"yanking" poems
**** stitch mitch
had six stitches in his ****
he tried to choke the carrot
but it tore his **** to shreds.
he tried to stitch it up
but the dog got to it,
and buried his **** in the yard
with all the other bones.
**** stitch mitch
kicked his dog to death
and then he drove to the hospital.
now he does talks at catholic high schools.
preaching the danger
of monkey spanking,
chain yanking,
meat beating.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 10:54 PM UTC
i was wrenched from a bed
that was not my own to begin with.
into the sunlight, they dragged me,
hands yanking at my long hair.
i clutched my body.
jaw set, i silently vowed not to cry, to take it
like a woman should – to look them in the eye,
to stand unashamedly in front of my neighbors,
my mother, and my sisters. to stand in front of the town,
and face the inevitable.
the Pharisees threw me to the ground, gave a swift kick
to my side – gentle, compared with what would come.
the women, eyes glossed with icy detest, spat in my face.
*so the ***** has been caught*, they hissed.
But i refused to give them the satisfaction.
i wouldn’t close my eyes during it.
couldn’t.
Jesus, they barked, *we caught her sleeping
with a man she doesn’t belong to*.
you know what to do.
the little children and the rabbi and the mothers
and the sons, they felt the ground
for smooth, heavy rocks.
i bowed my head slightly, as fingers trembled over
new, prune-colored bruises
on my ribs, my stomach.
i unlocked my knees and lifted my chin,
met his eyes.
he paused for a moment, nodded his head slowly.
If you are without sin, please, cast the first stone.
i bit my lip, waited and watched,
squinting in the sunrise.
the Pharisees grumbled, the townspeople eyed me, but said
nothing, until they left, one
by one.
that Jesus, they mumbled,
He’s always finding loopholes.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 4:56 PM UTC
He's pulled the wool over our eyes,
But there's a thread I can yank;
The fabric will unravel;
We will see again.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 10:18 AM UTC
Draped in boundless pride
she strolled along the streets,
the town's flamboyant prima ballerina.
Still little did the debaucher know her.
Defenceless she laid
as he spanked and clouted her,
Her vehement howling and wailing couldn't stop
the yanking of clothes.
Motionless, emotionless she laid
while he plundered and mutilated her body.
Vandalised by an uninvited visitor,
Incapable of moving her body
the ravishing ballerina reclined.
The scars he made was not on her body but deep in her soul.
That gloomy night whistled away
for the sun to flare its first ray.
'18 year old violently molested and deceased'.
Hence the prima ballerina became a mere newspaper headline.
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 12:50 AM UTC
my hair is falling out more--
i don't quite understand why.
could it be the food I've been eating--
or lack thereof.
am i pulling too hard on my ponytails--
or yanking too tightly while twisting my braids.
can it be the stress of my final days of school--
or all the assignments still marked in red.
possibly the ache in my heart for him--
or the rage simmering in my chest.
maybe it's simply symptoms of ***
or just my mind pressing buttons at random.
would it be because of my anxiety flowing over--
or the jitters from my morning cup of coffee.
funny if I've been tearing at my scalp in my sleep--
or clawing the demons from my dreams.
Aug 17, 2021
Aug 17, 2021 at 10:39 PM UTC
Nostalgia
is a poor excuse
for ignorance
yet it pervades
with a tenacity
stemming from fabricated desire
for the smell of ****
we're told
is roses
and it's blasphemous
to question potential "isms"
lurking behind the veil
of Saturday morning cartoons
and black and white family sitcoms.
Yet by the time the sonic *** organs
have lain into us with repressed emotion,
the holy spirit has spilled its ***** in the dirt
to traverse onward floating apparition
out of the room and down the hall
closer towards progress.
and we are left reeling
stumbling into the hallway
buttoning our blouses
and yanking at our zippers
wondering what could cause
such great haste
and we follow blindly
in the wake of the first high
or we turn backwards
and plunge into fading bricolage
as a means to cope
with the rapid and fleeting ***********
of the electric eye
in its shape-shifting pylons and appendages
getting smaller in the naked eye
and gargantuan in the mind.
Clutching our *******
in great amorous heaves
of lust
or donning our father's clothes
in a mask of artifice
and enlightened cultural pretension.
Moaning for the days of youth a week ago,
the epoch squeezed in the space between thumbs,
looking for treasures in the trash
craving something tangible
in an increasingly intangible world.
The semblance of touch lost on a generation
who knows only of emotion through hieroglyphics
and never through direct sensation.
