I Love When One Of My Poems From My Deleted Blog Finds Me.

At Our Best

Every time I see you anew, I am unsure. A tender kiss? A ravaging? Domination or a focus on your beautiful pleasure? At our best, it's all four.

I am slowly finding the poems I lost in the Tumblr purge of my former site.

Serve Me.

Serve me.  Indulge my every whim and desire.  Give yourself to my pleasure,  and I will give myself to yours. 

No Wonder

Even knowing what is about to be done to that mouth yet again, you smile. No wonder I adore you.

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.

A Different Kind of Art.

Stop. Just like that. Let me admire you a moment. Each curve. The position of submission. A moment of perfection before the passion is unleashed and you are made a different kind of art.

The Problem With Fantasies

The problem with fantasies is that I tend to make them realities and you may end up getting exactly what you thought you wanted, whether you wanted it or not.

The Culmination of Assurance

It is the after. After the surrender. The taking. The sweet ravaging with all its pain and desire. After the orgasm. and the next orgasm and the last, forced orgasm, and we are both spent, and we fall together in silken tenderness, so sure of our love we could weep, this, the after, the culmination of assurance.

To The Man Whose Cum is In Her Mouth

You have it all wrong, thinking I have share her with you. Oh no. I have instead gifted her with your cock. A bit of pleasure, different enough to excite her, a fulfilling of her fantasies, with you as the bit actor, large enough, polite enough, willing to follow instructions, able to be watched without wilting, a man who appreciated what she is, from her curves to her breasts, to her uncommon tightness, and of course, her ability to take, even you, beyond her throat. No, she was not shared. What we have goes beyond anything you felt. Trust me. I know. We have done this before with different actors. And we will do it again.

I do not have to tell you how satisfying you were. Her orgasm tells that story. We are both glad you were all you advertised. All you promised. Too many are not. And now, should you see her on the streets of the city, you will know what lies underneath, what it feels like inside her, So tight it is like a fist grabbing and pumping, yet warm and slick and hungry. You will know her throat, all of it. And you will know me, beside her. taking her night after night, feeling all you felt, and more. Feeling the heart that makes her, her. Mine.

No my friend, she was not shared. You were given to her. That, and nothing more.

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.

One of my poems from my deleted blog, found on someone else’s blog.

Wait. Watch.

Lay there.  Wait.  Watch  as I lay things out.  Flogger. Crop. Plug. More.  As I anticipate which pain, and where I will punish you with tonight.  As I anticipate what tender places I will penetrate, with what and how long,  and how hard.  Watch. See my smile.  See my shaft rise,  hard as stone.  Know,  you are mine,  helpless before my desire.