I think I might be a hamster…

I want to paint a photograph,

of the real you,

using the richest colors.

I want the world to see

what I see.

I want to sing a mountain,

bring it up from down deep,

and place it at your feet.

I want you to know

what you mean to me.

I want to plant a thought,

and watch it grow,

conceived in love,

like you love me.

I want to play the guitar,

in the setting sun,

sitting on the porch,

when the day is done,

with you next to me.

I want to do what can’t be done,

because thoughts of you

just make me run,

in circles in my mind.


(although I might want to be this kitty)


I love rock-n-roll

    She held her favorite guitar in her strong hands and suddenly it flashed through my mind that I might be jealous of her guitar at that exact moment.  I shook my head to clear out such nonsensical thoughts.  I wanted her hands exactly where they were, occupied.  I wanted her to watch me but not touch me, at least not yet.  I was planning on making that very tempting, though.

      I had tied her legs to the wooden chair she sat in and she had watched me do this with a smile playing around the corners of her golden eyes but she never said a word.  I knew she might be tempted to get up and I wanted that option to be removed from the realm of possibilities.  She knew the rules, even though I wanted to be certain she understood them again.  If she quit playing, so did I, and my game didn’t involve music.

      I had positioned the chair at the foot of the bed to allow her a perfect view of ‘the festivities’, shall we say.  Her knees were touching the end of the bed, actually.  I crawled onto the bed now and arranged my body so that my feet were touching her knees.  I wanted her to feel me and I wanted to be close enough for her to see really well but just out of the reach of arm’s length for touching.  Perfect position, I thought.

      Spreading my legs wide open, I heard her draw her breath in.  She must have been able to see how wet I was for her.  Even without touching, I was positive I was soaking wet and my wetness must have glistened in my soft curls.  I looked at her face, seeing the want evident there, and said softly, “Will you please play a song for me, my love?”  Her eyes met mine and the look hung between us for a moment.  She wanted me, that much was evident on her face, and I wanted her to want me even more.

      Her fingers started to softly pick out chords and I could hear the music starting to flow out of her.  I moved my right hand to my clit as my left hand moved up to caress my left nipple.  I heard her breathing catch in her throat and her fingers faltered on a note.  I stopped moving my hands and laid very still.  She began to strum the strings again, and I knew the torment she was feeling inside for I had felt it only the day before as I watched her with her vibrator while I was tied to her bed.


      I continued to stroke my hardness and she continued to play, our movements matching one another.  I stroked faster and she played her guitar harder, I rocked my body and she rocked the room, I pushed my feet against her knees as I came and I felt her pushing back, her voice rising with mine.  After lying flat for a few minutes, staring at her ceiling, neither of us saying a word, I eased my shoulders up to look at her.  I knew instantly that she had came when I came, for the crotch of her jeans was soaking wet.  God, I love this woman, I thought to myself.  She’s absolutely perfect for me.  Of course, I could never tell her that, so I simply looked at her and said, “Thank you, babe.  Now, let’s get you untied, shall we?  And, by the way, I love it when you play rock-n-roll.

Lie To Me.

Lie to me.

Tell me you hate the leather.

Tell me you hate the smell,

and the feel of it against your skin.

Tell me you hate pulling against the cuffs,

and the strain in the wooden headboard as you struggle.

Lie to me!

Tell me you don’t love my hair,

trailing between your legs,

teasing your thighs.

Tell me you’re not trying desperately

to see under the blindfold.

Tell me you’re not trying to imagine

just where my tongue will go next.

Lie to me!

Tell me you wish I would stop.

Tell me you don’t want me

to lick you there,

or there,

or there.

Tell me how my breath

on the back of your knees

doesn’t turn you on.

Tell you don’t want to feel my fingers

on your nipples,




and then,



a little bit


Lie to me!

Tell me you didn’t just catch

your breath in your throat.

Lie to me!

Tell me how my teeth

on your neck

doesn’t make you wetter.

Lie to me!

Tell me my kisses are too wet.

Tell me my touches are all wrong.

Tell me you don’t secretly enjoy

my tongue in your ears,

my tongue circling your clit,

my tongue licking across your ass.

Tell me you don’t want me more now

than you did two minutes ago!

Tell me you’re not thinking about me,

about making love to me.

Tell me you don’t want me,

in your mouth,

under your hands,

between your teeth.

Tell me you don’t want me to fuck you,


right now.

Lie to me!

Tell me you don’t want to cum in my mouth.

Tell me you don’t want me to lick your wetness,

the wetness I created!

Tell me that you don’t want me to pull

that wetness up,



up and over your clit,

again and again,

until you cum for me.

Tell me you don’t want me

to touch you just like that!

Lie to me

as you scream my name.

Snow Day

If I had a pair of giant scissors, I’d use them to cut a huge marshmallow square of clouds and sky from a summer sunny Florida day and then I’d roll it up, with the full enclosure of its breezy warmth and southern smells still intact, and seal it in a giant jar, and tuck it away carefully in the back of my closet.

If I had a giant rake, I’d use it to collect a fresh morning wave of pure sea foam while the tide is still rolling in, and then spread it out to dry in the hot summer Florida sunshine. And then I’d carefully spread an overflowing bucket of your kisses evenly over it to sweeten it, as only your kisses could. And then I’d cut it into tiny heart-shaped squares of chewy, spongy salt-water taffy, faintly reminiscent of your lips. And then I’d seal those beautiful kiss-drenched candies in a giant jar, and tuck them away carefully in the back of my closet.

If I had a giant net, I’d use it to capture a million and one fluttering, flickering fireflies. And then I’d sit with them awhile, and charm them with stories of you and your sweet perfection. And then I’d seal those eager carriers of light in a giant jar, and tuck them away carefully in the back of my closet.

And, when the soft snow started to quietly fall in dancing flurries, on those long, moonless, cold winter nights in North Carolina, I’d dig through the back of my closet and take out my wonderful summer collection of giant jars and carefully unseal them.


I’d take out the soft blanket of summer warmth and spread it on the cool ground beneath a giant weeping willow tree. I’d take out the jar of magical fireflies and set them out beside it at the base of the tree. And I’d take out the jar of salt-water kisses and hand feed you until I’d satisfied your sweet tooth. And then we could snuggle in and curl up, wrap ourselves in our giant comfy blanket of Florida warmth, and make slow passionate love by firefly light, keeping each other safe and warm until the early morning sunrise breaks over the ocean’s horizon.