Let my hands do all the talking.
My long nails dig into the skin on your back,
Creating red lines of passion.
You let out a soft moan and begin to say something.
My hands move to your neck, my fingers wrap around and squeeze tightly;
My mouth presses against your ear,
"I said let my hands do the talking".
As I am there, my teeth gently caress the edges of your ear, sending goosebumps all over your body.
I make my way slowly down your neck to your collarbones, kissing every inch. You go to let out another whimper, my hand covers your mouth.
I continue traveling down your chest, my tongue leads me closer and closer to your hardened cock.
My hand grips the base of you. I glide my fingertips up and down the shaft, teasing you... is what I do best.
Pre-cum drips down. I lick it off slowly, never forgetting to look straight into your dark brown eyes.
Your head falls back. Your hand moves from the bed sheets to the top of my head, tangled in my mess of hair.
You push down on my head and your cock is sliding down my throat. I choke and gag, "Now that your mouth is full... it's my turn to talk."
Commanding and adept your hands guide mine alone supple lips.
She tastes of cinnamon.
She squirms but can not move.
She is not afraid.
Our hands grasp her neck.
Tonight she belongs to us
With every gasp she moans.
My mouth is quivering, thinking about tasting her.
I search for her thighs from my satin darkness.
They are warm, wet, and inviting like the ocean
she tastes of salt and sunshine.
My tongue glides over her vagina , slowly, tenderly as our body heat rises and
then crack goes the cat o' nine.
She can not breathe and I can not see yet there has been no greater ecstasy.
Withering, withering, withering down.
A spiral of emptiness and weakness in my own heart.
A sickly form of hate.
A frail figure of shadows and misery and memorie.
O! and what is the field of golden corn compared to the bruise on your throat.
Choked by the dominatrix of godliness, when she is called life///when she is called death.
Forced to spit out your last drop of blood, through your pharynx///through your eyes.
Sexually with the knife in hand. Like stone to butter, stabbing within the heart of the devil. Like the beast with three cocks, who carries the devil in his sinful testicles...you stab stab stab at the flesh of your own chest.
No hair after the fire, no blood after the lust.
The sexuality which assaults YOUR OWN SANITY. It becomes you.
Withering and withering within the HELL of your own spiral.
O! and when are you to become the devil within the sac of the beast?
To be born and reborn again within the light of the sun.
Burning away in a pool of blood that you craved forever.
Burning back together in a pool of semen that you craved forever.
O! and who are you when you are left naked and alone by your own hand in a pool of hate that you craved forever, I asked myself.
In the inky darkness around the bed,
you lit a cigarette next to me, while
I followed the orange glow with dozy eyes.
Kissing me after, with a smoker's mouth,
somehow, the coppery smoke tasted sweeter on your lips
than on any of the others' and we fell into fitful sleep,
your unknown body molten against mine.
In the morning I left,
strangely smug at my non-achievement,
and walked home in yesterday's clothes,
in heels that moulded to last night's blisters.
Unsure of etiquette, sure in my autonomy
I left nothing: no name, no number.
But as I sit here, a part of me is missing -
never too old for naivety, I thought we had
both taken what we wanted in equal parts.
But, as I desperately try to assemble the jigsaw
and piece together the features of your face,
while your far-off foreign accent melts in my mind,
I realise just how wrong I was.
Lion and antelope, we brawled as predator and prey.
You were animalistic, I was weightless.
Carnal, instinctoid, this was base; there was nothing more
to drag it into the fiction we write ourselves
to make the act seem less debauched. Unfazed,
by my predatory friend-or-foe, I did not try to run,
did not play dead, but played the game that nature
wrote, and acted out my part,
as you devoured me from the inside out.
The undeniable exquisite pain
The undeniable exquisite joy
Of the cruel touch of a Lady
Who treats me like her toy
Her plaything, her dog.
Baby, I'll beg and steal
To be at your heel I'll wound and kill.
Ah, my goddess
My crown of thorns.
Grant me absolution, I beg of thee
its nice to be in shape
ive frequented gyms
i like nice bodies
to often though
thats where nice
self admiring gym gods
squeeze out their last
in the theater of
a public exhibition
of self aggrandizement
while the lost
who fear being objectified
wana be icons too
magnets of adoration
unable to imagine
that their imagine-less
waxed bleached buffed
by group think
desolated hungry women
by the direct approach
of the blood hot glance
liking to believe its their mind
that should excite
testosterone soaked men
these young women
pretending not to care
and show their
come fuck me daddy
tears of desire
dreaming of the one
turning down the fleshy offerings
with eyes that say
i don't think so
for fear of being called a whore
in Mannequin World
The rush of adrenalin courses through me
Whenever we touch or kiss
It's the utmost bliss
Aren't our souls intertwined?
Eros is passionate and vibrant
When I can feel you inside of me
Aria transcends into bel canto ascending soprano
Heavenly music fills the air composed of body heat and skin
If this is living in pure sin, then gladly I play the role of sinner!