The Roots of Rough

Sometimes she liked it rough though

never exactly knew why his

demanding hand in her hair, sometimes

choking her with his length, sometimes

using it as reins to

slap his thighs against her

arched haunches before

painting her face with his

effusions, made her so very

wet and she wondered whether

any of her underlings at work

would ever understand.

 

(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)

A New Touch

Shackled by her shirt she

knelt waiting, her eyes

tight shut to sharpen her

sense of someone else

entering her space, a

different footfall, a new

breath, the prickle of a

strange scent, a sense of

the tension that awaits a

new touch.

 

(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)