This Is How I Want You.

Truth and Belief

You are beautiful. The thing is that you do not have to believe it for it to be true.

Again

From across the room, I watch. I have seen you naked. I have seen you with walls. I have seen you unbridled, surrendered, wild. I have heard you cry out and heard you cry. Seen you bound and seen you free. And in all I have seen, I have loved you. And will love you still when I see you naked, no matter its form, again.

The Problem

The problem is... The problem has always been that everything reminds me of you, and there is not enough time with you, for me to tell you how.

Love and Surrender

Look at you. All you want. So much more than you imagined possible when you, tentatively and soft admitted you might like.. a little submission. Maybe. Just a bit.

But that is not how it works. You know that now As you surrender a bit, and a bit more still. Baby steps down the rabbit hole to your nature, happiest now

in a place you never imagined, with marks on your skin and marks on your soul and a need to give, and surrender, and belong to me, in ways you never thought possible.

And yet, are, and even more than are, leaving you hungry to fall deeper still, becoming a creature of love and surrender, full of need to become perfect, to know you are enough.

You always were, But now, you know.

A Game We Play

It is a game we play, going out in a strange city.

You wearing just what I tell you, tighter with a neckline you'd never wear in our home town. Breasts lifted up like prize possessions, damn near an advertisement, one that gets the attention you deserve.

It's a game we play, surveying the room. Seeing who notices, particularly those alone for the night. Seeing who notices the small anklet gold and diamonds catching the light. Seeing who, and yes, it often shows, has grown hard as I kiss you in candlelight, hands around your shoulder, lingering in the shadow of your cleavage.

It is a game we play, often enough, imagining him, and how and where you want him, or at times, them. Imagining size or girth and the feeling of them, imagining their surprise at just how tight you are on their oversized, swollen members.

It is a game we play, until that one time, when I stand and walk, and invite him over for a drink of you.

More than Sex

More Than Sex

Your back arches with each thrust.  Your back, supple and soft,  feels the hard table under you,  feels the hard thrust of my cock,  feels the power of my love as I look down,  my hands grasping your hips,  my eyes devouring you, as I slide in you,  again and again.  Not content to feel you,  my desire is to own you,  to make you mine in a way you never could have imagined wanting,  to make you cry out in a soulful desire and surrender,  to fill you, not just with my shaft,  not just with the warm liquids of love,  but with something deeper,  that plunges your depths,  and touches your heart with each mad thrust. 

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I have been gifted a trove of poems from my banned "Other Poems" blog. So I will be posting some of those between my newer ones. This poem is from the older blog.

Consent

It has always about what you offered. And how far I would take it.

That does not change, but know this, there comes a place of offering where I will take all of you to a new place that will leave us both transformed.

Another poem from my old banished blog. Thank you all who saved and share these.

Unconventional

Who every made you believe, lied. Just because no one else has appreciated the curls or the curves or the drive or the emotions and all the beautiful abnormalities that set you apart, does not mean I am wrong in how I see you. It simply means, at long last, after a lifetime of settling, neither of us need to.

So bear yourself to me, one more time. Show me the flesh that is mine. Let me love you with all the tenderness of a night with wine and conversation before we break out the whips and the chains each of us finding satisfaction finally, without limits, unconventional, and so right.

Taken. Not Taken

You, and all that you are,  every curve and line,  every expanse of silken skin,  every orifice,  every dark corner of your heart….

mine. 

Not taken,  no matter how it seems  when I render you helpless and take your body like a slave to my pleasure. 

No, not taken,  but given in a perfect, desperate love more complete than passion or romance alone could ever be. 

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.