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Nightdance - A Poem
Posted:Oct 5, 2021 8:17 pm
Last Updated:Dec 4, 2021 5:24 pm


Could be… did I see you …
A river nymph… or goddess…
in the water’s embrace
Under the spotlight of the moon
The tree-curtains parted, a proscenium of nature
And I a vile voyeur, watching you dance playfully
In the night, waist-deep in the crystal silvery
River and light,
Splashing delicately
With the magic give life the life-giver
Could I know… could I know
The fire the water knows knowing intimately
Every curve and crevice of your body,
The eager hands of moonlight at your waist and hips,
Turning and dipping, twirling you as you laugh
Your wet dark tendrils spilling down your back,
Over your plump breasts as they take in the crisp cool air…

Could I cut in… could I take you by the hands
Hold you firmly in my arms, lift you out of the water
Your power and mine
Making the water’s rippling surface our dance floor,
Your toes as you spin tickle over the river’s skin.

We two…
Two creatures of the night,
Dancing in the moonlight
Your power and mine
Lifting us under the arms of the winds
Your power and mine
Swimming in the breeze of the night sky
Your power and mine
Making love to the stars
Our united silhouette centered within the moon’s white-blue frame
Seizing selfishly the delights of the nightdance.
Ravaging -- A Poem
Posted:Oct 5, 2021 8:15 pm
Last Updated:Dec 4, 2021 5:24 pm


I take hold of you
The song and wind that carries you away
You the rock of life
The might and weight
Of stability

Fight me

Love me


You and I, joined together
In a holy sacrament
Of baser matter
That of sweat and blood
Brutality and savagery
None of your body escapes my vicious grasp
None of my soul escapes your vicious gaze
How we two join so well…

The roar of excitement
Explodes from my mouth
And into yours
You swallow all; I cannot engulf you
Cannot encompass you
You are too much for my soul
Too great for my magic and power
The first of your kind
To diminish the last of mine.
Erotic Scenario -- Captured Secret Agent
Posted:Sep 23, 2021 8:59 pm
Last Updated:Sep 30, 2021 9:41 am

