Choice

She chose to be naked:

she chose the implements;

she chose to bend over;

chose to be bound, offering her

wrists behind her back; she

chose to accept the breath-bit

beating of her bottom and his

rough intrusion into her

ready sex, as she chose to

open her mouth to

accede to his seed because it was

her choice, not his.

Why You Shouldn't Marry Your Muse

“You know Renoir

painted with his prick?”

My loaded brush dripped as my

startled eye jerked from canvas

up past her artfully cocked hip

to her loaded eyes, seeing

Impatience on a Monument,

demanding I put my

prick to its proper purpose.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)