Cafe Poetry

[WriterDom]

fly away my pet

I could have denied your quivering voice
kept your fingers from quenching your need
held you there in purgatory
till begging became babbling nonsense

But I am kind, too kind, too giving

when it comes to your ass
those white globes jutting to meet leather
I will not be so merciful
for mercy would cheat you

I savor the moans and the movements

the pain you can ride
sail away and disconnect
soak it up in hungry flesh
arid desires soaking in the raining blows

I will bring you back more whole

 

[AngelicAssassin]

Low Flight

Oh! I've slipped through swirling clouds of dust,
A few feet from the dirt.
I've flown my blades low enough,
To make my bottom hurt.

I've monocled the desert,
Hills and valleys, mountains too,
Frolicked in the trees,
Where only flying squirrels flew.

Chased the frightened cows along,
Disturbed the ram and ewe,
And done a hundred other things,
That you'd not care to do.

I've smacked the tiny sparrow,
Bluebird, robin all the rest,
I've ingested baby eagles,
Simply sucked them from their nest.

I've streaked through total darkness,
Just the other guy and me,
And spent the night in terror,
Of things I could not see.

I've turned my eyes to heaven'
As I sweated out the flight,
Put out my hand and touched,
The MASTER CAUTION light.

 

[WriterDom]

I whisper to your clit
a direct line from ear to pink pearl
I whisper while it screams
musk cream floods
lips part, begging for insertion
shamelessly you squirm
knowing it begins
and ends
with Me
I take your hardened points
each squeeze and pinch
is felt below
I detach from the reality of you
always there is underlying respect
but today you are a plaything
A toy for my amusement
your body
a three holed
vehicle for my pleasure

 

[m wisdom]

This is poem by Dylan Harris

Vanilla:

I tried a pound of troubadour
and yodelled through the night.
She wasn’t very happy:
I’d sung quite out of tune.
I took that packet back,
it was clearly rather off.

I bought a pound of lust
labelled for “De Sade”;
I turned round to my partner
and beat her with a rose.

My partner got annoyed:
the next one that I bought
took me someone else.
The milkman didn’t care:
he’d seen it all before.
No milk for me next week.

So I went back to the aisle
and found another sort
so she could manage things,
mixing an illusion
and the misuse of a horse.



We’ve sampled all the styles,
and only one was dull.

According to my horoscope
it’s this that I should like:
I read it in the paper
that ranted at a restuarant
and got a chef arrested
for chilli in a dish,

[Here,
it tells me,
I should be
disgusted.]

as if
a man
could choose

the food
that he
was born
to eat.

 

[@}-}rebecca----]

COMING DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN ~ By Bill Cowee


1.

We educate ourselves, seek the corners
where we stand in penance,
meditate petty darkness into full blown night
ashamed of the imprinting
random events suddenly make erotic.
We have found this place on our own, this
delicious personal midnight
where want exhales precious as breath.
We choose the path by the edge
walk the cliff daily in our self imposed
isolation. We tell no one,
take down the music box of power,
hum its compelling melody,
sing the descanted submission,
whisper the lyrics in the ear of a lover.
I will give you everything I am.
Love me enough to take me.

Those who wrote the first book
warn you not to go there.
How does the wanderer know this is the place
he will lay down innocence,
find in the eyes of a woman
the electricity of possession.
To eroticize trust,
to say to the one who embraced you,
own me, move your belongings
into every room of my house.
I know what I do here.
I can feel my heart put on your livery.
Anyone can see the thrall alive in my eyes.


2.

We have named what we are.
It is not what we do in the mundane for survival.
It is the first time I stand
at your direction, watch your overseer hands
remove the clothing that separates us.
I can find no place to hide
in my skin whose every blemish
every sag, every hairy meadow surrenders
secrets.
This is the way down the mountain,
out of the deadfall,
the thicket, the forest,
out beyond the tree line,
primal self, hungry for intimacy.

Hands run the contours of body
the way one feels what is bought.
She holds him in her palm.
It is the ritual of ownership, this touching,
this laying on of hands,
patient journey of discovery
across the obvious into an unknown.
This is but skin,
membrane of being,
peel protecting fruit from its ripeness.


3.

