By The Time I Am Sated

I hope that this is ok with you. If not, please let me know and I will delete it immediately.

Of course! Thank you.

Tom

Not Just Lust

You wipe the last drop of another man's cum, the fourth tonight, your lips uncertain, knowing I have watched each one take their pleasure with you, knowing I have seen your own pleasure with perfect strangers. Your eyes too, uncertain whether I will still want you, whether I feel the same as I felt a few hours ago, just as in love, just as passionate, the kind of passion we have always had, built on more than lust for your body, built on knowledge of who you are, needs, flaws, and glorious imperfections and even this, the dream finally fulfilled as I watch. You look up, waiting, and then, seeing.

No, my love. Nothing has changed as I wrap my fingers in your head and guide your puffy tender lips to my swollen shaft, eager to feel what they did not. Not just lust, love.

Tonight I may want you romantic and soft, gentle and yielding, your beauty gently on display, or I may want you trashy and eye-catching in a way that makes the world around us gasp and turn their heads, or I may want you bound, knowing the ravaging is to be brutal and you left with no relief, knowing there will be marks, and the most amazing thing, the wonder of you, is that whatever I want, you give.

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

For, Not To

You and I know.  There is no filth involved.  Not between us.  No matter what others would think,  every act,  no matter how it seems,  is done for,  not to. 

I am always happy to find my old poems from my banned origional site. This is one.

It is also a reason to reblog, so every one can reclaim their tumbr past.

in the candlelight and fire your body is art, full or line and shadow, tied, able to move just enough to prove your helplessness.

I caress your back, stopping to nibble, my sharp teeth leaving small marks on your alabaster flesh. branding you as mine.

My fingers cup your bottom, They…

Still finding some of my old poems from my Tumblr delete sight. Thanks to all of you who reposted so many of them.

Helpless in Lace

There is no reason to rush.  We have the night.  We have tomorrow and I have you,  helpless in lace. 

I fondle the knife in my pocket.  Small and sharp,  I will take my time touching you,  slowly slicing the soft fabric and letting it fall,  enjoying your exposure,  bit,  by bit until it falls in a black puddle at your feet. 

I will touch you, at first as tender as a whisper,  but only at first. 

As my passion rises, I will shed my gentility like a snakeskin and take you like the animal I am inside.  I will make you cry out in pleasure and pain,  and kiss the tears of helplessness as they trace down your cheeks. 

I will force you to your knees violating your tender lips until I am sated,  and then release you to my arms can carry you to bed,  my lover,  my dearest,  my slave. 

Everything

The thing is, I remember everything. Every inch. Every curve. The curl of your lip. The way your nipple rises when I go for seconds. Each little skin tag and mole. The depth and deceptive tightness. The sounds you make when we move to a new speed, a new depth, and fresh helplessness. I remember what I see when you cross the room. I remember how you feel as I lay on you. I remember everything Clothes and time and distance do nothing to blur what I know. You think we are apart now and again. But we are not. Because I remember everything.

Hours

Hours. I can spend hours savoring each square inch of perfection,

made perfect not by popular standards or the right software, but made pefect because it is you.

Time Well Spent

We took the time. So much of it when we could have been doing.

But instead, we chose intimacy first. Time. Spent. Wisely. Learning

Just how much, and how far. How many and how much you believed you could.

What excites you. What scares you and yet still calls, now that you know fantasies happen.

And now, that time behind you, I know just how far to take you, and a bit beyond.

After

After. After he is gone. After the three orgasms. After more than you imagined when you whispered what you wanted, After the amazement and the fear and almost pain of too much pleasure. After the hours of holding in the wake of it all. After you come to your senses and understand just how taken you were, you gather what is left of your clothes and come back. Held. Holding. The softest beg in your voice. "What can I do to thank you?" Yes. You are the perfect lover.