beauty, love, poetry, sex, women

Power

Restrained

Writhing

But trying to be good

Not analysed

Or following careful

Chains of logic

You are the weather

The ocean

Test my capacity

To open you

i wield

Unwavering consciousness

Imperturbable love

You will live more

Fully within that

Trust in my

Direction

You are not a backyard pool

You are an ocean

Without walls

And I do not drape you

In chains of analysis

Talking to the dull

Aim of fixing you

No,

It is my power

To know myself

To have plotted a course

To show such strength

In my consciousness

That you can let go

Dance wildly and without

Inhibition

To thrash in loving surrender

Until your skin flushes and your

Heart thumps against your ribs

Until you soak the sheets beneath

And scream my name

Rest against my purpose

All I ask of you

Is to know your

Beauty

To express it

In the art of

Feminine divinity

Fingers holding needles

Diving through cloth

Scratching pen against paper

Where I will offer

Its opposite

And so, here

We know

What power is

 

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Elements

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My want

Is the growl of

A low, powerful beast

My touch can be

The rumble of an earthquake

The kiss of a summer breeze

The light waves of a distant star

Feel my magick

Travelling through your veins

My wildness, harnessed,

How I would burnish the

Broken places within you

Make you speak

In lover’s tongue

I know you desire comfort

But that trust is invitation

To pleasures bold

As sunspots

As engulfing

As black holes

Source yourself

In that which

Sees all that you

Are

And wishes

To serve that

Through opening

You

Up

To

Love

 

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Pocket

I offer a place

Not to go to

But into

A place to hide

But not hide from

A warm, safe place

To rest your head

Against my chest

Sleep as though

A hundred years

Had passed

A pocket

Of warmth

Tenderness

Bring your broken soul

There

Speak freely

In heart’s language

Stroke the fur of my chest

And breathe with me

Tell me all that you

Hold within you

It was stitched

By my warm, rough hands

My warm, rough voice

My soft, warm lips

Come, enter freely

You are safe and

Deserving

 

To be handled

With knowing care

A vulnerable strength

And offered the chance

To not feel wrong

About a single word

You

Say

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beauty, creative writing, desire, dominance, erotic poetry, erotic writing, erotica, hunger, love, lust, passion, pleasure, poetry, seduction, sexuality, spoken word, strength, surrender, Uncategorized, women, writing

Come At Me

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bath, beauty, creative writing, desire, dominance, emotion, empowerment, erotic writing, erotica, fiction, hunger, love, lust, passion, pleasure, psychology, seduction, sensuality, sex, sexuality, short fiction, short stories, Sir, social media, spoken word, strength, surrender, touch, Uncategorized, wildness, women, writing

Sir 2.0 Episode 3: Spoken Word/Audiobook

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bath, beauty, dark places, desire, dominance, erotic writing, erotica, fiction, lust, psychology, seduction, sensuality, sex, short fiction, short stories, Sir, surrender, touch, Uncategorized, wildness, women, writing

Sir 2.0 Episode 3

You inhale the oils in the water, carried across from the steam. You can no longer hear the ambient murmurs of the audience. A quiet relief blunts your discomfort to a degree where it becomes part of the burgeoning arousal within you. Your acceptance has unlocked the first stirrings of a wild, terrible power within you. Your need for ritual, seen perhaps as discipline to the unknowledgeable gives you permission to participate and now that you are aware of the memory block, you no longer feel powerless in the face of Sir and the guards. You take a breath in deep, to alleviate the trembling in your fingers.

One of the guards takes your arm and leads you to the table. He drops into a squat and starts to lift the hem of your hospital gown, you squirm away and there is a sharp, displeased intake of breath. Your skin tingles with disquiet and anticipation, making your nipples harden, visible through the cotton of the gown. The guard steps backwards, and Sir’s voice booms out from the darkness.

‘They act on my authority. Please do not incur my anger.’

You lower your chin to your chest, fighting the creep of blood to your face. The resistance is part of this for you, a show of defiance before the surrender in the same way that a bird flaps its wings as it takes flight. Your need for this resists the rational, and your body speaks to its power with an eloquence that your words never will. You go to remove the gown yourself and Sir speaks up to interrupt you.

