beauty poetry women

Better For Their Creation

These hungry silences

Do not falter

Yet here, strengthening by action

And although there are fine words

A touch, an act of service

Mutual intermingling

Time, space, mutable as kissing

Pin you down and exorcise

Your fear with my fuck

Laugh eat and conquer

Come to me

I offer the play and the seeds

Have sunk roots

My adventures blossom

A quest into ashes

Found gold in these scars

Touch them

Better for their creation

beauty poetry women


What flavour of

Thought am I

To you

Copper and sanguine

Sweet and intoxicating

Those points

Where the promise of my

Fingers reduces you

To prayer

As i bloom

In your imagination

The rough reality of me

Falls before nothing

No one

Call my name

Taste my own thoughts




beauty love poetry women


Still burning

The chill breeze

Makes my flame waver

But nothing




love lust poetry sex women

to be broken in a perfumed garden

I want

To break you

Not from cruelty

Or weakness

But from a want

Strong as gravity.

Even in passing,

The urge you inspire

Makes my paws heavy

Ready to grasp you close

Pull your hair,

Tease and dishevel you

A rambunctious glorious play.

Belly laughter and bruises,

Red stripes of flesh like tiger markings,

To test and push,

And all of it makes a sense which

Sits quiet and patient,

Alongside the sweep of conversation,

The poetry of silences

Which express the all,

Baby girl,

I appeal not to reason,

But to the storm,

The raging ocean,

The roaring animal

Which lives in the perfumed garden

Of your flesh

Yet I know the joy

Of your smile taking wing

And brightening the air

Around me.

beauty love poetry Uncategorized women

rain of my attention

Beneath the actions,

The calm authority with which

I conduct myself,

The supple confidence

Which comes from being

Unencumbered by restlessness

Some part of me reveals itself

Rough hands made delicate

Deep, gruff voice softened

Into chuckles

Trained but not domesticated

My words are cool sips

Smoothing out into bursts of warmth

And each time I enter the room,

It becomes the first time,

And a rush of adolescence


Like the building of static

Before a storm

And you dance in the rain of my attention

The ribald peals of laughter

Ringing like church bells

And this, the closest

I’ve come to knowing faith

Makes me feel

As close to salvation

As I’m likely




beauty love lust poetry sex women

A Deep Kiss

oh how

My will

Seeks expression

Through your flesh

My lips

And tongue would

Kiss my intentions

Into the damp, warm

Places of you

Drink each glistening


My hands would

Compose hymns

To the divine

With each pinch


Sliding them slow

Exploring the 

Throb of your 

Need and calling

It into the air

With my body

And it’s rough


I would gently


Redraw the boundaries

Of your soul’s


For love

To match the beauty

That draws out the

Beast within

And all his

Rapacious poetry

beauty love men poetry women

Vicious Angels

We are atoms

In collision


Through it all

I feel you

As I go about my purpose

Through pain and hunger

Late into the night

Even as disaster looms

Like vicious angels

I remain


And in this

You surrender

Gentle animal

Kind to everyone

Implicit strength

Leaner now

But still

Tuned into

The symphony of you

I hear it

Can pluck it from silence

No matter how hard

You may try

Tear down

Or build

When it comes to you

All the same

Isn’t it?

Now shut up and come here

I want you to feel me

With a force I’m not sure

Wouldn’t leave marks

beauty desire dominance emotion empowerment erotic writing erotica experience fiction hunger love lust passion pleasure seduction sensuality sex sexuality short fiction Uncategorized women writing

An Afternoon’s Appointment (NSFW)

You arrive at 1500, on the dot. You let yourself in, wearing the uniform as discussed, woefully impractical for the task but that is part of the appeal. He sits at the table, working on a legal pad, dressed in a crisp white shirt and jeans, faded to white at the knees, snug and broken in as a mother’s nipple. His feet are bare and he writes without looking up.