So we dig through the toy boxes
and leave Generation X puzzled
as we dig into their records
in Guns n Roses T-shirts
and high waisted jeans.
We're just looking for an immaculate conception of something palpable.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
open up my lungs,
set the soiled insects free,
the water is boiling,
and the vapor gathers too quickly,
too much.
“we are mortals”
are words no twenty something wants to hear,
i would like to think i’m some greek goddess,
frolicking forever and ever,
loving until i am drained
(but i am already, darling)
once i knew a woman who closed herself up.
i think i am her now,
i see lemon fangs instead of pearly whites.
i seek adventures within myself,
to find roads with tumbleweeds and empty
ideas
i wish i knew how to stop,
because my skin is frayed and tattered,
from your yanking and feeding.
i wish i knew how to be beautiful,
because that is all we want in life,
and i keep looking at my blood vessels,
“beauty”
yet i see none.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
My friend is drowning
Drowning from the inside out in her own sorrow
She splits her skin to let the sorrow flow out of her so for a second
She can breathe
On those days when she can pull herself out of the sorrow all she can feel are rain drops on her beautifully soft hair from her constant rainy day
She believes I’m on the beach livin’ it up
With a Corona in my hand
And lazily holding a hand out for her;
The rain and sorrow has blurred her vision
Because I am in the water with her
Trying to pull her out
But sorrow is a sea monster
Yanking her down deeper and deeper
Into the darkness of her own mind
Where friends equal enemies and parents equal not understanding and they all equal non existent
She closes herself off until the world becomes nothing but darkness filled with predators
When those days come,
I want to be her beacon of light
Like a light house I will stand strong searching the oceans for her
I want her to know when the rainy days come
I will be there
Soaked from head to toe
For as long as she needs me
For as long she wants me
I want her to know that when the clouds wish away
And the sun peaks out
Shining on her beautiful skin
Reflecting in her gorgeous green eyes
That I will turn to her and smile a big Cheshire smile
And I’ll say I love you
And I will never leave you alone on a rainy day
Because we both know rainy days are no fun
Especially when you’re alone.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
Ulrich finds comfort in knowing
he could seek a lethal dose of medication
to hasten his death.
Ulrich was standing
next to the governor on Monday afternoon,
sun pouring in the oaky office,
as he signed
the bill into law.
Doctors and hospitals
and state officials
are scurrying to prepare.
Soon, the state Health Department
will get forms ready.
The lethal medication
is a liquid that the patient must
self-administer.
Hastening death;
akin to
yanking out feeding tubes
and removing respirators,
is not suicide, they say.
The underlying illness
would be listed
as the cause of death.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 11:18 AM UTC
I am nobody,
I am nothing,
I hate me,
this is the truth.
I am the enemy,
my own worst enemy,
I am a victim;
I am a fool.
I am who I am,
a useless man,
I am weak,
I am fearful.
I am rejected,
I have accepted
that I am pathetic,
I am a tool.
Life is pointless,
so very pointless,
until the day I finally meet you.
Then I am able,
so very able
to open my heart and start anew.
I am humble,
I am willing,
I am ready,
to start rebuilding.
I am caring,
I am loving,
I am happy
to say 'I do'.
I am sharing,
my heart mending,
I love me because I love you.
Time passes,
we are fighting,
you get upset and say 'we're through'.
I am checking,
I am questioning,
I am worried,
I can take no more.
You lied to me,
you used me,
I am banging on the bedroom door.
You broke me,
you hurt me,
I break it down and enter with force.
You are screaming,
you are running,
I am about to settle the score.
I am pulling,
I am yanking
on the chainsaw starter cord.
You are crying,
you are begging,
then the engine begins to roar.
I look down and remind you
I am an artist to the very core.
I am sculpting,
I am painting
I am writing,
a metaphor.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 3:58 AM UTC
When you are afraid
It will masquerade
As smiles and nods
There is no escape
If fear is a lier
Yanking my thinnest wire
I am too trusting
Pouring gasoline on the fire
Now I'm shaking to the bone
My feet are made of stone
I'm surrounded by faces
Yet somehow I'm alone
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 11:50 PM UTC
This dog has a death grip on me
This dog,
That use to have fine beautiful coat,
now is matted and flea infested fur
Who use to rule the pack and lead the hunts
is now living off of table scraps
This dog has a death grip on me
The mutt that is kicked and starved,
neglected and used
He lost his love for the moon,
his intimacy with the stars
This is the dog that has a death grip on me
Teeth chipped and broken
can still set deep in
Teeth chipped and broken
need to bite harder yet
To pull him by the tail
is to offer more of the meat on my arm
Yanking on the tail and ears
is provoking redundant mutilation
Because this dog has a death grip on me
Because this dog has a death grip on me
I look up to the moon
And cry silently to the stars
Jun 21, 2010
Jun 21, 2010 at 12:07 PM UTC
You three believe in creating scarcity,
NOT union.
