I walk through the fields, the soil so soft beneath my feet.
I see them; tender sprouts, little furled buds.
Over them, I stand. Dress lifts, thighs flex, pelvis tilts.
My piss -nectar as the fools refer to it-flows, to moisten the earth.
The flowers need water or they will not thrive.
like dominoes, like discarded dolls, they are scattered at my feet.
propre moi…
eigenen mich…
δικό μου…
and even him:
собственные меня.
I step past them over them, through them.
For now I too, have a request.
Directed towards someone else.
Dishes are in the sink, dirty glasses from last night’s dinner are scattered across the table.
Laundry is piling up. The plants are screaming out for water.
Nothing matters right now but your neck. Long, sensuous, sinewy, just broad enough. the skin so silky to the touch.
under my tongue, I feel your pulse quicken, as I mount you and exhale your name.
Lost
We both were. Drowning, gasping until we sighted each other and began to swim.
Frozen, we clung and struggled to shore, wanting life.
Stumbling, we found shelter and warmed each other in the night.
Wicked
The women that want you, the men that call to me.
The way you make me feel. The fire that I set in your chest.
How much I yearn and twist in my bed for you, unconsciously.
Depraved
Your sharp teeth on my shoulders, nipples.
Your violation every secret crevice of my tender flesh.
The way I screamed for more when you stopped.
The problem with kinky men is that they often do not listen. Or read. They just feel and act-a typical male reponse, in most cares.It can be irritating when it comes to me form a kinky man who claims he wants to be submissive.
Lately, too many men t mention have decided that they should play fast-and-losse with my preference for the nude male body.That is what is most appealing to me about a man-his nude, lean, sinewy body. The interplay of muscles against skin.
I am not aroused by a man in pantyhose, lingerie, wigs or makeup. If I want a woman, I can get one.
I do understand humiliation and there are myriad ways to crush someone under my heels that do not involve a trip to the lingerie chest.
Really. Not joking.
Believe it or not, I am not here to fulfill fantasies and get anyone off. If a man wants to please me, he needs to work towards that, not turning me into a sexual projection screen.
The next time a man tries to model his so-called fetish for me, I am going to do my best to stuff that item up his ass.
Not in a good sexy way, either.
Dirty, dirty you are.
I don’t like it when you come to me, dirty and filthy.
I must slap your face. Again. Again.
I take lipstick and wrote on your forehead the word of what you are: unclean.
The bright red shone in the clear bright light of the bathroom.
Hands behind your neck, you kneel-silent, chastened.
I stand. Soft hiss of breath.
Your forehead touches the floor.
Easily, the nozzle goes into you.
I watch you flinch, the interplay of muscles and skin, as you are filed with hot soapy fluid.
Soon, you can’t wait. the pressure is exciting yet dreadful.
Face redder than the words on your face, you sit, eyes filled with tears, lips trembling.
The sound of your shame echoes in that small chamber.
Relieved, you gasp.
Only to look up at me.
Which elicits a different type of gasp.
Not at my expression.
But at the size of the cock I am holding in my hands.
For you.
You.
Once dirty, now clean.
They have you to thank.
For every foul word that flows into their ears, for every drop of vitriol and humilation heaped upon their bowed heads.
I cannot hurt you; I am under mandate.
No orders have been given about them.
I can make peace with my discontent through abusing them.
When I so deeply want to punish you.
Not with you.
I am here because of you.
Therefore, I am only be hard, harder than grief, harder than sorrow, with you.
“Where are you now, you bitch?” Normally, his voice thrills me. Not now.
“Where are you, with your nasty mouth?”
“Answer me.”
“At home. Just got in.”
“You should be here.
“Where? With you?”
“Right under my desk with your lips wrapped around my cock.”
Words escape me, so I only offer silence. I look to the sky, for strength.
The strength of your will
causes me to collapse flat
obliterated neatly.
Your cock gushes forth
the true font of life itself
sustenance of my very soul.
Desire for you burns
enveloped in quick hot flames
you ignore my plea.
You wear me down. Your tools are your mind, your will and your cock.
