. I can’t have what I want. I can’t dive into delirious and furious f ucking. No throbbing c ock ready to fill me up, no scratching and clawing and just taking what I need. And I need it. It’s all building up, up, up and something’s got to give. Pictures and words and sensations fill my head and the dull ache between my legs nags, refusing to go away.
A little ball of want.
The week ends and I return home weary but with naughty thoughts whispering in my head. Earlier I had wished I could just reach down my knickers and stroke the flesh that lies there, but circumstances had got in the way. Soon, I had thought, soon I’ll be free to do whatever I like to myself. Now here I am.
The perfect remedy for the hours upon hours of workaday life: a hot and steamy shower. I step in, my body tired and dragging with it a banality I’d hoped to leave at the door. With relief, I feel cascades of water hitting me, sloughing off the dust and dreariness, but leaving the tight feeling in my clitoris, now sharp as a whip. As I become clean and fresh, my energy rises and I reach for something soothing to slather myself in......
(More c umming....)
#5977 Feb 1, 2013
"SHOWERS and STRAWBERRIES."
(Part Two "Strawberries.")
Strawberries. An ideal scent for filling my nostrils as I luxuriate in steam, self-indulgence and thoughts of you.
I cover myself in a strawberry slickness, stepping out of the stream so that it lingers on my naked body, a sweet pink liquid decorating my breasts, belly and thighs. Imagining the touch of your skin, I begin to stroke my own.
I run a hand down my thigh as the other lays momentarily upon my breast before beginning to explore it fully. I rub the strawberry gel into my skin as I imagine your hands, your gaze upon my increasingly excited and aroused body. When I have smoothed every bit but the last of the strawberry into my skin, I stop for a moment, listen to the heavy gush of the hot water and imagine in it your hot little breaths, your sighing gasps, your whispered curses and exultations.
The last of the strawberry has a special destination. I gather it up before snaking my hands one by one between my flushed-pink legs. Often I’ve enjoyed the feel of the slipperiness there as I wash myself, but now I know I’m going to make full use of it. With the heat of the water at my back, I stroke strawberry into every fold and crevice, sliding my fingers again and again over my pussy. You’re in my head as I run my fingers hand-over-hand between my thighs, my warm, wet sex pulsing with the clean-yet-dirty feel of the silky-smooth liquid.
I work myself into a frenzy, gasping as your most wicked words echo in my ears. My clitoris is full to bursting of frustrations waiting to be let loose.
I turn, plunging myself back into the water, planting my feet firmly at the sides of the shower, spreading my legs and holding on tight to the shower with one hand. Images of you deluge as surely and relentlessly as the water itself as I move the fingers of my right hand up from my folds and to my clitoris.
DeVine, you’re a slideshow. A zoetrope of lust. For now, at least, you’re an avatar of sex itself and I will prostrate myself at your altar.
My fingers work furiously at my clit, stroking the warm, sodding skin into ecstasy as all the tightness of a week’s torturous deprivation coils up ready to explode and dissipate. I hold on tight, the scent of strawberries mingling with my own, and I tumble shakingly into the first orgasm. Your skin, your fingers, your breath, your lust, my imagination bringing them to life and wrapping them around me, on me, in me.
I shudder, my orgasm racing through my body from clit to c unt and finger to toe. As it fades, I gasp. Before long I am cascading into another climax, stronger than the last, making my knees wobble. I hold on for dear life, nearly wrenching the shower contraption from the wall. As this second orgasm floods my body, I feel the last of the tightness and tiredness and tortuousness of my frustrations escape me. I needed this.
I needed to lose myself in a world of wetness, heat, sinfulness and strawberries and come out the other side fresh and shaking. Two warmths pulse through me now: that of the heat and that of post-orgasmic bliss. As thoughts of you lift from me like a broken spell, I blink and wake as if from slumber.
I turn off the shower and re-enter the world.
The scent of strawberries follows me for the rest of the evening…....and my lustful thoughts of you.
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