‘Untitled Free Verse Poem’

There are no pictures for it I can find, no scenes from a movie I can capture.

It exists in my mind only.

Be my muse, be my doll, be my wide-eyed wonder.

Let the curtain of water fall around us, sting our flesh, feel like stones.

I don’t care.

I want you on your knees before me, beads of water covering your breasts, nipples aching from every smack, smack, smack of the water over us.

Your hair in strands and curls across your face, dangling at the corners of your eyes.

Like an animal peering out from between the bushes.

I need to fuck that wet, luscious mouth of yours.

I need to feel you around me.

I need to disappear with you,

In this moment,

In this realm.

I need you.

Do you need this as badly as I do?


Sometimes I dabble in odd free verse poetry. I’m not very good but it’s just something I have to get out creatively to satiate myself.


Sickeningly sweet and twisting.

Why do we act the way we do?

Winding tightly around your skin.

What drives us to do the things we do?

Your breath catches on your cracked lips.

Why are we so scared to make an action?

You can feel the heat flush over every inch.

Why are we so scared of ourselves?

Your heart is pounding in your ears.

Is it any less real if you ignore it?

A dull light flicks on in the corners of your mind.

You cannot hide from who you are.

Your head is bowed before the sink.

The more you run, the stronger it gets.

You try to get it under control.

This is who you really are.

Acid rising in your throat.

Take a breath and let it in.

Punishment: Free Form Poetry

For each day she’s too busy to message him,

She dresses down,

Lays on her stomach,

Strikes herself with the paddle

They chose together.

She falls asleep,

The paddle still in hand,

Resting by her side.

Flesh marked raw

Pain singing


Across her claimed ass

It’s been five days since.

And she hopes

Time will find her

So her body can heal again.


I’m a Dominant. I’m a Master, a Daddy and a primal.

I expect speech protocols to be followed, gestures to be undertaken and rules to be remembered.

I’ll lead you when you need it, I’ll guide you when you’re lost and I’ll nurture you when you fall.

I’ll pull your hair and pinch your tits and slap your ass and call you names.

I’ll come on your tits and spit in your face and claw your body till the marks on your body show like you’re my calling card.

I’ll lease you and collar you and lead you out in the afternoons for walks.

I’ll deprive you of sight and sound and release till you’re a quivering, sobbing mess without a semblance of humanity.

But I’ll let you teach me. I’ll let you take care of me when the anxiety is so bad I feel like I’m losing my mind.

I’ll listen to your advice and listen to your needs.

I’ll put your desires ahead of mine because your smile and your happiness satisfies me more than any sexual act.

I won’t flinch when you step up to take care of me, I won’t speak over you when you need to tell me something.

I will fall to my knees and press my head between your breasts when I’m feeling vulnerable and sad and lonely and out of whack with the world around me.

I’ll let you put your arm around me when we rest in bed, because I need that more then you realise.

Manic: Free Form Poetry

Sleepy, hot, high-anxiety, I wrote this as it came to me, fiery and intense and strange and possessing all the tendencies of a Master / Slave Dynamic mixed with a dash of self loathing. Not sure what, if anything, it represents, but as a piece conjured from anxious consciousness, maybe there is something to be found for the curious reader – TD&D


You know it’s wrong – to come to her

Moving so fast that if your life was a film,

It’d be shot with a handheld camera.

You know it’s wrong,

To stand before her and demand

Something of her

It’s like being on the outside

Looking in on an asshole.

You know it’s wrong

When she obeys

Her eyes glistening with understanding

As she dresses down before you.

You know it’s wrong

Wanting. Channeling. Breathing. Taking.

So why do you do it?

Longing: A Freeform Something

She felt a longing.

She felt a longing she couldn’t describe.

Could anyone understand her?

Could anyone standing It?

Whenever she’d open her mouth,

To speak about what it meant

To her

To be free

To be wild

To feel the grass weaving on the inside of her thigh and realise it would itch her later and to not care, no not at all.

How do you communicate that to someone?

How do you speak?

How do you write?

What words do you use?

A house isn’t a home until you make it a home but what if a home isn’t her home?

What if the forest is her home?

What if the long blades of grass nestled her at back, and the long blades reaching out to glide across every inch of her body, what if that was her home?

There, surrounded by the grass, cared for by the Earth.

How do you even tell someone that?

How can you show someone that?

Is she the only one out there to be caressed by the Earth, to feel the grass across her bare body?

How can she talk of nudity, wide eyed manic pixie girl that she seems, without catching a label or too?

Would anyone ever understand that stab of frustration, pulsating, slithering through her body, at the sheer thought of wearing clothes?

Do people think, when they shop, of how they’d like to tear off every piece of clothing because it burns?

Do they look at the faceless crowd and see something in there, maybe wonder, if there is another like them?

She thought of all this and more,

Lying in the field,

nude body protected by grass,

An organic force field just for her

And felt that longing.


Who is the woman who walks her son home from school – dirty blonde hair, slim, dressed in a black tight singlet and even tighter grey sweat pants. The outline of a g string appearing as one foot moves in front of the other.

Where does she come from? What is on her mind? Is she aware of the outline? And if so, was it done on purpose?

The woman walks with an air of confidence – she knows. She chooses. She is ultimate. Absolute. And rightly so.

Is she a single mother? Is she raising her son with her partner? Or does she live with her mother, struggling to support herself and her child? Or is she successful and today is her favourite time of the day?

How does she laugh? How does she Cry? Where does she want to belong?

It is not our place to gawk, to wonder why, yet thoughts come. Thoughts not of objectification or gratification but of her mind, her thought, her world. Her personality.

Of which I will never know.

Delight and Decay

She doesn’t just slink out of her work uniform and become a piece of meat.

There is so much there to her – on the surface. Underneath.

Underneath, she is everything. Bare and exposed and yet calm, confident. Collected. Cool. Strong.

More than a temple, more than an image of the Gods, in all her power and presence, she is someone. An individual. A vessel harbouring the mind. Intelligence developed throughout the years, possessing wisdom, compassion, light and darkness. Wit and wrath, love and intoxication. Delight. Decay.

She is all of this, and much more. And she may never know.