‘I want him to do it. Autonomy must be earned here, little girl.’

His vocal relish in speaking aloud the title he’s assigned you sets sparks in your stomach, a slow, inexorable warmth that has waited for affirmation. You put your arms up, give the guard a stare of mock-defiance that you can comprehend but not quite feel and he comes forward. He has brown eyes, warm with interest, flecked with motes of a lighter brown within the iris. You notice a small shaving nick on his cleft chin and smile to yourself, relieved that there are small signs of humanity within the scenario. He hides his smile with a small degree of practiced care, but interest animates him, and in turn, you but you are both subject to a higher authority at this point in time.

‘Undress her.’

His expression becomes neutral, hiding behind the shield of authority as he comes towards you. You do not resist, and as he lifts the cotton gown over your head, your pulse sounds in your ears and the rush of chill air to your bare skin raises goose pimples all over. Your vulnerability, your self awareness are as much instruments in your submission as any number of toys or implements. You go to cover your breasts and pudenda with your hands but the guard tosses the gown to one side and grabs your wrists to draw your hands away. He looks at you with a second of open, primal appreciation and you enjoy how he loses himself within that for a brief amount of time before he leads you to the station. You are arranged on the board, the leather underneath is warm and your buttocks sit ably in the cut out section, leaving you exposed there.

The guard adjusts the cuffs and slips them onto your wrists and then moves the stands into play. His rough fingers dance against the soles of your feet, but you are too suffused with feeling to laugh. You test the restraints and find they resist your struggles with ease. The guard looks out into the darkness, then walks around to the bowl and picks up the natural sponge, placing it into the bowl and you turn your head to watch him.

Unable to move anything more than your midsection, the spotlight’s glare forces you to close your eyes. You hear the sponge being squeezed out into the bowl and then the rough-wet drag of it against your skin. The water is hot and you give a small cry of surprise as the guard washes you in small, deliberate circling motions of the sponge. Where he has washed you, the air caresses your damp skin. Each breath carries the scent of lime and coconut, diffused by the steam. Without the means to resist him, he draws the sponge over your breasts, and the slow drag of the sponge’s fibres makes your nipples harden, tender and electric with sensation. He runs the sponge down your stomach and you twist, involuntarily against it.

‘Does my little like being washed like this? I like how you wriggle.’

His voice bypasses your resistance, and although the guard is carrying out the task, in your head, his touch and Sir’s words combine into a thrilling whole. Supine in your constriction, you arch your back when the sponge returns, swollen with fresh water and starts to wash you over your hips. You push your knees together but the guard shoves them apart and sweeps the sponge against the tender skin of your inner thighs.

‘If she does that again, pinch her.’ Sir’s voice has a playful harshness.

You do it again, and good to his word, the guard takes a section of skin on the inside of your right thigh and pinches it with a clinical expertise. The pain travels upwards and you fight tears and hiss at how sharp and clean it is. Without ambiguity, the control asserted is a route to the most divine liberation.

You do not recall choosing this, but your decision reflects your wants like a mirror.

He carries on washing you, and you feel the blunt tips of his fingers parting your labia and the sponge applied there, pressed with an enthusiasm against the tender, pulsing flesh.

‘I see there’s hair there. I think we need to get rid of that, don’t you little girl?’

The pain has started it’s work, aided by the knowing yet uncaring touch against your throbbing clitoris. His fingers are either side of it, tweaking and pulling at the hood to ensure that you are both entirely on display to him and clean.

You must be clean for Sir.

You gasp out an affirmative and hear the click of fingers.

‘Now, let’s see what we can do about that, shall we?’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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art, beauty, books, creative writing, desire, dominance, emotion, empowerment, erotic writing, erotica, fiction, hunger, love, lust, masculinity, passion, pleasure, psychology, seduction, sensuality, sex, short fiction, short stories, Sir, spoken word, strength, surrender, touch, Uncategorized, wildness, women, writing

Sir 2.0 Episode 2: Processing (spoken word)

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