Accumulated

Your mouth opened in surprise when he told you the order for the day. Leaving you no time to prepare your mind, you were forced to your knees and quietly you began.

First, as always was his. The one you are used to and adore. He fills your mouth and your tongue knows every vein, every inch of the velvet pear skin of his shaft.

You cannot ever serve two masters. His cock leads the way, is your lodestar.

Then was the series.

One. You will remember him, for he used a honey almond soap and the smell wafting into your nostrils from his trimmed bush helped you not to cry.

You do not want to do this. But he says do it. And you do.

Two. His cock was weighty, it felt in your mouth you were holding two in mass, not one. You think of him as heavy water.  He must be more than the 5 grams that naturally occurs in us all.

Three. He bruised the back of your throat, for you are not used to suck ing such length. Your think of him as a redwood, growing higher than most.  Your ars burned just as brightly as the red leaves blowing past your windows.

Four. The shame grows.

Five.

Six. Your heart quails.

Seven.

Eight. Your soul has folded upon itself.

Nine.

Then nothing.

Except the labored breath of them all, pulling on their cocks.

Looking at you.

Your eyes are rooted on Him.

He nods.

That tiny nod is your anchor.

You hold onto it, that anchor, as the strained sighs turn to moans which transmute to cries of release.

The lids of your eyes are shutters, covering the world in red filtered light.

Each grunt falling from a pair of lips seems to precede of spurt of hot semen across you face but you lose count of the order.

You imagine the ropes of cum, etching you like glass in an artisan’s workshop.

Finally, your ears pick up the strained breath of final release.

As he forces your mouth open, to take his seed down your throat, you go from feeling dirty to feeling fresh, unsullied.

Your face is coated with the seed of strangers, all for the pleasure of him. Dripping slowly off your chin like candlewax, settling to pool on the upper slope of your breasts.

His murmured praise washes away your worry that he sees you as soiled.

It is enough.

Is it enough?

Curatus

Some go to the gym, the temple where they pray with their sweat and give hot bursts of breath as offerings.

Others go to the docs, slinking onto the soft sofas where anxieties are waved and aired out. Soft clouds of grief and despair float from their lips.

Not you.

You go to her. Drop to your knees.

Waiting, trembling for her to diagnose and solve your ailments.

The smell wafts from her leather boots the sweetest aromatherapy.

Your mind hurts. She slaps your face, grips your jaw and ejects saliva in your eager mouth.

As her spit trickles, as the burn in your cheeks subsides, your thoughts calm.

Your heart hurts. The pinch of the clamps cuts right through your breastbone, warming your chest.

Weights are hung off the ends. Your eyes roll back and your back arches, then relaxes, vertebra licking like coins.

Your soul hurts; is twisted in knots. The gag tightens around the back of your head,  as she pushes you face down.

Like a beast pulling a plow, you are mounted. Whipped. Plugged.

At that moment, you heard a sharp snap.

You are aligned. Whole.

They have their therapy; you have yours.

Doppelganger

You think one thing but your mouth forms another. And your eyes betray the third thought floating.

Liar liar, soul on fire. Burning through abandonment,  caused by your duplicity.

Placing my left hand on your heart, from which all defilement flows, I quickly etch the sign on the skin on your throat.

Your smooth throat. One I used to touch. The conduit that funnels the filth from the cradle of your charred heart and holds it for just a moment, before your mind and tongue subvert it further.

Two simple incisions, blood beading in the wake of my knife. One vertical, one horizontal.

To some the cross saves. But you are not Christ.  For me, it reminds that you are more beast than brethren.

I stare at you, dare you to speak. Speaking is what got us to this point.

Do the tears from your eyes sting the mark that you will wear?

Your innocent throat. Least guilty, bears your shame.

A symbol to all that you are rotten to the core, unclean, a thing to be shunned.

In another time and place, the pure version of you gasps. Stumbling, gripping her throat, eyes blurring with tears of confusion.

hooked

Not well. I am not.

A broken lamp leaking oil. A bulb with only one filament.

I cannot cast light.

I appear as if all is on order.

Pass your hand over me and feel the lack of heat. Notice that I cannot cast your shadow.

***

Words offer no solace. Only dreams of a true past that cannot be maintained.

I wonder if these shiny little beauties, mute but screaming to my ears, can calibrate me, set my balance right.

Will it be enough? Or will I need more, so much more, to refute myself in the night?

Strong hands,  firm lips. warm sweet breath, veins standing out, lean sinew. Not enough, does not reach into me, does not reset my circuitry.

Only the lulling siren of those mute beauties that click in the palm of my hand, boat and winding stream at the same time, can reattach the parts of me and allow me to stay sane.

Stills the roaring of the grief that holds me tight in sharp wicked jaws.

***

I dreamed that a man came, attired so very fine and asked me why wasn’t I dressed to go. Did I miss his call, he asked so gently.

Stepping away from him, I stood where you bed once was, where you used to drop in sleep and screamed that I loved you. Shouted your name once, then once more.

Upon jolting awake, the lack of you settled back upon my chest. But my dry heart only sighed, releasing a puff of dust.

I do not cry in wet. I leak out dry.

Others offer my things, try to distract me, soothe me.

But I am an addict, a true junkie, only for you.

Because of every and all things, I loved.

You.

Inside

You admitted that you tried to break the lock.  You also knew I would be angry, which is why you stopped before it was broken.

You cried but your outward tears are nothing to me. You do not have real sorrow in your heart.

I want your soul to be soaking, salted, with weeping.

Then I will relent.

Only then.