You build HOV lanes for your luxury cars,
caring less how efficient they are.
They roll royce cross your game board,
fuming trails of money.
Bell Atlantic bought Madison Avenue,
you bought all the properties.
Now tenants can't avoid
the traffic or the noise
of an internet rolled in palms
and diced
spiraling
to speed limits
...
...
...
...
and red highways
...
...
...
...
and orange traffic cones that
block hybrid cars,
already swerving
to avoid bankruptcy.
We
STOP
the
STOP
people
STOP
moving,
our preamble crumbles to a
STOP,
becoming a eulogy —
an ideal dumb to power trippery,
after Time Warner and Comcast merged,
allies on opposite sides of the game board.
Verizon, Comcast, AT&T;
together you own pretty much
everyone but Fox and Disney,
(yet have invested in them heavily).
Verizon, Comcast, AT&T;
your oligarchy is
NBC, Universal, CNN, Warner Brothers,
and now FullScreen,
family-friendly nepotism
that inbreeds bearing
deaf drones bored of flying,
over
Why Beyonce is a Feminist.
or
Why Ferguson was racist,
media's offspring
just keep clicking,
the headline genocide victims
basking in concentrated lamps
for a sliver of attention.
Verizon, Comcast, AT&T;
Now you want the backend buffering,
bulging eyes and emptying pockets
of those Spocked into believing,
hyperspeed was ever necessary.
No choice when the exits are slow
and there are no backroads.
Verizon, Comcast, AT&T;,
offspring of the
Bell Atlantic Company,
we will not let your
****** populate the internet.
Call it Capitalism,
but your playing Monopoly,
yanking the carpet underneath
to the wood of Tyranny.
You shamed
Bell's invention
by stringing together
telephone
internet,
and
entertainment companies
until you could be lazy.
Monkeys who spent millions
to shriek at government parties
about the communication machine,
a system downloaded so slowly,
we
did
not
act
on
cons
piracy
theories,
when Amazon made online shopping so easy.
Dear Internet Service Providers,
so called ISP's,
WE ARE DONE playing Monopoly.
Our collective voice
will shout blasphemy
on your streets,
hashtagged
net neutrality,
till you're counting pennies.
So empty your Washington banks
cause it's 3 a.m. and
no ONE is winning.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
my lungs are full of water
i know I'm drowning but I'm trying not to be an inconvenience
my throat is stuck and i can't sleep at night
my anxiety is yanking my hair out
and my headaches are breaking my bones
and i am trying not to be an inconvenience
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 1:31 AM UTC
even though
I so can’t wait
to **** this town
I know I’m supposed to
Be Here Now
I often detest
knowing everyone
and everyone also
knowing each other
craving the anonymity
of unfamiliar places
new spaces, discovery
coasting below radar
of expectations
of history
of who I
used to
be
every day
every drive
every place I go by
is dusted in memories
or rote routine
either yanking on
my heart strings
or lulling me into
monotonous sleep
but maybe
those two things
are just what I need
an ever-present challenge
to stay alert and in heart
remember the who
I was before
while becoming
the who I am
going to be
and if I can stay awake
clear, centered, grateful
to the new-now me
here, where it’s all so
seemingly same-old
I can do it
anywhere
so maybe
my problem is really
a perfect opportunity
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 2:04 PM UTC
A man with a big black eye strides down the street
People nearly come to a full stop when they pass him
The man keeps walking, head up, confident as can be
People whisper and stare, some even point
"Wonder what happened to him," one man whispers to his girlfriend
"He probably deserved it," the girlfriend says
Yesterday, the man came home from work
He didn't have a black eye then
He loosened his tie and made some coffee
And his cell phone rang so he picked it up
"Michael, you have to get over here," the desperate voice breathed
So Micheal put down his mug, grabbed his keys and rushed out the door
When Michael got to his destination, he rushed to the front door and knocked on it
He knocked and knocked but no one answered
Then he heard the screaming
So he lifted his foot and kicked the door in
His girlfriend was screaming
Her ex-boyfriend had apparently decided to pay her a visit
Her ex was a big guy, tattoos littered his massive arms
And he had Michael's girlfriend by her hair, yanking her down, dragging her around
Michael quickly approached, the ex swung his elbow around
Smacked Michael's eye and Michael hit the ground
But when Michael got back up, he brought with him his own limbs
