The Problem

The Best of Lessons

It is the best of lessons, the more fucked out I leave you, the more the surrender. the more desperate the need to please. And what man could want more than that perfect desperation from his perfect woman?

Next

Understand this, that even in the every day moments you are the object of my desire, of my imagination and need. Unsuspecting to you, even at a distance I lust, imagining what I will do with you, to you next

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 am slowly finding some of my old poems, and old friends, on Tumblr.

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. 

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!

Worshiped

I know. And you know every flaw I own. But for this moment, you at my feet, draped in lace and gauze, I feel worshiped. Worthy.

Owned

My hands say it. More than my words. More than any title or name. Sure. Confident. You are owned.

Still finding my old poems from my Tumblr deleted site saved by others. Thanks to all of you who reposted them!

Consequences

Blindfolded, you feel more  intensely.  Each caress.  Each tiny pinprick of pain

is distinct from the other. 

Until all subtlety is abandoned and I split you asunder,  losing my control to my passion, 

forcing each cry ripped from your lips,  each one the consequence of your surrender. 

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.

Reminder

Reminder

Every now and then I have to remind you whose mouth it is.

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.