Roleplay Scenario – Captured Secret Agent

You entered the room with gun drawn. You are dressed in a black sports bra, a short black skirt or hotpants, and black knee high boots. You sneak in and press you back the wall. You are a secret agent, and your mission is bring in. Little do you know, I am prepared for you, and I am going put you through a night of torture, humiliation and sensual pleasures you never experienced before.
As you creep around the room, I am watching from a distance, enjoying your figure as you make your way around, aiming your gun indifferent defensive directions. You don’t see where I am hidden. As you enter the room, I move to sneak behind you.
“Where is that mother fucker?” you say quietly yourself you peer around corners. I slowly make my move. I position myself behind you, then quickly pull your arms down, wrapping my arms tightly around your body. You gasp in surprise and quickly try wiggle your way out of my grip.
“Shit!” you say.
“Nighty night, bitch,” and I hit you in the back of the head with my gun, knocking you out [pretend of course]. The gun falls from your hand and you go limp. I hold you your head drops the side. I wrap an arm around your waist and grope a tit underneath the bra. I move your chin from side side, looking at your sleeping face. Finally I grip your waist and I reach down and scoop your thighs in my arms. You head dips back and your body dangles limp in my arms.
I indulge in carrying you around, looking for a place work my ropes and bondage. I lay you down in the middle of a room where I have my ropes and cuffs. I blind fold you. I pull your hands behind your back and handcuff you. I don’t tie you yet. That’s coming.
I spank you hard the ass, “wake , bitch.” You begin stir I spank you again and start pull you your feet.
You groan slightly, “… what the fuck!”
I stand you and hold you stiffly in place, “don’t you fucking move bitch.” I position you standing straight and tall, with your legs at a strong wide stance. You’re blindfolded and your arms are cuffed behind your back. I spank you again.
“Fucker!” you say.
“Don’t you fucking move!” I say I take your face and hair in my hands. I gather your hair in a tight pull and take hard control of your face, “you don’t fucking walk in my house, bitch, without a unpunishment coming.” I reach around your body and grab your tights hard. I hear you gasp in pain and pleasure.
You stand there as I indulge in running my hands over your body, around your midriff and tits. I kneel down and run my hands and down your thighs, squeezing your ass. You move shake off.
“Get the fuck off ,” you say. I stand , move right behind you, grab your hair and pull you head back, with your ear at my lips “how did you find , bitch?”
“Fuck you” you say.
I punch you the belly, “no, fuck you, bitch. Who sent you?”
“Go hell,” you say.
I pull you and guide you by your cuffed hands. I shove you against the wall and press into your back, “tell what I want know, bitch. And I’ll make this easier for you.”
“Kiss my ass!” you say.
I spank it hard again, and grip it tightly in my hand.
“Have it your way,” I say. I pull out a rag soaked in chloroform [again, pretend] and I hold it over you face. You struggle and moan as I hold it tightly you face. Your body wiggles in my arms. I pull you from the wall and lift you off the ground. You booted legs and struggle, but you begin get sleepy. I feel the struggle in you get weaker and weaker, until you finally pass out.
This time, I turn you around and throw you over my shoulder like a sack of potatos. My hands run and down your thighs with another punctuated ass grab and spanking.
I carry you over the couch where I throw you down. I then tie you : one rope under your tits, tightening your arms your side, another around your thighs above your knees, and a final rope around your boots at the ankles. You are unconscious this whole time.
When I’m finished, I shake you awake again. “Tell me what I want know, bitch!”
“When are you going get it through your fucked face, I ain’t telling you shit.”
[Here we can improvise a bit with the dialogue and the activity]
After a second round of torture, pain, , with you refusing answer my interrogation, I chloroform you one last time, and after you pass out, I untie you and carry you a large table. I take off your bra and skirt, leaving only the boots on I spread you out over a table, tying your hands and ankles each corner. I remove your blindfold and smack you back awake. I run my hands over your naked body, playing with you nipples, running my hand over your tummy [we can use a lot of toys if you like]. I pull out a huge dildo. I finger your exposed cunt.
“Get the fuck off !” you yell.
I part your lips and shove the dildo into your cunt. You gasp intensely. your muscles tighten. My hand moves over your body the other works the dildo in and out. I move it in and out rhythmically my other hand covers every inch of your body. You gasp moan and struggle, but you enjoy it. I fuck you hard with the dildo as you climax in ecstasy. You finally in a heap of sweat and exhaustion.
Would You Rather -- Poem
Posted:Sep 7, 2021 5:05 pm
Last Updated:Sep 28, 2021 10:56 am


I could bring you flowers, chocolates
Miscellaneous tokens of assigned value
And woe you in the old woeing sense…
Winning your hand, and kneeling at your feet
Paying homage to you while you perch on a pedestal
I could certainly play that game;
Or would you rather surrender to me
And allow me to take you hard by the hair,
Hurl you against the wall and press you with my body,
Throw you down on your knees
(All fours to be more precise)
To serve as the ottoman under my feet…

I could sing to you the songs I have written
Spout off the poetry of my heart and soul
The stuff of my tears and pain, my longing for love,
Searching to please your ears in exchange
For your smile and favor…
My divine goddess muse;
Or would you rather allow me to have you
Naked on the floor by my side, loyal as a lap-I pet as I please,
Or hunkered under my desk
With threat of punishment if you fail
Stroking it, sucking it while I work…
My inspiration… at the moment of creation…

I could kiss you tenderly,
Run my fingers through your hair,
Caress your skin with the softest touch,
Whispering in your ear talk of meadows
And fields of flowers
While I tickle your vagina with tongue and prick;
Or would you rather allow me to fuck you savagely—
As I can be most savage and monstrous—
Seize you in my arms, and then siege you,
Battering down your inner walls with a ram of war
While you gasp for breath, breasts heaving with sweat
As I climb into you at every opening…

I could ask permission:
Be polite and cordial and sweet,
Take you by the hand gingerly, carry you as a bride
To a scented candle-lit bedroom
And lay you gently on a feathery bed
Running my fingers delicately about your face;
Or would you rather allow me to abduct you:
Tie you up, gag you, haul you over my shoulder,
Break you roughly on a bed of bricks,
Then pry your thighs apart, strapping you to the four corners
While you look on at the dozen or so implements of torture on my nightstand
Uncertain of the dimensions of my wickedness…

I could take you as Jekyll if you like
Or Hyde if you rather;
But whichever you allow
I will take you…
One way…
Or the other…
Fantasy Man -- Short Fiction
Posted:Sep 7, 2021 4:58 pm
Last Updated:Dec 4, 2021 5:24 pm