And struck his girlfriend's ex until he no longer knew the meaning of sin
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 8:00 AM UTC
The train pulled into the station
It was the beginning years
The days were not my own
Her, yanking my arm as we boarded
Me, following unsteadily down the row
Hers, the only seat available
Something to be shared
Something to be taken
The sounds of the engine and passengers
Giving me hope for more
My purpose and destination unknown
The train pulled into the station
It was the young years
The days were meant to be savored
Me, ravenous for freedom
Her, a haunting presence
Something to avoid
Something to push to the future
My seat by the window, roomy with possibilities
Giving me hope for more
My purpose and destination are mine
The train pulled into the station
It was the middle years
The days were lived for others
Me, dragging myself aboard
Her, a presence in a crowded aisle
Something to hide from
Something to question
The window frosted over, hiding the passage of time
My purpose and destination traded away
The train pulls into the station
It is the golden years
The days and story my own to reclaim
Me, climbing aboard, prepared and vigilant
Her, diminished but unforgotten
My seat fully my own
Some stories to be shared
Some spirit to be rekindled
The sunset out the window, guiding the autumn of my life
My purposes and destination lighting the open road ahead
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 2:17 PM UTC
Walk into the auditorium just to see the band on stage…
I swallow my spit,
my nerves,
and my pride.
Oh, you are talented, dear,
Because I sit between two of my best friends, and yet,
I feel completely alone in this room full of people.
Because the only things I see are brown hair and a gray shirt.
Because all I am aware of is your goofy grin and saxophone, and
The way your lips part when you laugh still makes my heart shiver.
I’m begging just to see your face once.
To be reminded of the way that lights make your eyes
Look different every time,
Picking out the specks of blue, green, and gray
As if your irises were a kaleidoscope…
My mind suddenly feels perceptive of every emotion,
And from across the stage and stadium seats,
I feel your eyes avoiding mine,
But I cannot break this cold stare of heartbreak
And the needles that caress my spine.
Although my brain is unwelcoming,
Memories are flooding my head…
Reminding me that once, you held me close,
Telling me things I shouldn’t have believed,
Holding my hand
Telling me I’m not damaged
Inviting me into your world
Reassuring me it was okay
And yanking it all out from under me.
And everyone stands for the convocation,
I’m thanking the stars for this opportunity,
Because right now it’s socially acceptable.
It’s okay that I stare at you and let my heart beat fast,
Because you are on stage,
And I’m just one in the crowd.
But I always was, wasn’t I?
Just another one in the crowd?
Another float in your parade of heartbreaks.
It’s okay, my heart is mended,
Please, just look my direction…
My mind is not sure of anything,
But everything else is,
Because we finally just made
Eye contact.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
I walked in, careless,
to my ankles.
It seemed all right.
the water licked smooth,
around my lower bones.
the tickle of cold
the bump of rocks
silty sand,
squishing up into
the spaces around my arch.
another step, and the pull.
the tease of the tide, lap-lapping
like a hungry feral kitten at found milk.
the snickering of the current
told little lies to my calves
about the depth and its strength
seducing and tugging.
Comecomecomecomecomecomecome
I looked upriver. Dark sunk
into the trees.
Crows sailing up, over the line of evergreens.
Solid.
I awoke suddenly from my murky forward-trance.
Halting my progression.
In over my knees.
Violently chilled.
Clarity dissolved upon my senses,
Remembering my native element,
I spoke my rejection to the liquid Rake.
'This is not my place.
as long as I have breath.
and I will not lie with you upon your bed.
You have no thumbs, for coffee,
you have no heart for truth, although
secrets, of this, I am sure you hold, many.
No mouth for reading,
and trust-
I already have circling my finger,
and am tied in my heart, to one with eyes and lungs.
Some marry the sea, but I have married a Man.'
So I placed my heel behind my shoulder,
yanking hard against the rules of the moon,
up-tripping
backwards across sudden boulders.
Feeling the sick squirm of a game
almost lost,
a hallucination perhaps of-
the gurgle of a defeated laugh
chasing me back to the bank
I pushed away.
