Tag Archives: poem

When I dream of tentacles

Photo of an octopus with one of its arms draped across its head. The suction cups are turned towards the viewer.

When I dream of tentacles,
it’s not the potential for restraint that captures me,
nor is the force of penetration entering my mind.

Instead, I dream the firm fluidity of their embrace,
wet slither across my skin, the suction
of eight armfuls of kisses.

I dream their many-fingered strokes, strong
on my flesh; their suckers sliding, dragging over skin.
the overwhelm of elasticity.

I dream the lazy swirl of winding arms,
a dance, slow-motion, limbs entwined;
their suction cups my flesh in gently pulsing lines.

I dream a slow, close hold; full-body
touch. Sharp, piquant pain as blood surges, bursts
beneath my skin, blooms into mottled purple.

I dream the tightening and the release;
limbs falling soft, breath easy under water,
flesh sinking to the ground. A sigh.

I dream the loss, the loosening, the slipping off;
a final kiss, a wave. Until next time, my strange
and wondrous lover.


This is a post for the Kinktober prompt “tentacles.”

For the zoology-minded amongst my readers: Yes, I know that octopus arms aren’t the same as tentacles. This is poetry, though, so I don’t care.


Image source: Pixabay, color edited by me.

Bucket list

Sepia-tinted photo of a miniature metal bucket

I imagine my hands and knees on the floor.
There is a bucket. A dripping rag.

I’m in a kitchen. A bathroom, perhaps.
Somewhere cool, hard. Domestic.

I imagine your voice. Quiet, serious. At ease.
Do this. Like that. I whisper affirmation.
(Exact direction is a rather captivating freedom.)

I imagine your gaze, sharp, heavy
with attention. Pressing me into shape.

I imagine my skirt, riding up
as I crawl and stretch, rag in hand.
Damp folds unfurl between my thighs.

I imagine the blood in my cheeks,
my hair tidied away, nowhere to hide.
Red doesn’t always mean stop.

Shame curls my head, lust
arches my back towards the floor,
heat seeping out of me.

And then.

There are many directions this could take.

A yank, a kick, some measured violence.
A series of commands, expecting exactitude.
A baring of skin, of sweat, of yearning.
Silent attention.
An invasion; the thing that isn’t done.

A desperate struggle, mostly within.
Admission, confession. Surrender.
Release.

Relief.

(I’m not supposed to want this, but I do.)


This is a post for the Kinktober prompt “domestic, at home.”


Image source: Flickr / Christian Schnettelker, CC BY 2.0, color editing by me

Into the desert

Photo collage of a woman with headphones and her hair over her face. The background is a starry night sky in the desert.

Stretched out, cheek to ground, eyes closed.
No need to see; I can feel. No need to move; I am moved, still.

The only sound in my ears the universe you chose for me.
You brought me loops of beautiful melancholy,
aching echoing in my head. Oh, my heart.

Your fingers brush the world off my back;
I sink into your quicksand. Soft warmth drips,
pools onto my skin, melts me into the earth.

I drift into a wondrous desert, cool purple night,
huge open sky, star-speckled.
Just me.
And so much vast and empty space.

Beautiful melancholy. The absence of things.
And you.

Everything changes.


Today’s #Kinktober prompt was “sensory deprivation.”


Image sources: Goodfreephotos (sky), Pixnio (head) (collage and color editing by me)

No one told me rope could be like this

A pile of coiled-up beige ship ropes with the ocean in the blurry background

She coils her ropes around my head, my eyes
closed against the unease, the abrasion.
The first few lines she tightens
warp my beauty, distort, misshape
my identity, draw out tendrils of tension
from my mind. I’m not sure, but I’m in.

She traces lines across my body,
wraps my chest of worries. I breathe.
She moves me; pushes, nudges, tilts, twists,
ties a knot here and there, like punctuation.
I sink into inertia, let go of all initiative,
let gravity and her be the only forces upon me.

She holds me, my back on her chest;
slides fingers under ropes, yanks me
out of my docile drift. I moan out in delighted pain;
criss-crossed by her web of sudden pressure,
and a touch of scratch along the surface.
She yanks again; I laugh because it hurts

so nicely. Let my head fall back and push
against the ropes for more. She twists her hands,
the rope, tightens my amusement
into eager suffering. I moan again. Yes. This. Her
quiet strength transferred into my flesh and bones.
My suffering as her delight and food.

She feeds me water and a question, some information,
and a challenge. I’m sure. I’m in. She hits me,
rigid bundle of pure coconut scratch,
uncoils it, loops me in. Pulls it tight, and tighter,
until my throat moans my content containment in the pain.
Then grabs the other ties again, for more of that.

She winds us down, eventually, unravels the web
of touch and restraint, slow. Lets her loose ropes rest
on my skin, soft weight, a resonance. She curls
her body around mine; we breathe. Sigh. Smile.
Breathe. Return.

No one told me rope could be like this.
I’m in.


Note: The original #Kinktober prompt for today was “bondage,” but I was more inspired by the rope than the restraint aspect, so I changed it. There will be more changes and adaptations like that in the future because that’s how it works for me.


Image source: Libreshot