Consent

The Problem With Fantasies

The problem with fantasies is that I tend to make them realities and you may end up getting exactly what you thought you wanted, whether you wanted it or not.

I love it when one of my poems from my deleted blog finds me!

Mad Love

and then you find yourself in that moment of madness when you not sure whether to pull away or press closer,  the pain pleasure,  and the pleasure pain.  Mad love. 

Without a Word

Without a word, you fall into a position I never asked for, never had to, a position you needed to feel and knew, with certainty I would honor.

Hi. I love your poems. And especially the themes that inspire your poems. “To The Man Who’s Cum Is In Her Mouth” is brilliant.

Are you also on twitter?

Thank you for your kind words.

Not any longer. When they canceled the original site, I did not start Twitter up again.

The Simple Truth

The simple truth is that you are beautiful. Always have been. Always will be. Perhaps none have seen it, too busy with their egos and fears, but that does not change what you are, only how you see yourself.

So let me capture you, with cameras and words, with the soft touch of a lover and the confidence of a man who knows the truth.

The simple truth. You are beautiful.

Nothing Close to mine

Dressed less. Showing more each time I take you out. Feeling eyes on you. Feeling the hunger of strange men, rabid, wild, but nothing close to mine.

The Moment You Were Mine

What was done or not done. What boundaries were crossed, and where pain and pleasure merged until each was forgotten, replaced by something more than either, consumption, writhing as one caress built on the next, And then, the perfect, most memorable moment of release.

I still carry that image, your face and soul lost to my touch, mine in the moment. Mine in eternity.

The Danger of Asking

Perhaps you suspected asking was dangerous, but here you are. Collared. Leashed. Blindfolded. In a strange place. Rustling outside the door. Enough to make you wonder. You hear something mechanical and I tell you. The cameras.

You are dressed beautifully. Made up beautifully. Lips perfect. That too will be captured on camera, as will what is left of you, ravaged, cum covered. So much of you taken less like a lover than an object of desire. Yes, everything captured. Start. Finish. And everything in between. Asking was dangerous.

My Greatest Fantasy

It is my greatest fantasy. The one that endures. You wanting to please me like it was the most important thing in the world.

Because to me, it is.

One of my poems from my deleted blog

Trussed

I like you trussed.  Helpless.  Exposed.  Your mind racing at what might be next,  the nature of pleasure,  the nature of pain;  how,  and how long I will take you. 

I like to watch the rise and fall of your chest,  how your breathing increases as I approach,  your eyes darting to my hands.  What are they holding?  What signals do they give you? What are my intentions. 

Your eyes dart as your mind roils and I revel in your gasp at my first touch. 

I like you trussed,  Hanging limp and spent afterwards,  your voice low and raw,  a single line or mascara down your cheek,  your head bowed,  I like the soft whimper as my hands  run up your side, up your back the last time and I cut you loose,  the way you fall into my arms,  Your body spent.  Your mind at rest.  Your soul at peace.