Commands the demands

… His words taste like the outer corners of lust, coveted by dark shadows. A curse of black mist rising in me. If I am the succubus then he is my master, puppeteering my desire, fingering my needs to his command. His touch is the black leather choker at my slender neck. His voice the liberating echo of passion that lubricates my strings….and in his eyes is the promise of a million kisses, each one new, deep, purposeful. Each kiss overflowing with lust, each kiss a binding promise of trust, each kiss an exchange of power… And if I am his succubus, a vessel of need then he is my master and from him alone I feed, for there in his kisses, his touch and his eyes, is an abundance of love filling my skies.

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image found on Pinterest.

The serenity of a sensual soul

There’s a
serenity of mind
that follows
the ascent
a nodule of calm
and yet
I am consumed
by my
cravings,
I am heightened
to the primal
need of your touch…

… I am awakened
searching now for
you as I descend,
searching now for
the taste of your
ascent, my soul’s
core reaching for
your intent, there
is a calm, here
somewhere
between the
radiating
pulses of desire

And now I am
energy,
sparked at your
command
ignited, charged
pulses
beyond the
physical form,
my soul craves
your touch

I crave you
in an all
consuming
primal urge
as oxytocin
pulses
through me.

Karen Hayward ©2018

In silence there after, I hear storms rage,
past scars itch, thoughts blur to reality
beauty pageant upon life’s cruel stage
Such perfect specimens they are not me.

Does one occur without the others truth,
If the vessel lacks purpose beyond need
found in another’s form, t’is thoughts a rue,
expenditure of the purposeful seed

Alas, always will haunt me lifes shadow
the silent whisper of empty value
in a graveless cemetery I’ll know
wandering thoughts of them naked with you.

The cross bow of spirit fighting hearts soul,
Is it love or sex, the ultimate goal

Karen Hayward ©2018 image and words

… His words taste like the outer corners of lust, coveted by dark shadows. A curse of black mist rising in me. If I am the succubus then he is my master, puppeteering my desire, fingering my needs to his command. His touch is the black leather choker at my slender neck. His voice the liberating echo of passion that lubricates my strings….and in his eyes is the promise of a million kisses, each one new, deep, purposeful. Each kiss overflowing with lust, each kiss a binding promise of trust, each kiss an exchange of power… And if I am his succubus, a vessel of need then he is my master and from him alone I feed, for there in his kisses, his touch and his eyes, is an abundance of love filling my skies.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Black leather and kissing red… 

Black leather and kissing red 

Will you bind me in tomorrow’s kisses
Translucent skin bare against black leather
Squirming, pleading, alost in your wishes
tender lips, grazing, as soft as feathers. 

Come, lose yourself in eyes of innocence,
fingers entwined between flaming red curls
Pushing, pulling, testing my resilience
Skillfully guiding, inner she unfurls. 

encapsulating her essence in hues
Technicolour, tickled fingers trailing
between Celestial beats arousing you
And passions burning fires truly flaming

A rare puzzle piece beyond defining
Would you embrace the effort refining.
Karen Hayward ©2018

Image found on Google. 

An inferno of need.

Photo

It starts at my very core, there at my center,
deep within my sacral.
Not a gentle, subtle whispered kiss
of bliss, oh no, It’s an inferno, a blazing
storm, it takes hold, flames
through me, a moments combustion,
lubricated response to dampen the
fires of desire. A matrix of sensuality,
ancient coding mapped on the aged
parchment of my soul, the hidden
symbolism of spirit that you finger
your way through with the knowledge
of a blind man searching his memories
for lost vibrations of once known directions.
A flamed insistence spreads
through my responsive cells,
blood reaching my surface needing
to caress its master as searing heat
flushes and blushes, intensity rushes.
My limbs curl, search, draw in,
crouching, anticipating the onslaught
Implosive lust, explosive need…
It all starts at my very centre,
an inferno blazing through
me, an ancient need responding
to its one true master.

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words