From his stool that grew like roots from the bar floor, Chandler Dopple fingered his drink, observing the crowd of The Balcony Club on “Masquerade Night” at the climax of its dancing orgy. All around he saw the shy girl-next-door dressed uninhibitedly in see-through lace and satin. Girls dressed as devils, angels, hookers and nuns, together cavorting about in hiked-up skirts and knee-high black leather boots. Big breasted police officers were playfully, if not sadistically, smacking jail-birds on the ass with nightsticks. Servers were dressed in revealing assortments of cute cuddly animals. Roman legionnaires were reaching into the furry bikinis of Amazon, Viking and cave women. A tall, muscled Wonder Woman was making-out with a voluptuous Superman in a deep red corner of the club. A raven haired, green eyed, porcelain faced vampire beauty was biting the neck of an unsuspecting nineteenth century British gentleman. And a scarecrow, a tin man, and a lion surrounded an exotic Dorothy in her red, ruby, stiletto slippers. It was beautiful.
Chandler Dopple threw his shot glass back, swallowing seductive liquor, in one swift, smooth motion. His eyes flared with intensity and satisfaction as they snuck through the crowded bar, rubbing up against curves tightly wrapped in red and black leather, caressing silk skin rising and curling like the smoke in lean tendrils to the loud rhythmic heartbeats the executioner DJ spun with confident eyes and sure hands. Chandler’s voyeuristic eyes pulled space-babe spaghetti straps off firm shoulders and slid cheerleader skirts up to the zenith of promising thighs.
His eyes continued to play around the dance floor of the bar, moving and grinding with cowgirls, witches, life guards, Renaissance wenches and pirates, until they came to a dead stop at the far end of the bar. Chandler’s eyes seemed to choose for him, and the executive decision was concurred by his loins.
Chandler surmised that she was very young—probably not old enough to be in the club. But, of course, the bouncers always turned a blind eye to beauties of this caliber. Her long brunette hair was tied back into two lengthy pig-tails. Her wild, green eyes complimented the exotic features of her young face. A thin white, short-sleeved blouse was strapped down by suspenders that curved around and helped accentuate her full bosom. Black socks were pulled up to her knees and perfect thighs protruded from underneath her extra-short, plaid, Catholic schoolgirl skirt.
Ultimately, it wasn’t her beauty that made his blood reach a high boil. Many of the women at the bar tonight had achieved the like. Chandler could feel her sexual prowess, even if her experience was slight. He envisioned within her a great potential to be sexually strong and powerful—a girl manifested for the games of seduction and control. But before she could become his tremendous protégé, she would have to be conquered… taught first.
He stood from his stool, stiff, confident, erect, and he crossed to her with swift, sure stride.
As he approached, he observed her tells. She laughed with some of her friends, a loud boisterous laugh void of coy, innocent thoughts. Her eyes beamed with desire and passion. She perched in a perky posture on her stool—her legs crossed in some vain attempt to hide her panties. She held her cocktail before her red lips, inhaled the thin straw that leaned delicately out of the glass and sucked down her drink with speed and efficiency. And she ostentatiously turned and tilted her head, creating a lively, attractive dance with her hair to lure in horny fish.
Chandler also noticed a wedding ring on her finger. Perfect.
“Another Long Island, sweetie,” she said flirtatiously to the bartender.
“You may place the price of the drink on my tab, if you would, kind sir,” Chandler said, taking assumed position next to her.
She looked to her friends, who nodded and giggled in slight approval only; he did, after all, have a significant age on her.
Blushing, she fought to remain disinterested, “Uh, thanks.”
Chandler cocked his head back slightly, looking down at her with accusing eyes, a smirk on his lips. She met his gaze with big, green eyes.
“You’re not even old enough to be drinking those,” he said, continuing his iron eye contact, his smirk transforming into a big warm smile, “Are you, my lady?”
She blushed even more and looked away.
He leaned in, so she could smell his cologne, and in a soft, tender whisper said, “Your secret is safe with me.”
