Accepting a Rejected Role

What you see as a hyper-feminine aspiration

Is really a power role for me.

The corset is no longer a restrictive binding of objectification.

I’ve reclaimed it.

I’ve reworked it.

You see, the corset now entices.

But its you who it binds.

And I hold the ties.

Don’t let the look of daintiness fool you.

I can show you a new meaning of powerful

That will hurt you

And exhaust you

And fill you

And leave you begging for more.

Bathtub

I laid myself in the bathtub.

It was full of water.

It was full of blood.

It was amniotic fluid.

Cum, spit, tears, oil.

It was full of life.

Life juices.

I laid myself in the bathtub.

I watched as I made waves.

Rippling as I moved.

Rippling as I breathed.

Air and water.

Moving in and out and in again.

Tracing that ebb and flow.

I laid myself in the bathtub.

Feeling the water touch me.

One moment on the high seas.

Tossing and swelling and rough.

The next like laying at the water’s edge.

Soft.

Just gently lapping.

Fingering.

Tickling.

Teasing.

I laid myself in the bathtub.

I lost myself and found you.

Wet and slippery.

Writhing on top of me.

I found myself and lost you.

Floating there alone.

My hands.

My imagination.

My desires.

I laid myself in the bathtub.

Groaning and shuddering.

Moaning and twitching.

Right down to the last drop.

A bubble circling the drain.

To gasp and lie in release.

Untitled

I see you kneeling there.

Gingerly holding a rope.

Your eyes are begging.

Begging to be given a task.

Inviting pain.

Inviting pleasure.

You ask me to take your clothes from you.

I tell you the undress yourself instead.

As you do, I touch.

And squeeze.

And pinch.

You quiver and begin to breathe hard.

Breathing hard gives way to panting as I cinch a collar around your neck.

A snug collar that has so many promising loops.

Multiple enticing rings.

How fortunate that you brought a rope.

How convenient that just two simple ties.

And well-placed knots can secure you in such a prone position.

Your tender breasts jutting out before you.

Covered in goose bumps.

From the cold?

Or from anticipation?

Hoping to be caressed.

Slapped.

Squeezed.

Paid attention to.

I touch them.

But just long enough to flirt.

Before walking away.

Leaving you whimpering.

Asking me to come back.

Asking me to cum.

To let you cum.

I return.

You don’t know it.

But you can feel it.

The cold metal end of my crop.

Pushing you over.

Sliding over you and the ropes.

A few changes to the knots.

And you are still bent over.

Ass to the air.

Clenching and relaxing.

Waiting for what is about to come.

For the soft slow rhythm of my strokes.

As they crescendo.

And ease off.

To crescendo again.

Leaving a perfect hue of red.

Delicious redness.

A seductive blush.

Hot to the touch.

Of my lips.

A soft nibble.

And there is no question of what I want next.

A moan escapes as I slip into you.

Your eyes wide.

I pull me into you.

I pull you into me.

My hands on your back.

Droplets of blood form.

Where my nails dig in.

Stinging as they dry.

Stinging again as I walk you into the wetness of a shower.

Washing off the blood.

The sweat.

The juices.

Good girl.

Good girl.

The Curse of Dirty Queer

If you read erotica

Chances are you sometimes also write erotica.

And writing takes inspiration.

Inspiration which comes at some odd times.

Some convenient;

Like sitting on the toilet seat.

Or when you are waiting for intermission to end

Or or waiting for the punch clock to read 6pm.

Some times are very inopportune times.

Like when you are talking with your supervisor.

Or or riding your bike.

Or while having sex.

No kidding.

Happened to me once.

Very inopportune.

The ideas, not the sex.

The sex had perfect timing.

The writing did not.

There I was eating out my girlfriend when I got ideas.

Really good ideas.

I had to stop.

“Ooh! I need to write a few lines down!”

I smacked my forehead.

I didn’t just blurt that out loud.

She took it quite well.

“I have a pen down there somewhere.

And and my skin is your paper.

Just dig a little deeper.”

So I did.

But I lost the poem.

Not sure yet if I’m upset about that one getting away.

But yes.

The loss of material is saddening.

This might not have happened to you yet

But it will.

It’s the curse of Dirty Queer.

You get great ideas at the worst times.

My advice?

Next time you get inspiration

Even when you’re with your boss

Just ask for a pen and write away.

I’m sure she’ll understand.

And if she doesn’t?

Just enlighten her.

* wink *

Dirty Queer

I recently have been attending an open mic for queer erotica. By attending, I mean I've been reading at them. Aside from that, though, I haven't know what to do with my poetry. So, I think I'll start posting it on here after its been read. Enjoy.