What bonds bind my wrists
if not your words
that drip in heat of kiss
on naked flesh,
making of me a willing cohort
in your wicked game.
For once this rope
sang out in schoolyard rhyme
now echos screams in pleasures pain
as wooden handles held in sweating palms
now trace the heat of inner thigh.
The roughness
of well worn weft on silken skin
biting deep as bodies writhe
skipping to a new and frantic beat
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 3:42 PM UTC
What bonds bind my wrists
if not your words
that drip in heat of kiss
on naked flesh,
making of me a willing cohort
in your wicked game.
For once this rope
sang out in schoolyard rhyme
now echos screams in pleasures pain
as wooden handles held in sweating palms
now trace the heat of inner thigh.
The roughness
of well worn weft on silken skin
biting deep as bodies writhe
skipping to a new and frantic beat