Your willful palms weight my shoulders.
My body finds its knees.
We solve the power equation
which critics demean as unequal.
We know from our simple algebra
a bond, a mathematical agreement forms.
There must be equilibrium --
giving balanced by taking --
those two small parallel lines
bonding our quadratics.
The dove of your hand builds its nest
in my hair.

I do not fear you;
goodness requires no protection.
I will become your soil,
your humus. What you sow in me
will be returned as sustenance.
If you wish starvation,
give me nothing.
This is not the laying down of life for another,
nor mere existence.
It is the picking up, the elevation,
an adoration, affirmation,
the exclusion of evil from the circle
of endless beginning, the eternal promise
spoken by the collar you place
on the neck which wills itself to you.


4.

You restrain me to the bed.
I would go there willingly, open
myself to you,
but the bonding is exponential to reality,
as if my mind could be changed from this course.
It cannot.
The blindfold lowers itself to my eyes,
a vital sense stilled,
conscious gentled.
Vulnerability is the midwife of control,
subtlety the offspring,
waiting, the dilation of anxiety,
measured breathing
as the will is given up, delivered.
You lose focus,
lesser senses become major,
alert sentinels of anticipation,
gentle stroking here, probing there,
hungry teeth gnawing a nipple.
Then nothing....
until the miniature glacier
begins its journey down the valley.


5.

There is no time beneath the blindfold,
only the slow ticking of one torment upon
another. They love this exchange.
He senses she rests out there,
in the candlelight,
her movement, his breath
agitating the flames,
emotion like tapers, burning.
He is the cello between her legs.
She composes her sonata,
a rich baritone elicited
with each squeeze, each comforting discomfort,
each deep murmur brought forth
by the insistent bowing of tongue
along his corded neck.
He is still in tune
and they have only begun the first movement.

 

[@}-}rebecca----]

I Recall ~ Author Unknown

Bound in the asylum
of my mind
You visited often
while I conspired with shadows
I recall
I recall
Ice walls grew skin
to fill spaces between heartbeats
Where you touched me
I shiver, still

I recall
an ache
from a finger on flesh
lava flowed from its tip

trees fell
mountains swelled
and it
burned

so good it was
so good

I now dream in
molten liquid
hell
its red darkness screams
between heartbeats
where Vesuvius left ashes
and I became Pompeii
history, frozen
excavated
by your ghost

 

[@}-}rebecca----]

.::Written by Iron Bear::.

This is just part of a journey nothing more and nothing less ~

He sits fingering the empty collar,

And looks over the meagre contents of a toy box..

He knows that there many items which,

He must procure to add to the collection.



He sits fingering the empty collar,

Some he must make to satisfy pride

And the desire to be making,

Does he still have the skill? This he is wondering.



He sits fingering the empty collar,

Riffling amongst papers filled with sketches,

Of toys he perhaps could have made in times past,

Other plans are of equipment, multipurpose and designed with cunning.



He sits fingering the empty collar,

Chuckles, thinking how easier it would have been

Yet his tools, like his body, time has reduced.

Muttering to himself as old men are wont to do,



He sits fingering the empty collar,

He reviews the plans in the light of what he can and cant do.

Making notes he makes allowance

For his Free Companion to be able to set up and use them.



He sits fingering the empty collar,

When she has another slave in collar and living close.

He’ll not see her wanting, a filled toy box she shall have.

And dungeon equipment a plenty.



He sits fingering the empty collar,

Smiling gently he makes plans to have her introduced about the scene denied

him.. Feeling no sorrow, he places everything in its place

And commences work on a draft for her profile to replace his.



He sits fingering the empty collar,

So that she is known by those in the communities…

And take her place with them

To just be in her own right without his influences.



He sits fingering the empty collar,

Lessons learned in the past decades where

The upcoming youth have not wanted aging Masters in other lifestyles,

But wanted the glitter and energy of youth.



He sits fingering the empty collar,

Remembers times when he has stepped back into

Shadows and guided the new Masters to take his place

As he slipped into a faded memory easily forgotten.



He sits fingering the empty collar,

Long ago he learned the benefits of isolation

And the joys which only a recluse can enjoy….

Memories of a slave murmuring “Yes My Master”



He sits fingering the empty collar,

Time to build a new life for them both,

One where she becomes the new Master

And he the builder of a business to sustain all that he wants for her.



