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I Love You All

the giggly girls
the girls in twirls and
curls and pearls

I love you all

the girl who wear pink
(in spite if their kink)
the girls who go frilly and
never feel silly

the girls who wear leather
whatever the weather
who wear spiky collars
worth hundreds of dollars

I love you all

the girls who are slight
size zero (but bright)
the girls who are flighty
but ever so nicey

I love you all

the ones Rubens painted
(and probably dated)
the ones who are plain over weight
the girls who are cheery
and lovey and deary
fit perfectly on to my plate

all of you be who you are
and don’t travel far
to meet expectations

you all are adorable
terribly storable
so very moreable
just be who your are

come short come tall
come one and come all
and let’s have a ball

I love you all

you squirt when you cum, did you know that?

you squirt when you cum, did you know that?
you must have noticed before
this morning some stuck on my eyelid
but most of it went on the floor

you sing when you cum, did you know that?
a song from your own greatest hits
I know you are there when you hit the high c
and the wine glasses shatter in bits

your body goes stiff for a moment
just after you cum you go quiet
and then you unleash the unholiest yell
and your muscles all spasm and riot

you pant when you cum, did you know that?
like a marathon runner finitos
she crosses the line then she bends right in two
but you just reach out for Doritos

you’re grand when you come, did you know that?
for after the panting and psalms
you reach out for me and I hold you
and you spend all day long in my arms

one body one breath

you are tied
spread-eagled
face down on the bed

my left hand
over your mouth
with one finger inside
gagging the back of your throat

my right thumb
enters you
and my fingers play
Rachmaninoff inside and out

my tongue is biting
and kissing
the nape of your neck
and exploring further
round you
then down your back
and biting hard
on its return

my left hand
leaves your dribbling mouth
and moves to your breasts
where I squeeze your nipples
so tightly
you let out
a sound no-one has ever made before

and then you cum
massively
hard
I have to gag you again
with my hand

your body stiffens
tightens
becomes rigid
for a moment you stop breathing
until you start again
as if you’ve just
finished a marathon

my thumb feeds you
back your juices

and we kiss
so deeply that we
meld into one
become one

one body
one breath

A Master Scolds

Painting of S/M sexuality

Painting of S/M sexuality (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

did you think you were being a good girl
when you were being such a bad girl?
(no, don’t say a word)

did you think I wouldn’t find out
that you were reading my journal
without my permission
(say nothing)

did you read something which hurt you?
pained you?
did any part of it speak of deceit to you?
no
of course not
do you think of me like that?
that is the harshest cut of all
(be silent and don’t pretend those tears)

you know what will happen now, don’t you?
no, I will not punish you
I will not drag you over my knee
and thrash you until you beg me to stop
(your trembling lip does not impress me)

I shall withdraw from you
I shall leave you alone
time to think
on your wicked deception
(yes weep)

that is the cruelest thing I can do to you now

go
come back only when I tell you
you must beg my forgiveness
until your eyes tell me
you are truly sorry

say nothing
go

let my fingers do the walking

My fingers can do so much better than your fingers
let My girth
and My mirth
bring you to an earthquake
a tsunami of waves

My long pianistic fingers
inside you
finding the right spot
losing it
having fun finding it again

let my fingers to the talking

you’re wet
not just moist
through choice
I mean wet
wet like a mountain stream

let me follow your juices
(as long as it amuses)
and reach deep inside you

two thumbs combined
(like two heads)
are better than one

let me pound you
astound you
until your bound body
goes into spasm

a paroxysm of pleasure
a taste of sweet torture

but you can’t stop me can you?
you are in my power
and willingly
and my fingers speak louder than words

let me quake you
fisting fun
let me take you
poco a poco

to that place
where all your will is gone
and you and I are completely one

Master Speaks II

close your eyes
(or shall I blindfold you?)
can I trust you to be unflinching in your obedience?

close your eyes
let me survey the contours of your neck
with my tongue
let me bite it
smother it
leave something of me on it

close your eyes
let me slap you
hard and suddenly
wherever I choose
for as long as I wish

still your hands
(or shall I bind them?)
as my fingers draw circles on your breasts
and squeeze and tease your nipples
as if they were my own plaything

be my toy
respond only to say
“thank You, Sir”
never question me
doubt me
wonder why I am doing this

be still
(or shall I hold you?)
as my tongue follows the pouting contours of your lips
and pushing into your mouth
and tenderly stroking your ears

be mine
(or shall I take you?)
like a princess won in battle

be mine
and let me do these things to you
never wonder why I do these things
I do them because I love you

The Bonds of Youth

Just how long has this been going on in my head? Well, this piece of writing will tell you a little of my story. Anyone expecting erotica should move on quickly… this is just a piece of affectionate nostalgia, intended to reassure others who had the same fantasies (or those the other way round) that they are really have nothing to be ashamed of…

I’m sure you will have never heard the names Marilyn Fork, Liz Anderton and Debbie Short. It is my fervent hope that they are all happily pursuing their lives in a golden haze of sunshine, joy and material comfort, with the bird of paradise swooping benevolently over their heads. My impact on their lives was minimal; I’m sure I barely registered. But their impact on mine has been memorable, everlasting and deeply forged. They were, you see, the first girls I ever tied up.