She seemed to melt a little.
“What’s your name, my lady?” he said, moving closer to her.
“What a beautifully auspicious name, my lady,” he said, taking the drink from the bartender and handing it to her himself.
Persephone chuckled slightly, guessing he had said something cute or funny. She took the drink and sipped daintily. Her eyes darted down at her ring finger.
“So, uh, what’s your costume suppose to be,” she said, looking up and down Chandler in an ordinary black suit, trying her best to size him up, flirt slightly, but remain hard to get.
“This is my costume, my lady,” he said delightfully, “can you not see my eyes behind this mask. I am a beast.”
“A beast, huh,” Persephone said, sipping at her drink, “disguised as the mild-mannered gentlemen?”
Her legs squeezed tighter. Her hand slid slowly across the bar, closer.
“It would be my best costume yet,” Chandler said taking her hand, “if I could convince someone I’m actually ‘gentle.’” He slowly and tenderly kissed the meat of her hand, “Your costume, as much as mine, seems to be hiding a dark wickedness.”
“What,” her hand came to her chest and gorgeous smile in delight of her sarcasm exploded on her face, as if the sun flooded the room, “innocent little me? Why, sir? What would ever suggest to you I am anything but sweet and innocent?”
“Your husband doesn’t seem to be here,” he responded, matter-of-factly, “or he is unforgivably neglecting you, my lady.”
“No,” Persephone said, a hint of disdain in her voice, “Brett doesn’t like the club scene very much.”
“How long have you been married?” Chandler asked, inching ever closer.
“Three months, but we were together two years before that,” she responded, trying to convince herself of the validity of her marriage.
“I see,” Chandler’s head cocked up again, resuming the accusing stare, “and how old are you, my lady?”
“My lady!” Chandler said, feigning surprise, “So young. So young.”
“What?” Persephone asked with growing offense, “I’m madly in love with Brett. We just have differences when it comes to social activities.”
“Who are you trying to convince, my lady?”
“Stop calling me your lady!” Persephone said with outright rage.
The angrier she got, the more it aroused Chandler. This was precisely what he wanted. He envisioned taking her off the stool and fucking her right there on the bar floor.
“Persephone,” he said, as patiently and as tenderly as he could, “did it ever occur to you that marriage might not be the natural state of man, or woman for that matter?”
“Excuse me?” she asked, not expecting his easy manner.
“You are nineteen years old, Persephone,” he began to teach, “do you not feel in the least bit like something is not quite right? That something is missing?”
“Not at all,” Persephone asserted.
“Really,” Chandler responded, unconvinced, “that’s why you’re here with your girlfriends, flirting away with men who approach you?”
She remained silent and looked away.
Chandler, smiling warmly and with a soft tender whisper said, “Shall I tell you what I think?”
Persephone remained silent, her temper cooling.
“You are a game player, just as I am. You are here to conquer and crush men under your foot. By showing them what they can’t have, you tease them. And you enjoy the hell out of it. And why shouldn’t you. It’s who you really are.”
Chandler put his hand on Persephone’s bare knee. He could feel her thighs tighten.
“Take a look at the people in the bar, Persephone. This is truth. The fantasies these people are playing out are how they would really see themselves: as beasts of sexuality and pleasure. Tomorrow, they will put on costumes and live their unnatural lives. You, yourself, will go home and hug and kiss Brett sweetly. Innocently. As if this little encounter never happened. And you, as they, will fruitlessly deny yourself what is truly your nature.”
Chandler carved his hand up her thighs like a knife. He could feel them slowly give way.
“We are beasts of sexuality, Persephone. Marriage is something originally meant to expand land and property, to keep everyone in their particular social class, to keep a tight lease on pedigree. Overtime, it has taken on this sacred façade of romanticism. It is a costume. It is not our natural state, Persephone.
“We are creatures of desire and passion,” he continued, “We were meant to fuck in the streets. Utilize the senses. Dance and play. This is what makes us feel alive. This is why we are alive.”
“You’re wrong,” Persephone said weakly. Her legs completely parted.
“Am I?”