He sits fingering the empty collar,

Chuckling, he remembers a conversation with another who suggested

The hiring of models to use for Shibari and other areas which still interest him… Laughing at his own folly in still

wanting to Master Arts which he will never use



He sits fingering the empty collar,

He still the Master, Master of his Home

And of more arcane mysteries,

Those which only age and life long practices teach.



He sits fingering the empty collar,

That is enough, all things which are now in the past

For if nothing the old man is a realist

And knows when to quit fighting opinion.



He sits fingering the empty collar,

This is not the first time he has been defeated

But this time he cannot battle age and illness….

The time is past battling something which can not be changed.



He sits fingering the empty collar,

Contented he plans his retirement activities

Until it is time for the Golden Eyed Bear to come

And lead him away to where the pain will cease and he will no longer be…



He sits fingering the empty collar,

A happy time with all new experiences to learn and debts to pay.

Smiling gently now and at peace with himself,

He locks the old collar away, discards the plans for new ones




He places the key in a hidden place..

And in doing so discards the unfulfilled dreams to the place

Where all lost dreams go and lighting a cigarette closes his eyes

And sees the bears in far off mountains moving to where the sky touched the earth.…..

 

[WriterDom]

Just black silk
wrapped around
around
obscuring vision
a 4 sense submissive
now naked before Him
knees trembling
more from arousal
squall of excitement
hard cherry nipples
flushed wetness below

she waits per direction
her mind replaying scenes
preparing to render service
to take all pain and pleasure
achy desire from every orifice
that only His hardness
can satisfy

she hears Him stirring about
familiar sounds of chains & ropes
toys & tools
laid out in perfect order
His deviance planned with precision
old and new, borrowed and blue
all she knows is that she can not know
can not predict, or request, or even speak
without His permission

A soft kiss from behind graces her shoulder
heat of cock standing tall
nestles between her naked cheeks
hands cup the fullness of breasts
finger race to nipples pinching harder
forcing a moan from her lips

"It is time," whispered in her ear
reverberating to her very soul
she is "home"
she is His
she is complete

 

[MasterPhoenix]

Crop in My hand
longing in your eyes
your need for My pain
the overwhelming desire
My need to inflict pain upon you
debase and pollute you
push you to the edge and beyond
agony ecstasy pleasure and pain
Rising floating sensation overload
Pleasure explosion
we are one...

Written now off the top of My head

 

[WriterDom]

No poem today
nothing scratched on parchment
penned on papyrus
or whittled on wood
just clashing cliches
tense triteness

and a longing to taste you

 

[FurryFury]

No poem today
nothing scratched on parchment
penned on papyrus
or whittled on wood
just clashing cliches
tense triteness

and a longing to taste you

I rather like this one!

*smiles*

Fury

 

[BiBunny]

Maybe not overtly BDSM, but I did write it for/about Master. I told him I'd written a new poem. He asked to read it, and I sent it to him. He liked it, he said, but I don't think he knew it was about him. (Or maybe he did and didn't tell me; I don't know.) Maybe I'm a chickenshit, but I damn sure didn't tell him that it's about loving him.

Ocean

My mother made sure I learned to swim
when I was young
because she couldn’t.
I wonder if I still can.

The dark blue
is tempting.
A girl could get lost in there,
(like in the eyes of a lover).

It draws me in,
inexplicably,
with its power,
its deep sapphire strength.

There’s no gentleness about this gentleman.
I’m not sure if the salt I taste on my lips is his own spray
or the tears that roll down my face
before I go down.

The once-silky sand abrades my
pale white skin,
and I’m dragged ever
downward.

The pain’s good, actually--
means his mist
hasn’t extinguished me completely.
Yet.

The need to breathe is incredible. I inhale,
taste salt, and gag.
It’s comforting somehow.
I hear a little girl voice in the back of my mind,

“No, mama,
drownin’ ain’t really that bad.”

 

[WriterDom]

The next day
she still feels Him
deep womb-like reminders
a puckered ache of the secret rose

hieroglyphics in angry red
spell out passion
left by the whip
she craved more than sex

she feels dirty
used
and nothing can remove
her smile