Category: erotic writing

If life were at my mercy a gun about her head. . .

redhairwings

If life were at my mercy with a gun about her head,
I’d ask she bring you to myself, to lay upon the bed.
Safety off I’d tell her so, that you are mine to have,
And life would know right there and then, she’s at the mercy of my wrath.
And for my mercy she would plead
whilst begging I tell her of my needs.
I would say, in a gentle whisper,
His touch upon my skin to linger.
The gracious feel of his wandering tongue,
and the pleasurable feel of his caressing thumb.
And life, with a gun about her head,
would say, ‘You want him here inside your bed?
To feel the devils touch of sin
lingering on your precious skin?’.
And I would smile and pity her,
and ponder who she once were.
Yes. I want his touch upon my skin,
Yes. I want the devil’s sin.
Oh life, surely even you can see,
what his touch could do to me.
And for a moment, gun about her head, she smiles,
then opens up my battered old file…
Sorry dearest, she does say,
Ive checked it out against his name…
and you have nothing past today,
for it seems your futures are still…being made.
So, I look her in her eyes and shoot her in the head,
then call out to the devil as she whimpers whilst she bled,
and the devil comes a crawling,
for he’s heard all that I have said,
he smiles, winks and says,
‘let’s get him in your bed’!

Karen Hayward ©2016

Image found on Pinterest

Advertisements

Sensuality of a blank canvas.

There’s no space on the page where my words can settle without burning
the sheet to ash. Speckles of ash that are lifted into the breeze, thoughts
carried away into the universe.
There’s no way to spill the calm of chaos into a logical sentence that can
be read and understood, rarely can the light walkers understand the dark.
There’s no way to create form with a desire that walks on the edge of
nothingness, no perfect Haiku to whisper in code, or sonnet to bumpily
rhyme away sinful thoughts.
Perhaps if I had an invisible pen i could write of the desires, I could tell of
the thoughts that would make even the devil blush.
I could explore the page with a fresh energy, words trailing, thoughts
wandering as do fingers or eye’s or the passion that sits on the
lips of a lover.
Or perhaps, I can write in rhyme safe in the knowledge that the beat will
hide from sight my continual need for you.
Trivialization of such thoughts feels like a form of infedelity to myself, to
the empty space in front of me, to the blank page that can become so
much, yet begs me to not make a liar of it.
Perhaps the emptiness is better than being compliant and trying to force
delicious chaos into some form of normality.

Karen Hayward ©2015

Exchange of warmth. . .

Part one. Short story extract. . . to be continued

Laura Wandsworth took a deep breath. She had been expecting them, the police that is. She had been caught shop lifting. K-Y warming lubricant jelly, of all  things, Laura, chuckled to herself. She should have known really, she had looked so out of place there in the Ann Summers shop. She hadn’t gone out planning on stealing anything. She hadn’t really needed anything, the freezer was full from the week before when she had visited Iceland. But she had been so cold walking around the town. Her fingers felt immobile beneath her gloves, and she was unable to feel her toes beneath the two layers of thermal socks. She had figured out a few years back the best shops for warmth were those that had changing rooms, the skimpier the outfit’s the warmer the heaters. Laura rarely visited Ann Summers, always feeling a little prudish. The heater was at the far end of the shop, tucked inside an alcove where they kept the adult movies. As always Laura did her best to fit in. She picked up items turned them over and pretended to be interested. She had felt the blood rush to her cheeks as quickly replaced the dvd back onto the shelves. Laura innocently picked up the lubricant drawn in by words warming. When she realised the effect it might have she had slowly dropped it into her pocket. The security guard waited by the doors for her. A tall man with a shaved head. Laura had never been caught stealing before, even though most days she went out with that very intent.

img_20160610_182202.jpg

That curve
Is energy cascading
across me,
through me.
Look how
your essence falls
upon me,
Like a cashmere
scarf,
gently caressing
the tilt of my chin.
The simplicity of
a sensuous scent
Lustrous intent
erotic content.
That curve licking,
kissing, stroking
exploring, traversing
the very contours
of my mind.
A treasured find,
One of a kind.
That curve of your
tongue as words
form, escaping your
lips that beg me
always for one
tiny kiss.

Karen Haywrd (c) 2017

Caress the inner devil of my soul. 

Caress the inner devil of my soul,

bind my wrists with the softest,

deepest, reddest silk. 

Drape me in the prettiest black lace. 

Call to me. Call to my inner succubus,

whisper my name with the darkest shame. 

Stroke my pale soft skin. 

Teasingly awaken her, whisper to her from the depths. 

And when a whisper is not enough…

Plunge her into the screams of oblivion. 

Tear open my soul with raw abandonment. 

Make me scream and beg for her release. 

Bite her into existence,

Spank her for her resistance,

Take her with your insistence 

Own her with your persistence. 

Caress the inner devil of my soul

Release her,

Let my spirit grow. 

Tease her,

Let my spirit show. 

Caress her,

Be the reason that I glow. 

Caress the inner devil of my soul. 
Karen Hayward ©2016