A Different Kind Of Art.

Surrendering

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

Oh I see. Your twitter links are all quite old. I suppose that the belong to the tumblr that was taken from you.

They did indeed. I lost eight years of poetry. And thousands of readers and handful of friends. The friends I have mostly refound. The rest? Ah well.

This time around I did not bother with Twitter. It has become an odd place anyway.

Be well.

Mine. Yours

You give yourself to me,  surrender more than your body,  but your trust as my fingers caress you,  the flat of my palm smooth against your belly,  down,  slowly down,  smiling as your pelvis rises,  smiling at your helplessness,  your legs tied, spread wide,  one arm tied, one free,  the silk scarves soft and strong both,  you are beautifully vulnerable your body alive under my touch as my fingers approach your heat,  as they slide over your swollen heat,  the damp texture of your loins trembling,  as a tease you, tracing the moist slit that presses upward against my hand that rises then pressed against you, finally letting one thick finger slide in, just barely, sliding up towards your clit, finding it, hard and tender as I kiss your neck, 

You reach out in darkness,  the blindfold tight against your eyes.  My fingers probe as your hand finally finds my cock, you grasp it, your fingers tight around it’s shaft just as I plunge my own fingers deep in you. 

“No” I whisper.  “Caress it. Softly.” You cry out as my fingers swirl hard against your clit,  as another hand grabs your breast,  your excitement building, desperately to pump,  to let your hand reflect your hunger. 

“Caress.” I command  and the strain of it, your body now being mauled by my strong hands, while your hand struggles to obey,  softly sliding over my hardness, cups my balls smooth and shaven, so hungry for me,  but obedient, 

My fingers press your clit firmly now,  the rhythm of them back, forth, firm and steady,  savoring your cry, watching your beautiful fingers  slowly, lightly rubbing me as my own hands  take you hard, your soft breast helpless,  your clit enslaved. 

“Mine.” I say softly, but firmly too,  sure of your giving, sure of your body,  certain the first orgasm of the night  teeters on the edge, as your voice,  uintelligible whimplers,  as my hand commands you to slow your touch even as my own speeds up,  presses harder until you cry out,  as your entire body spasms,  lost in sensation,  as your hands abandon me,  and you grasp the sheets in beautiful agony then falls limp, your bruised chest heaving. 

I straddle you and take your hands and place them against my shaft.  “Now.” I say.  “Now pump me. Make me cum white and hot over your breasts.  and I watch your fingers,  your manicured nails as they surround me and gently move, up and down, slow, firm, 

My sigh tells you,  tells you the pleasure that fills me at the sight of you,  of your touch,  of the knowing that shortly my pleasure will erupt and cover you, the beginning of our night.  Yes, only the beginning,  my own helplessness in love,  no less binding  than the silken scarves that bind you and leave you at my mercy. 

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!

As Often

Not every submission is brutal. As often, I simply desire your skin exposed for my caress, in admiration of the gift that is you.

No Idea

I am not sure yet, that you understand just how long I will want you, love you. How many dreams I have of you. How rough, and how tender I want to be with you. How many fantasies, yours and mine both, are left to fulfill. How many times I want to watch you dress and undress. See you naked. See you from across the room and feel my pulse rise. You can not know how many orgasms, all in a day, I plan for you. How many men. Toys. Places. Some of them public. How many nights spent entwined with you I still crave. No matter how long is left for us, I will always want more. You have no idea.

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 Simple Truth

The simple truth is that you are beautiful. Always have been. Always will be. Perhaps none have seen it, too busy with their egos and fears, but that does not change what you are, only how you see yourself.

So let me capture you, with cameras and words, with the soft touch of a lover and the confidence of a man who knows the truth.

The simple truth. You are beautiful.

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. 

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.

The Only Thing I Measure

Forget all they told you. The only thing I measure is how much I love you, how long, and how.