You do the dishes, picking up the mug he takes his morning coffee in. Your hands are wet and you watch him. His expression of determined focus makes your desire take wing, it’s feathers tickling as it travels up your spine. He does not acknowledge your presence, although he is unfailing in his manners with you. You are watching him when you lose control of the handle and the cup drops from your wet fingers.

His chocolate brown eyes spark with interest and you blush, apologising and shaking your head. He sets his pencil down onto the pad and asks you to come over to him.

Your knees are hollow, and your thoughts lose coherence in a rush of anticipation. It is a game, and also utterly, ridiculously real to you this is. You’re apologising until the words are a babble and he smiles, indulging you. He raises his hand and you stop.

‘Sit down.’

You pull out a chair and he shakes his head. He pats his left thigh and meets your gaze. You frown and he tells you to sit on his knee. You bite your lip to hide your nervous smile and perch down. The denim of his jeans is warm against the backs of your thighs and you perch carefully on his knee.

‘I’m just nervous around you, I will be more careful next time.’

He gazes into your eyes and you feel your heart thump hard as his hand rests on your knee.

‘You’re not telling me everything.’

You swallow and run your tongue over your lips.

‘You. You really distract me, sir.’

He asks you to clarify how. You worry at the collar of the dress, flushed with the heat excited and terrified by the impending confession.

‘I think you…sorry, it’s difficult to say out loud.’

He pats you on the knee and smiles at you. His patience is a strength and he observes you.

‘Try me.’

You suck in a deep breath and tell him. The words are clumsy, but the need behind them lends them a weight and a velocity that forces them up from the bone cage you keep them in.

‘I think about you punishing me.’

He gives a small nod and asks you to lie on your front across his lap. The hem of the uniform rests above your thighs when you’re stood, and now with your buttocks exposed, you feel a tingle of self-consciousness but the mingling of anticipation and release is louder.

He tugs down your underwear to your knees. The humiliation is delicious, a warring whirligig of shame and delight. You used to fear the need, how it dogged your steps, insinuated itself and fed on your shame, a vampiric urge until you opened the windows on your dream house and killed it with the sunlight of acknowledgment.

The rough power of his palm stings hard enough to make you arch your back and you curl your lips. You arch your back to ease the building pressure in your pelvis and thighs, raising your buttocks to the promise of the cleansing, bright sting. You take it like an obedient girl, and it softens you, allows you to feel with a clarity that brings tears to your eyes faster than the pain could. He is firm and thorough, varying the tempo and depth of his blows. The pain takes hold, smoothed into a floating, ethereal state of detachment. When he parts your legs and strokes you with the tip of his index finger, your pussy sucks him in, drenched and oily with arousal.

He withdraws his finger and smacks you there. The tender ripeness of your arousal adds a layer of sensation that makes your eyes water and a sob escapes your lips. You endure his punishment, but it is as much a celebration, a tunnel dug from the prison of repression and shame. When he alternates between precise blows and a delicate, focused circling motion of his fingers, it is an inexorable force that holds you in its jaws; you are so much damp skin and coiling, electric need.

Your orgasms vary in tempo and intensity. At first they are like sneezes, temporary bursts of relief, but as he continues to move between blows and strokes, they become primal, religious in their intensity. You weep with the force of them and it is a struggle to recall your own name.

He strokes your damp hair from your face, kisses you lightly on the cheek. He tells you he loves you, and that the game is over, for now. There is time enough for you to crawl up into his arms and he holds you tight as you finish weeping. You kiss his neck and cheek with gratitude and he chuckles where your wet lips tickle him.

You ask how the writing is going and he tells you he’s not been able to think straight, thinking about you.






beauty love poetry women



Pinched by the gravity

Its pull as you go about your day and meet with the hard looks

Thrown your way

They have edges right now

But they stab at me

They stab at me

beauty short fiction wildness women

The Wild Man In The Water

Once upon a time, Paul, brother of King Samuel and chancellor, sat on the throne, listening to the complaints and petitions of the people. He listened with care, asked questions to show his investment in the pain and passion of his people. Paul and Sam viewed nobility as a privilege, not a right.