On the shore, damp-dry grass of another month
lay beneath my feet
The River showed me shimmering calm.
nature just nature again-
a vast. sleeping creature with no possible interest in Eve. but
From the droplets of water on my legs dripped a separate truth.
I turned away from the leaves and fish.
drying and donning shoes.
And went all the way back
a Flower still,
to The Land.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
She was a beautiful mess,
Yanking out her auburn hair in distress.
The agony had her heart aching,
Her frail structure shaking.
She was a beautiful mess,
Wishing she had never confessed.
Sure she was rough around the edges,
But she stayed faithful with her pledges.
She was a beautiful mess,
Telling herself she was worth less.
Her amber eyes were now puffy,
Her tomato red nose completely stuffy.
She was a beautiful mess,
But the truth was she had been confused nonetheless.
She knew she deserved better than him,
And determination surged into her with a whim.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
Twisted around your finger tightly
Master, schooled in the art of manipulation
Do they had out degrees for that?
Many victims fell before me
How many will follow?
You play the wounded soul so well
Drawing the adulation of hapless idiots
Professing empathy and compassion
With a heart void of any sincerity
Emotional vampire, leaching attention
Savoring the taste of ultimate control
Puppeteer, yanking fragile life strings
Of a frantically dancing marrionette
Its face contorted in a rictus of pain
Till you tire of the pathetic show
And drop it like a bag of old bones
Thus satisfied,
Walk away looking for the next dummy
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC
There will come a day,
probably a Tuesday,
you'll be hoeing and
yanking yellow weeds
by the handful, the
sun in the center of
the sky; Or you'll
be climbing through
your lover's window
while her husband
unlocks the front door,
thinking to yourself,
"Jesus, we didn't
even do anything
today. Just gave
her her insulin shot,"
and your heart
no longer pumps
so much as begs,
begs for silence,
but that's funny,
isn't it? because there
isn't any sound,
only the perceived
dissonance of a
scattered mind;
But maybe, if you're
lucky, it'll be at night,
the two of you in bed,
and she'll timidly ask
if you're hungry,
and you'll say what you
always say to that question:
yes, yes I am, and she'll
ask if you want a sandwich,
and you'll say, "I'll get it."
"You're too sweet."
"It's not a problem."
After spreading the mustard,
there'll be a pain in your chest,
mild at first, just at first, but by the
time you get halfway down the
hall you'll drop the plate
of sandwiches on the floor
and ***** in the toilet,
and you'll probably know
then what's happening;
But what did you ever do
to earn that kind of quiet,
relatively quiet, ending?
You've got a few things in mind,
but you've got a few more bad that
negate any kudos any kind
of god would award, so
let's be honest. That's what
you want, right?
Death will wake you up,
probably around 6 because
you've never been a morning
person, and when you wake
it won't be from a feeling, like
a physiological manifestation,
no, no that'd give you time
to remember Mom in the
hospital when she called
you by the wrong name.
No, Death will come in
the form of a headache,
and if your wife was
there she'd already be up,
and she'd say something
like: "Poor baby," and
get the Tylenol out of
the cabinet to the left
of the sink for you,
but she's not there, is she?
No, she's living with her
sister right now while
you "figure yourself
out" and your
kids, two boys and a girl,
all grown with families
of their own, think you've
been selfish, but what was the
word you countered with?
"Necessary." Yes, it's necessary,
you'll think as you pop three pills
in and run your mouth under the
facet, and you'll collapse, pills
rolling across the floor, stopping
under the cabinets where no one
will ever find them. Your vision
will burn white; it won't fade to black
like you thought, and your head, Jesus,
your head sounds like tools in a dryer,
but you know there is no sound, and
this is it, this is honestly it, you alone
on the floor in nothing but your
grey boxer shorts, the ones riddled
with holes that your wife told you to throw out,
and a fragmented halo of Tylenol around you.
Your wife. Your wife. Your wife. Your wife.
You'll say her name, you'll say "Eve,"
and your mouth will close itself, and your
fist will unclench itself, and you know what?
That'll be it, to borrow a phrase. Nobody
will find you for three days, and even then,
when they do, they'll wish they never had.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
.
