The Contract

contract

The house had a cellar
which was why it was bought.
It was filed with ropes
and other objects he’d sought.
He descended the stairs
to see the woman he’d caught,
who had gladly submitted
and now would be taught.
Near naked, supine,
dressed lightly in black,
arms outstretched
she lay on her back.

Wrists secured
to a steel scaffold pole,
her legs spread wide
but hiding his goal.
Satin hid pleasure,
his desire in check,
he walked to the woman
and caressed her neck.
She flinched at his touch,
his presence unseen.
Blindfolded for hours,
but still just as keen.

Flesh touched her lips,
she licked and she sucked,
he brushed at her panties
and swelled as she bucked.
Tied for an hour,
vibrations within,
her satin was soaked
but still she craved him.
His hand in her hair,
he thrust none to soft,
she gagged and gasped,
tried not to cough,
but the faster he moved
the deeper he drove.
His passion contagious
his fingers would rove.

He stopped all too soon
and despairing of joy,
she whimpered softly
as he withdrew the toy.
His face then replaced it,
his tongue danced around,
seeking her moisture
in the satin he’d found.
He tugged at the waistband
till she lay bare
and standing before her,
he speared her hard there.
She cried out in pleasure,
no longer denied
and howled out frustration
as he started to ride.

Not all was permitted,
one thing was hid,
one action of hers
was all he’d forbid.
He finished inside her,
still unsatisfied,
she writhed in a fury
and in rage, she cried.
She begged a release,
an end to the game
he laughed and derided
and called her a name.

Grasping her ankles
he bound them with rope,
raising them high
she had hint of hope.
Yet as her rear raised up
free of the wood,
her hopes fell around her
as she swore to be good.

He spanked her cheeks hard
with open palm,
she squealed and pleaded
but still he stayed calm.
He slowed in his torment,
admired the view
and then considered
what else he might do.

With the toy back inside her,
suspended, mid-air,
she hung immobile
as he returned to the stair.
His fourth visit now,
should all teasing cease?
Should he still keep her bound
yet permit her release?
They both had their pleasure,
they both had their fun
but it would be over
if he let her cum.
Her stipulation
written and signed.
Only his pleasure,
or the contract’s declined.

Going Under.

Two in the bath,
towels on the floor,
he can’t be heard
but she’s craving more.
Thrashing his arms,
he goes under again,
lungs strain to release
the air they contain.

Submerged, pinned,
she’s holding him down.
At the last moment
she won’t let him drown.
Grasping his hair
he’s pulled out once more,
Gasping, retching
he yells out a roar.

As he recovers,
the dizziness eases.
She strokes his chest
and gently teases.
He tries to smile
yet his focus is gone.
She looks to the clock
then carries on.

Flat on his back,
she writhes on his face.
Rubbing and wriggling
she increases her pace.
This is the time,
no more reprieve
if she doesn’t cum now,
he might never leave.

One love dies.

Natural born,
moving in the wild,
dressed to impress,
She’s nobody’s child.
Just stockings and heels
amidst the trees.
He peers and smiles
watching Her tease.
Dancing through bracken,
swaying Her hips.
She approaches slow
then kisses his lips.

His heart pumps,
starts to race.
She grasps his hair,
strokes his face.
He takes the kiss
responds in kind.
Her stay is fleeting
but he doesn’t mind.

At the base of the tree,
securely bound,
He sighs, contented,
then lays on the ground.
Her wish is his pleasure,
Her pleasure, his pain.
He has love;
She has disdain.
He waits for Her,
and another day dawns,
His body objects,
complains and warns.
Emaciated,
faint and thin,
live or die,
no more than Her whim.

The Honeymoon

Standing in the darkness

wearing nothing but her heels.

Nervous anticipation

is the only thing she feels.

 

She knows that he is waiting,

sitting in his chair.

But disorienated,

she’s not sure just where.

 

She holds her breath to listen,

a breath sounds just ahead.

She steps toward the sound

of the Master she has wed.

 

The first night of her new life,

with the man that she adores.

She knows he loves her back

despite her many flaws.

 

He says he doesn’t see them,

she’s his ideal wife.

Sworn to be beside her

all the days of his life.

 

Her knees touch against his

and she drops down to the floor.

Subservient to him,

from now for evermore.

 

He reaches out to hold her

lifts her to her feet.

Pulls her toward his face

where their lips can meet.

 

Kissing her deeply,

she’s pulled into the chair.

He cuddles up against her

and soflty strokes her hair.

 

They wake in the morning,

still snuggled tight together.

No love made last night

yet their hearts are bound forever.

 

Just her.


This isn’t an erotic poem but I make no apology for it. Please read my notes at the bottom of the poem. 


 

Born in the wrong body,
the tears ran down her cheek.
Holding him so tightly,
submissive and so meek.
She has no feelings for him,
laughs though he’s not funny.
Playing at the role,
desperate for his money.
Her surgery’s expensive,
and it’s the only skill she knows,
praying for the moment
he shoots his load then goes.
Her ad names her transgender
and he’s the third today.
But she really isn’t happy
because she really isn’t gay.
The men who call to visit,
pay to fuck with freaks.
But it’s not the sex she’s after,
love is all she seeks.
She hates herself, just wishing
that they could see inside.
She’s hollow and so empty
but they just pay for the ride.

