Editor’s note: These poems were posted just as they were received, without editing.
The Ghost
That moment when thought becomes action.
The ghost, illuminated briefly as the sliver of light from the doorway pierces the room. He closes the door with barely a whisper.
Silent footfall as the ghost drifts across the darkened room. He seeks her form, is energized by her soft breathing.
A ghost has neither stature nor shadow, this phantom offers both.
Fingers find purchase, entwine in her delicate hair, he is gentle, delicate, remarkable for a man of his size. With ease he cups the back of her head, she sighs heavily, deep in sleep, her slumber never affected.
He is engorged, strong and straight, her mouth parts slightly as the tip of his penis spreads her lips as he did her vagina just hours before.
With malice and a fierce power he drives for her throat, she struggles and attempts to pull away from his furious assault but he continues his vicious attack on her mouth.
When it is over she is cowed, limp, exhausted. Her fight was valiant yet futile, she has much to learn about this life of ours. She moans softly, he kisses her forehead gently.
Before retiring to his study he tests the chains and cuffs, checks the catheter and her bowls of wine and cheeses. The door closes behind his as softly as the moment he entered.
He will return, the ghost always returns.
2 Memories of My Run Today
The sound of fresh snow covered with a fine of layer of ice is mesmerizing. The footfall that is so typically silent drifts off into my past as I trudge through the fresh powder. 25 Degrees and 2 inches of snow will cripple a city like Atlanta.
They closed a local highway today, they do it each year to host a 10k and half marathon, they cancelled the runs because of snow and slick conditions.
So where were you today, the girl who runs and thinks and speaks her mind but is never out of place. Where is the woman who would have stayed with me for a Saturday morning run, one who is somewhat pliable yet independent. Bruised maybe, disappointed with many of the wannabe’s on here yet not broken or despondent.
Today with a deserted highway as our playground would I have had the nerve to take you in the snow, with a quarter mile visibility would I have taken you right there on the median on that deserted stretch of snow white black top or in the gully as we froze and bonded.
There was a place where the tree had protected the ground from snow, the only place where green showed through white, on a hill hidden from houses around. The ground would have been cold, your knees raw and wet and stinging, the tree rubbing against your shoulder and scraping the side of your face as I drove deep inside you.
I can feel you now, my body shivering and frozen but your envelope warm and soft around my cock. When we finished I would hold you, a hug that would take your breath away, we are co-conspirators, lovers, together in the extreme, forever.
In your honor, even though you are not mine yet I ran the last mile and a half bare foot today, how can I expect you to know discomfort unless I know discomfort. It hurt so bad I wanted to cry, the ice has turned to small balls and chips that bit at me each step I took, but now I have 2 memories. The memory of my run and the memory of what could have been our run.
With Bad Intent
Blind lust, emotionless sex, nipples between teeth, grinding, nipping, bruising.
Fingers thrust inside her, spreading her wide, open, engorged. Hair curled tightly around fingers, mouth open, kisses rough. I am hard, she is on bended knee. Mouth and throat full, lips create pressure, sensation. Pleasure intensified by her moans Throaty, guttural, animal sounds, stiffen my cock. Turning her, twisting her, forcing her down Taking the rope, binding her hands in Position. Thrust. Panties shredded, with bad intent I am inside She closes tightly around me, a mouth full of bed linens Hair pulled tight once again Bringing her to me again, forcing myself deeper She cries slightly as I withdraw Only to drive deeper into her Trying to split her in two. With bad intent, I drive, thrust, pummel Till she quivers, shakes and cries again, She is white, tender, innocent She screams for violence and education I take her past the edge of sanity. My hips, thighs, calf’s are fully involved in her pain. Till she cries out loud again And I am satiated. And she is spent, and we are one In tender, warm embrace, we are one and she is complete. Spooning, nuzzling, caring, being, understanding.
All poems written by M.
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