Light sparkles in the clover,
Yellow and blurr of bees
Are honeyed in the sun
And robins have come,
Yanking in the gasses,
So green is the moisten
Of the painting of the dew
And all is lolling in petrichor,
The soils running with slow
Time so shortly experienced,
Oils of wood permeate the air,
Lapping brooks bream into light,
The loft kestrel swirls in meadow
And chipmunks scuttle at base of tree,
Even the wind does freshly quiet, crisply,
There as a hug waiting for body and spirit,
Patches of white are disappearing, they know—
That one day we must all return, after winter snows.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC
Many houses have been cleaned on ***** window routes
Terraced rows and bungelows and other glass recruits
Customers of differant types some casual, some suits
Pleasent ones and lovely ones, some of them fun hoots
One window shined, revealed behind someones bathroom door
An awful sight giving us a fright, more than we bargained for
We went to clean it was abscene, that horrible thing we saw
Showing his snake was it a mistake, or was he just a *****
Every time we went to clean situations would get worse
We didn't want to catch a glimps, of his ****** immerse
A naked burden it bacame, why was he so perverse
***** windows should remain to conceal that bathroom curse
The anxiousness we both felt, how low he always sank
Unwanted sightings of body flesh and yanking on his plank
Disgusting ways of a deprived mind, so very dark and dank
***** windows are one thing, but not when you ******* ****
We did not want to ascend, with each ladder run to climb
knowing what awaited us we didn't want to see his slime
That bathroom window was regular, he did it every time
His kind of antics should be re-classed as a life of grime
We're not interested in plonker pulling a real discusting stunt
Nakedness we don't want to see, or a nasty shiveled front
Your ***** windows are to much so we will both be blunt
Keep your wanking to yourself and **** off your ***** ****
We don't care how many times, or how much you try
There is no necessitation to see your small **** eye
Confess your sins and tell your wife and don't you effing lie
That you've been bathroom wanking and flashing your cream pie
We told him we're not cleaning, when he dosent wear a stitch
And because he had to ******* **** and treat us like his *****
We're not your pleasure ****** when you've got that certain itch
Your ***** windows we wont clean when your mind is in a ditch
It's time us girls said goodbye you've made us ******* cross
Window cleaners we may be but your not our wanking boss
So now we're gone and you know why, my friend it's adios
And all because you had to flash and have a bathroom toss
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 6:27 AM UTC
The silky touch of flesh against the rough texture of leather
The exotic smells of *** mingled with fresh candles
The pale *** unmarked so different
Than the well marked ***
A cane with a wicked whish falls across porcelain skin
The cries of pain, anguish, despair
Actually in reality are cries of pleasure, need, and desire
No No she cries when her body says YES! YES!
Writhing against binds that hold her
The muscles strain against the ties
Pulling against them as the cane continues to mark her fine flesh
Straining for release
But afraid to release
The Man’s firm touch demanding nothing yet everything
Whish
Whisp
Whish
Nice stripes across the ****** ***
Lovely welts of color across the thighs
Well placed marks
The girl dazed as the moisture drips from her ****
Unable to stop the bodies response to this brutality
Her mind fighting it over and over
Her body relishing it like a wonderful spa treatment
The cane firm as the girl fights
Whish
Whish
Whack
Each mark landing in that one particular spot untouched
The feelings building inside
Hotter, oh god so hot
Panting through the pain yet the immense heat exploding within
Twisting, pulling, yanking on the binds
Feeling the pressure growing moving to the edge
Eyes closing as the well placed marks continue to thrash her flesh
The cane moving to another spot
The rigid ******* then the dripping ****
Sliding the cane back and forth
Back and forth against that swollen ****
Finally submitting to the fires that burst free all at once
Screaming out as the desire bursts free
FREEDOM!!!
Body jerking with intensity of the ******
Body on fire from the stripes of the vicious cane
Crying out as spasm after spasm soars through her aching body
Tears fall from the overwhelming emotions that rage within her head
His hands smoothing the tears away as He cuts her down
Carrying her to the bed
Cradling her through the turmoil
Always there for questions
He is there for her fears
And most of all there to heal any wounds
Thank You Master for freeing me
Thank You Master for showing me just how ****** I am
Thank You Master for all that You teach me
His hands begin to explore her striped flesh
Pinching the stripes until she is once more putty in His artful hands
Crying out for more
Begging and pleading to pleasure Him
His whisper reaches her ears
My pleasure love is seeing you let go
Seeing you surrender your all to Me
Show me
Let it go
Give Me it all
And of course she did over time
then time
and time again
Written By: Niyahlove aka niyah2 All rights reserved
Mar 9, 2010
Mar 9, 2010 at 4:38 AM UTC