Chandler kicked the door to his apartment open as he and Persephone continued to kiss and breathe heavily at the door’s threshold. Chandler tore the suspenders away from Persephone’s shoulders as Persephone began pulling off Chandler’s black suit coat. Chandler picked her up in his arms and carried her through the threshold—her warm body melding into his. Persephone tossed his suit coat on the floor into the hall, leaving it behind as Chandler nudged the door closed with his foot.
Instinctively, Chandler carried her into the room, not bothering to turn the lights on, but finding his way as if blind, using his other senses to define his reality. Persephone’s lips were warm and wet against his. His tongue pushed through her yielding mouth. He could taste the alcohol and smoke on her breath. As he carried her into the bedroom, he could feel Persephone vigorously working on the buttons of his shirt, tugging and yanking at his long tie to loosen it free. He felt her hands rub up and down his muscled chest. His grip on her waist and thighs tightened.
When in the bedroom, Chandler set Persephone down on her feet. They stood for a moment. Eager eyes locked. He took her hands gently within his, staring hard into her powerful eyes. He lowered himself down to one knee, and looked up at her submissively. He tenderly moved his hands to her waist and began to pull down Persephone’s plaid skirt.
As if immediately pulled from the spell, a flash of reason splashed on Persephone’s face. She managed to mouth, in a windless, weakening breath, “no,” which of course, to Chandler, meant “yes.”
Now, he was ready. Now, the moment was perfect.
He ripped away the skirt, tearing it in two, revealing Persephone’s petit cotton panties. He returned to his feet, his expression now beastly and brutal. Her’s uncertain and scared. He took the top of her blouse in both hands, just above her heaving bosom, and in one strong, vicious motion, pulled it apart cleanly down the center. All that was left behind was a pair of full, round, percolated breasts.
She said and did nothing.
He lifted her a foot off the ground by her underarms and hurled her roughly through the air onto the bed. A subtle moan escaped her lips as she bounced on the mattress. He stood over her a moment, staring her down. He caught a look of acceptance wash over her face. She was ready to learn.
He climbed onto the bed and straddled her between his legs, pinning her tightly to the bed. Persephone’s hands pressed up against his chest—still defensive—as he tried to come down. She held him up only for a moment as he continued to press. Then, Chandler could feel her slowly give way. Her hands fell away from his chest and grabbed the headboard behind her. She looked up at him, now fiercely defiant. He smiled in complete ecstasy, took her throat firmly in both hands and began squeezing tightly as he lowered himself on her.
“Last call, Mr. Dopple…”
“Last call, Mr. Dopple…”
Chandler Dopple, startled out of it, scratched the thinning hair on his head and finished the last of his drink.
“I’ll take my bill now, sir,” he said, quietly, “Thanks.”
As the bartender went to print his bill, Chandler looked back over, one last time, at his “Persephone.” Dressed in jeans and tee-shirt, she was getting ready to leave with her friends, a boisterous laugh void of coy, innocent thoughts expelling from her mouth.
“Here you are, sir.”
Chandler looked away from the group of girls and pulled his wallet from his pocket. In a slow, clumsy motion, he pulled a ten and a five from his wallet and gave it to the bartender.
“Thank you, sir.”
He slowly worked himself to his feet, grunting as he put on his coat. He then rummaged through a coat pocket and retrieved his wedding ring, placing it back on his finger. Not that it helped to take it off. Not that it helped a middle-aged, overweight, all-girls Catholic high school literature teacher. But he could dream.
“Have a goodnight.”
Chandler staggered slightly to the door, tired and a little drunk. He’d have to be careful going into the house so he wouldn’t wake up the again. In any case, his wife was going to be pissed.
The Duty of Always
Posted:Sep 6, 2021 10:35 am
Last Updated:Dec 4, 2021 5:24 pm

My fingers stroke the handle of my sword
As they molest the legs of my woman
As they tickle the whiskers of the gods
How I love war, sex and blood…
How it so speaks to me of actuality…
Do I draw the sword? Then use it?

Do I draw to action all I am
And see which side of the Hand I receive
Which Smile I receive
Which roar of the battlefield I stimulate
As I cleave into breast clouds and sky
As I clash with lightning legs and thighs
The battle I wage eludes me
But I battle all the same…

And as I may roar the charge against the gods
As I may gently call my lover to me
And find myself in ecstasy of embrace
And entwined with love and defy the universe
And in my happiness
Decide that war is not for me

Unless that war be that to take from me
All that I have fought for
All that I love in this world
All that I find meaning in this life
Then the gods would know rage
The gods would know the mettle of Man
A man of low caliber who howls highly

They would know the value of my blood
From every drop that spills upon the earth
Would they, then, be on my side,
For all time, with love,
The Mighty and Powerful
Nature and the gods
On my side in every battle
Behind me in battalions and brigades
Sharpening my sword after every stroke?
Reinforcing me with every inch of ground I take?

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