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
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
Elixir
Narcotic
Medicine
Still burning
The chill breeze
Makes my flame waver
But nothing
Snuffs
It
Out
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.
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
Returns
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
To
Get
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
Drop
My hands would
Compose hymns
To the divine
With each pinch
Stroke
Sliding them slow
Exploring the
Throb of your
Need and calling
It into the air
With my body
And it’s rough
Power
I would gently
Capably
Redraw the boundaries
Of your soul’s
Capacity
For love
To match the beauty
That draws out the
Beast within
And all his
Rapacious poetry
We are atoms
In collision
Collusion
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
Endure
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
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.
Struck
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
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.