In his youth, Paul had led the charge for his brother with the zeal of a born warrior. A wildness of spirit had burned within him until a battle on the Eastern Shore sent an arrow smeared with shit into his right thigh. The infection robbed him of substance, but not character. He had not healed but his mind and senses had gained a terrible acuity as his heart gained a newfound empathy for the people.

There was more white than black in his beard but Paul woke each day feeling reborn. The faith of his senses had saved him, and he put it to his brother’s use.

She walked forward, coarse brown hair hung in her face as she gave an awkward curtsey. Paul waved her off and invited her to speak.

‘My Lucas is missing in the woods, my lord.’ she said.

A pang of horror jolted him upright. There had been hunters lost in the woods. Paul had taken an interest in the incidents.

He let her speak her pain and her fear. He reassured her. He instructed a scribe write a script for three sovereigns to see her through the next few months. She flushed and curtseyed again before she left.

Paul turned to Arthur, his steward and told him to send for his man.

Ernest. The hunter who walked the kingdom at Paul’s behest, and not all his prey was animal. Before noon, he was out with Gunther, his mastiff, studying the map Paul had worked on and a note in his small, neat handwriting.

Such an area without a sighting bodes a look. Bring back something interesting.

Gunther went ahead, muzzle low to the earth as he snuffled and padded ahead. Ernest caught it a moment later.

The moisture hung in the air. A body of water unmarked on the map. He strode forwards, heard a yelp just ahead and the splash of water. Ernest moved through the trees.

He watched the surface of the pond ripple then grow still.

‘Well, this must be the place.’ he said.

Ernest could not swim and he bolted from the forest until he found men in the fields. He came back with four men and five buckets, told them to empty the pond.

They stared at one another, faces shining and red from the heat of the day. A stout man with a neat line of beard and a soft belly which fell to his sides like sackcloth pointed his finger at the water.

‘Are you mad?’ he said

Ernest knelt before the pond and pushed his bucket into the water. He looked up and scowled.

‘My dog’s down there.’ he said.

One man joined him. The stout man held onto his bucket, shifted with unease.

‘He’s drowned. Dogs can’t breathe underwater.’ he said.

Ernest huffed, shook his head and tossed the water over his shoulder.

‘He’s a smart dog.’ he said.

Bucketing was hard work. Their leaden limbs and aching backs cried for release but as a shape became visible, they worked harder, motivated by a curiosity Paul would have encouraged.

A giant laid in the mud, thick muscles slathered with mud. Gunther got up and panted, shook his head and sprayed the gathered men with mud. Ernest laughed and told the men to get him rope.

‘How much?’ a man said.

Ernest ruffled Gunther behind the ears.

‘All of it.’ he said.

The giant slept. As they dragged him back to the castle, the mud came off him in thick wet scabs revealing hair the colour of dark copper which covered him from head to toe. Nothing roused him from sleep even as they heaved him into the iron cage set in the courtyard.

His eyes opened when the key turned in the lock.

Paul handed the key to Samuel who turned it over in his hands.

‘It is my queen’s birthday. I think I shall give her this as a birthday present.’ he said.

Paul sighed and gestured towards the giant in the cage.

‘We found this somewhere low and dark, it should be inside.’ he said.

Samuel shook his head and slipped the key into his pocket.

The giant sat up on his haunches and the gathered onlookers held their breath.

‘There is nourishment in the low and dark places.’ the giant said.

His voice resonated. Women felt it in their bellies. Men felt it in their hearts and loins.

Paul grinned and leaned forward.

‘What are you?’ he said.

The giant smiled with his big white teeth, looked over them with his deep, brown eyes and curled his fingers through the bars of his cage.

‘I am the wild man.’ he said.

He sat back on his haunches and scratched his chest.

‘He did not speak again. Paul watched him until Arthur came and told him supper was ready. The wild man watched him leave. The wild man closed his eyes.

He waited.