What i think of in the shower

I thought of you in my shower
tiles pressed against aching breasts
nipples taut, longing for the slight scraping of your teeth
instead of cool, white porcelain
eyes half closed in reverie
your voice against my ears
urging, lulling, beckoning
the water impossibly hot
yet the notion of your hard, urgent, cock
pressed up against the small of my back
positively molten
fingertips tracing against sodden clit, soft thighs
spreading myself apart for you
waiting for you
if all I have is this moment
then let me choose to be impaled on you
let you seep into my skin
much like the droplets of water and cum
deliciously mixed, lathed against drenched flesh

The Study (new poem)

I get much inspiration from like minded sensualists, so thanks for fuelling the fire and roleplay.

The tone is meant to start off slow and in control within a study, or a private den surrounded by books and leather, it’s comforting, warm and a soft lull. As the poem continues it’s meant to be in the tone of a woman realising she’s a little out of her depth, pushed beyond her safe little sensual world. Spacing in poetry tells as much as a story, silences and pauses are very revealing. Enjoy x

The Study

Your hands on my ass means
The silk against my wrists
Your lips against my neck
The hardness of your cock
Your fingers tease my cunt
s l o w l y
The linen of your trousers
Your eyes peering into mine
The length of you rubbing into me
Your utter control of my skin
The need to shed my layers
Your kiss……. getting me
The crescendo of want





This body of mine

This body of mine tells a story
an opus, an epic tale
starting with the kisses your mouth traced
like scorching fire and lust combined
playing my pain like a sad, sweet song
only you know the notes to
I may be lost, I may be hidden
but my body sings for you in the darkness
feasting upon wants and wanton-ness
you ask me what words to say
and I raise my hips in gesture
to partake of my surrender
and in the silence laying upon my curved ass
your fingers say all the things
those beautiful lips cannot
this body of mine
mute but so very loved

I’m your canvas

Cyan paint over skin, stark, translucent over pale mounds
lascivious hues over my canvas
you wanted a landscape
and instead of a frame, I painted myself
i’m a work of art beloved
a private showing for one
how will you watch
how will you learn
I could be Monet, I could be fucking Warhol
for the moment
i’m your private masterpiece
and you
you are the painter

I tried


I tried to lose myself in

the sea of other lips

brushing skin

submerging lips

liquid enveloping the void

where my heart should be


I tried to tell myself

the worship of my body

was an ending to missing you

the distance between our


so far

yet never truly relinquished


i tried to pretend with every new lover

that i was content

with the push and pull of desire

even if

every time i came

it was to the image of your face

no matter – who was buried within


i tried to not feel

to bury the embers of our want

and hidden escapades behind me


i tried lover

yet when my finger tips

press out

still of night

it’s you i try to reach