He’s gone. Her façade shatters
as she cries hard on the floor.
Then heads back to the shower
to prepare for number four.
Standing in the bathroom,
the mirror shows her pain.
Staring at her body
she cries and weeps again.
The doorbell rings insistent.
She pretends she cannot hear.
She thought that she could manage
when she first conquered her fear.
The knocks and ringing stop,
she returns now to her bed.
The stains that show upon it
make her wish that she were dead.
Neither boy nor girl,
she’s trapped now in a hell.
to be the girl she wants
she has just her rear to sell.
She wants to be a woman
and all that it could mean.
Not just inside as is,
but where it can be seen.
But she can’t get there like this.
She can’t be who she’s not,
and that’s exactly what’s she’s done
and she fears she can not stop.
She wants to hunt down love
and these men are not the ones.
She wants to be a wife,
with a husband and with sons.
Her biology betrayed her,
deformed her at her birth.
Would she be better six feet under?
Safe within the earth!
The kitchen calls, she enters,
doubtful of her life.
She reaches in the drawer
withdraws a long, sharp knife.
Back on the bed still tearful
the knife aimed at at her groin.
Is this really all it takes?
Does she really need their coin?
The hospital will help her,
if she’s in desperate need.
But she can’t make the cut
that would separate her seed.
The knife falls to the floor
and she wails into the night.
Nobody will help her,
none who know her plight.
Her penis, limp before her
is the object of her pain,
the men will pay to play,
but she can’t do that again.
Lost in her confusion
with no end for her in sight,
she picks up pen and paper
and slowly starts to write.
Tears smudge the ink
as from her heart she speaks,
outlining all her failings
and the forgiveness that she seeks.

The funeral was tragic
few family, fewer friends.
A short life spent in turmoil
for who she was offends.


1 in 11,000 people are diagnosed with Gender Dysphoria. That’s over 5,000 people in the UK, 28,000 people in the U.S. That is just those diagnosed, it doesn’t take into account those who ignore their feelings about their identities. Those who suffer without saying, those who try and live ‘normal’ lives.

I am not among these numbers but I have a great sympathy for those who are. That is what my book ‘Her Name is James’ is essentially about (though James has very different experiences than the subject of this poem).

In Iran, surgery to correct gender for those diagnosed is encouraged. This from a society that condemns gay men and women for illegal acts. Yet, in the ‘civilised’ world, we point, stare and for some reason, think it funny to spot a woman with an Adam’s apple.

The Sweetest Kink.

For five years

they’ve been together.

Sometimes lace,

sometimes leather.

 

Never shared,

always true,

never telling

what they do.

 

One secret kept,

never let out.

Not in whisper,

not a shout.

 

In the wilds

the two both go.

Through the woods

that all must know.

 

In public view

upon the track,

in the dirt,

upon her back.

 

Should you walk past,

you would find

they’d ignore

and never mind.

 

Their kink is this,

to be your thrill,

you may watch on,

just watch until

 

in rapture, both,

they do delight.

Applause and cheers

cause them no fright.

 

But do not think

you may join them,

they’ll run away,

then start again.

 

Two are one,

they seek no more.

A pair eternal.

Love, for sure.

 

 

 

The Monroe.

In a castle full of tourists,
in the crowd she stood apart.
With the stranger close behind her
She argued with her heart

She struggled with the fabric
as the wind blew up her dress.
She turned “Did you see?”
and he winked at her “Oh yes!”

Her cheeks blushed at his words
she stepped away toward the stair.
The hunky tourist trailed her,
no thought of when or where.

A foot upon the step
of the tower she did place.
The man close behind
caused her heart to race.

Three steps below, the stranger
gazed upward, watched her climb.
His eyes entranced, a vision,
he gazed at the sublime.

His attention upon her
she hesitated, yet,
she felt arousal from his eyes
and knew that she was wet.

No touch had been given,
barely a word had been said
but her heart raced as she rose up,
her passion gently fed.

The top step opened out
onto a crenelated wall.
He moved to stand behind her,
ensured she would not fall.

Again a gust undressed her,
exposed her to the air.
His hand under her skirt
as he removed her underwear.

The stranger’s hand caressed,
as he parted her thighs.
She felt him push against her
and slowly closed her eyes.

Roughly he entered
and ground his length far in.
She groaned in her throat
and pushed hard back at him.

The wall scraped her breasts
as he pounded hard and fast.
No thought to gentle love,
no desire to make it last.

Dirty and crude,
she revelled in their lust.
She waited his release
as any moment, he must.

Laughter in the stairway
spurred the stranger on.
Faster, harder, deeper,
riding hard and long.

He grunted, spurting hard,
withdrew without a sound.
But she found no sign of him
when she slowly turned around.

Her thighs were wet and sticky,
her tender sex was bare.
She glanced round in a panic
to seek her underwear.

A family took the tower,
while she hastily descends.
Careful on stone steps
and wary of tight bends.

Outside, she sees him,
in a stark, affected pose.
His eyes lock on to hers,
he brings her panties to his nose.

He grins and then is hidden
as tourists in a throng
obscure her view, then clear…
her secret man has gone.