The mouth of my ass devours his cock,
my bottom the sword swallower, his
penis the sword. Watch him slide it inside.
Watch him force it in. Watch him
press against the puckered doorbell,
begging admission, then forcing entry
with one strong, battering push.
Feed on my moans, gorge yourself on
my screams, watch my anus expand,
making room for an unwelcome guest.
Watch. Watch him disappear inside me,
watch him slowly re-emerge, watch
his face fill with pleasure and aggression,
watch my eyes fill with tears and submission,
watch him use me, watch him hurt me,
watch him enjoy me, watch me obey you,
watch him fuck me, and know that I'm yours.
I offer my suffering, and prove that I'm yours.
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5 comments:
I've been living this life.. for 3 or 4 years.
I STILL don't understand why my suffering is so needed?!
Oh yes i do but ..then again.. i don't/
Sorry .. too early in the AM .. i cannot think..
OG, you well know that I enjoy your writing, but this is *almost* too graphic.
Love and warm hugs,
Paul.
Ah, Nancy, who can really say what drives our dark desires? I suspect there will be a new set of psychological theories every decade.
All I know is that it is a relief to accept who I am and to have found - or rather, to have been found by - someone who takes pleasure from who I am while teaching me things about myself I never knew were there.
Paul, I am relieved you say it is merely "almost" too graphic. I would hate to utterly gross you out.
This poem, by the way, is not based on reality. Perhaps it reflects a future reality, and it is certainly something which my Master enjoys contemplating. It was inspired by something the sadist wanted me to write for him, which I did in real time, feeding it to him sentence by sentence. It was so intense that when we disconnected from chat I felt this irresistible urge to write something more. I am not, in fact, satisfied with it as it stands, but I needed to post it anyway. if I can sort out the parts that big me, I'll make the edits.
(I was also in the mood to write something that could be both artistic and pornographic. I am tickled by the idea of some guy using my poem as jerk-off material. This shows the influence of my Master, who finds me unbearable sexy. I'm not used to this, but am slowly adjusting.)
I am fascinated by this poem and I think what fascinates me is wondering who the audience is, the implied subject of all your imperative verbs. At the moment I think it's your readers. Us. We. Me.
Anyway, hot.
Oh wow, Orlando - to be utterly unpoetic. You blow me away - because you remind me of my demon muse in the early days of my writing for him. He would read my poems and start marveling over this construction and that symbolism and this bit of meaning - and I had no idea I had done it. And then I heard a radio interview with a couple of poets, and one of them commented in all seriousness on learning from critics what he had said. Because sometimes you have no idea. You just write.
Consciously, this poem, while yes, written for all of you, was addressed to the sadist who was (in the poem, not yet in reality) enjoying the sight of my ass being fucked by another man. And certainly, any time I say "I'm yours", it is addressed to my Master.
But still, Orlando, you are right in so many ways. Because yes, I wanted you all to enjoy this sight of my ass being fucked. I was very deliberately explicit. Right after I gave the sadist the pornography he wanted, I wanted to give you all this experience, in all its brutally in-your-face details.
And then yes, in some way you guys do own me. You do watch him hurt me, though you also watch him fill me with delight. I bring you my tears and submission, my struggles and my hopeless love which still, in its way, is met by what it is that he feels for me. You come back for the next chapter - and do you hope it will be something dramatic, even as you feel a little guilty at longing for the excitement of seeing me bleed?
You're a clever boy, Orlando, and Murre is very lucky to have you. The door is open - you're welcome to hang out here any time you need some company while Murre is gone.
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