But you used a new tool on me last time-your hands.
As you took me, you rubbed away my skin, until I was raw and bleeding. Your hands turned into blades that took just another thin layer of my skin, with every pass.
My neck, my shoulders, my back, my hips. Even the soles of my feet did not escape unscathed.
In your attempt to mold me into something else, you only make me into more of what I am.
After you were done, I saw the marks of your passion.
You pressed me into the ground. You cock went into me and I dissolved.
As I stared in the mirror, I figured it out.
The bruise between my breasts was the outline of my crucifix.
You wrapped your scarf across my mouth, tying it neatly behind my head.
I could pick up the smell of your cologne, a tinge of sweat, and the bitter cold wind that brought you to me.
I wonder if my screams are now part of the fabric. I yelled with all my might, into that piece of cloth, while you penetrated me and took out your aggression from a long day.
When you touch it, do you hear my cries?
You have always come at me with ferocity. I think you have only been tender and sweet once, but every other thing since that day.
I think you want to erase me, to hollow me into a thin shell and fill me with you. Not a puppet but a possession, another skin perhaps.
You use your fingers, elbows, knees, tongue, cock and words.
But I am not the Virgin, and you, fragile mortal man, are not the Sprirt. She could say ” be it unto me as Thy will”, and receive Life.
If I dared say that to you, I will be obliterated, neatly and easily.
You only give certain parts of yourself to me. Your rage and desire are offered easliy. Such is the case for your frustration and pain.
I want one thing from you now. It requires me to let you abuse my flesh and wound my soul
I have been lucky at times, for it only took a few minutes to ease it out of you. But most of the time, it takes hours. Carefully chosen words, indelicate phrases, lengthy descriptions.
The precise ministrations of my mouth on every part of you, from your tender soles to your pale scalp.
You always break at the end, as the release you receive pulls on your entire being.
I tell you to spill your seed on me because it turns me on. In fact, I just enjoy the quick death of a million potential replicas of you, bits and irreplaceable pieces of your unique code lost forever.
As I wash your fluids off me, in a small way, I am erasing your imprint on my heart.
You once grabbed my holy water bottle and asked if I really believed it had all the so-called special abilities. I said yes, with a hiss, as I reached for it.
You stepped away, and a strange gleam came in your eyes, as you flicked the cap open
I stiffened, because I had a clear and cruel idea of what was next.
You shook a few drops out on your pale fingrs, and directed the drops to my breats. I was immobile, as I was not the one with the demon raging inside.
Loking at the drops on my skin, you leaned forward and licked them gently. Looking at me, you sprinkled more drops directly on my nipples, which hardened in your mouth. I felt good yet bad, as you suckled.
Moving your mouth up to my ear, you then whispered, ” spread your legs”. I hesistated and stared. But I took too long, for your hand snaked up and slapped me. The sharp crack prompted me to obey.
I wad slick and shven, but you have another purpose. Twisting the cap entirely off, you pour the contents over my mound. I threw my head back and looked at the ceiling, half-expecting it to open and fall upon my head.
But it didn’t, the only thing that happened was your voice ringing in my ears, as you said, ” this ia my altar, you are the place where I worship and find salvation”
Your tongue delved ino me and I floated, until I shuddered.
Later, you said the water had a slight salty taste.
When I walk away from the altar, I am full. Satiated upon the body and blood of the Almighty, who has come to us in the form that we can comprehend with our fragile minds.
As I approach you, you seek to defile me, to erase Him and replace HIm with yourself. You can barely stand to touch me at those times, because after my time with Him, I glow with goodness and promise.
The more time I have spent in prayer, the stronger your urge to desecrate me. and I feel it, this almost unholy need to cleanse me of the taint of sanctity.
You command me to kneel and taste of your flesh, to consume the god of my earth. Your cock is hard as the marble statues in the church. I eat and eat until you reward me with water and milk, which flows from you, as His Blood once did upon that accursed tree.
Flesh of His flesh, blood of His blood, I am with Him and will live eternally.
What do you offer me? How can you take me away frrom this place of death?