I call them girls because that is what they were. And I was a boy of six at a Sheffield primary school, feeling my first, if non sexual, thrill at the sight of a girl paralysed and rendered immobile by skipping ropes. The excitement of it, then overwhelming and inclined to make me grow numb with pleasure, has grown over the years. G.T.Uics I called them then and for many years after; Girls Tied Up.

Debbie was my favourite and by far the most accommodating. She was a girl, even at 6, of poise and grace. I once saw her eat an orange where I am sure the fruit was charmed with the Teutonic grip of the iron peel. She was tall. Almost as tall as me and I was the tallest in my class by some way. She walked with her head slightly back, allowing her long, golden hair to shimmer and form a train behind her. She held it back with an Alice band sometimes and in plaits – not a look of which I approved – but mostly it was free to flow behind her like a peacock’s feathers. Her movements were slow and gorgeously graceful. Her every look could have been plastered on an ad for salon shampoo and conditioner.

I, on the other hand, was a whole other kettle of ballgames. I was clumsy, maladroit, inept and frequently looked foolish. I was a Mr Bean playing against her Audrey Hepburn. We got on so well. So well in fact that I was once invited to her house for tea and a play date after school.

I made no special preparations for the event. Other than using some of my father’s Brylcream and a sickening amount of his after shave. I wanted to take her a gift so I took a broach which my mother had carelessly left in one of her dressing table drawers. And I picked flowers from Mrs Beezley’s garden which I believed she would never miss. She did. In fact she saw me picking them from her kitchen window and told my mother. My mother missed the broach too. A difficult few days at home followed.

I arrived at school and wordlessly offered the flowers to Debbie who was, for a fleeting moment, a little flustered. She then threw her head back in the sort of laugh that comes from inside the belly and can’t wait to be expelled. She wouldn’t take them from me so I had to pretend it was a mistake and they were really intended for our teacher, Miss Stevenson. She was touched.

Debbie did take the broach however. With some alacrity as I recall. I believe now that it had more than a few precious stones as part of its allure. She vanished it into her bag in a way only girls know how to do.

When Debbie’s father picked us up from school in a car so big it might have had a putting green in the back seat, we were both terribly excited. She asked me what games we were going to play. I smiled and told her that I would think of something. I had been thinking of something, night after night for at least a week.

Her house was palatial and her garden about the size of Denmark. At the bottom of it was a what Debbie called a play shed – in fact it was larger than the downstairs space of my parents’ home. Her father brought us juice and sandwiches and cakes. My etiquette was not, looking back now, entirely appropriate. I made the assumption that the rather slim sandwiches were for her and and much plumper, sticky cakes were for me. She accepted my choice from the menu and ate like a Lady. I ate like Billy Bunter.

After the food the game started. She requested tag. I was happy to oblige, although I did hurt my foot slightly on a prominent yet disguised tree stump. But I hid it well. I sobbed for no more than fifteen minutes.

Then I suggested a kidnap game.

“I’ll kidnap you, see? and hold you in the shed, see? then I’ll come and rescue you, see? and…”

My rambling, incoherent enthusiasm was rocked when she said, simply and quietly, “Okay then.”

“But I’ve got to tie you up!”

“Okay then.”

“And I’ve got to grab you from behind and drag you into the shed and tie you up…”

“Ooh, that sounds exciting”

Do we all remember with such vividness the moment when the object of our desires consented to being tied up?

I told her, as if I were directing a silent movie, what she should do.

“You go over there and pick some flowers and look happy and skip and everthing.”

She did so with characteristic ease and good grace.

“Then you hear something and you look a bit scared.”

She gave a scared look. I mean, she looked scared.

“Are you scared,” I enquired of her.

“No. You told me to look scared so I’m looking scared.”

“Oh, okay then. Now I’m going to creep up on you and grab you. Look scareder.”

Oh, how magnificently she looked scareder.

Then I grabbed her and put my hand over her mouth. Her mmmphs were the most convincing I’ve heard before or since. I dragged her cruelly into the shed where there was gardening rope in abundance. I cruelly told her to sit in a chair. Cruelly, I took about 100 yards of rope and wrapped it cruelly around her body. Then I gagged her with an oily rag. Cruelly.

Her screams were stifled but my energy was not. After leaving her to struggle for five minutes or so, I suggested we start the game again. She smiled and nodded. I couldn’t believe my luck.

These games went on for months and were known to us and a few other intimates who would occasional joined us (all girls, funnily enough) and the ‘tying up game.’ I used to wait until shortly after I’d hoovered up the cream puffs for Debbie to say, “Shall we play the tying up game?” And we did. Time after glorious time.

Too soon later, way too soon, our Headmistress spoke solemnly to us in the classroom.

“Now I have some sad news for you all. Deborah is leaving today. She is going abroad with her father who is…”

None of what followed registered. She was going. And with no more than a smile in my vague direction, she was gone. Forever.

Life was never the same again. I was bereft. Other girls stepped in but they wanted to play silly games like skipping and hide and seek. There was a childhood game called ‘chain tag’ but I was disappointed to learn that it involved no means of restraint whatever.

I still carry the scars today. One in my heart for the loss of my beautiful Debbie and one on my leg where I fell over the tree stump.