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Son and Consort

A crisp lavender expanse of down and fluff.

Warmed by body heat and scented like my skin.

A 54×75 sanctuary where my two worlds dream.

Side by side in unwitting repose.

They will never meet here,

Merely know the feel of resting here with me.

I bear lone witness to this strange changing of the guard.

I am the treasure they share.

They each claim a place in my lilac-colored world.

The warm void between sheets the tender turf,

Where my intimacy runs free with Son and Consort.

I am the constant.

I am the Mother-Mistress.

I am the gravity that draws them here.

I am their common ground.


You climb into my bed in the wee hours of the morning.

Your warmth seeps into me as you snuggle close.

I can feel a sense of safety fill you as you settle in next to me.

I can feel the pull of my love,

like the gravity of the sun holding my universe together.

I stroke your hair and watch as you breathe deeper, relaxing into my touch.

Remembering many nights together.

The texture of your hair is coarser now.

Not the baby fine silk you had when you were three.

But the feel of it transports me back in time.

To every moment I rocked you to sleep in my arms or held you close to me.

You are my reason, my sanity, my tether to this world.

You are the reason I fight, I strive, I grow.

You are my heart and soul, the definition of my love.

You are my son.


I leave the door unlocked for you and climb between scented sheets.

My body tingling, anticipating your touch.

I try to sleep, knowing you are on your way to me.

But I think of your caress and abandon thoughts of rest.

My hands roam my body too hungry to wait for you.

I lose myself in the sea of my own desire.

You open the door and find me in passion’s throes.

A wolfish smile upon your face as your hand replaces mine.

I am shocked back to reality by your kiss.

And delivered to passion once again.

You are the one who stokes my fires, who drives me beyond my brink.

You are my balance, my motivation, my laughter, my release.

You are the visitor that drinks from the wellspring of my heart.

You are my lover.


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Filed under Poetry

Sly Tendrils

They get me every time. Those sly little tendrils of hair across her eyes. It is a love/hate relationship. I love the feel of those strands. The softness of them against my palm as I push her face down onto my throbbing cock. I love the way they tickle my skin when she drapes them across my crotch and strokes my balls with their velvety touch.

But, goddamn them, I hate it when they obscure her eyes.

I don’t know which I love more. Those silky strands that form a dark joystick I use to control her mouth. Or the hazel promise of pleasure I see when I look into her large, expressive eyes. They both unnerve me. The mere touch of her hair across the back of my neck makes my crotch ache. The way she has of looking at me just so, a flicker of pure, unbridled sexuality that catches me off guard and makes the room feel like it doesn’t have enough oxygen.

You would think that after this much time, I could control myself. I’m a grown man after all, not some hormonal teenager. In spite of that, I’m no match for her. She disarms me with her lively conversation. Standing just beyond reach, her mind engaging me, drawing me in. Casually, she will lean over the counter and my train of thought begins to derail as my eyes are drawn to the curve of her ass. My mind begins racing, palms itching to make contact with the soft pale skin beneath her jeans.

Slowly she will move in, closing the distance between us until we are nearly touching. I will catch her scent, the same fragrance that will linger on my sheets the following day. Her laugh taking on on a husky edge and that familiar sparkle beginning to shine in her eyes. She will throw down a flirty remark, an indicator that her mind is no longer on the topic we are discussing.

As I sit there slightly dumbstruck, contemplating my move, she will look up at me and like a trap door opening, reveal the fire burning in her eyes. My crotch responding, my cock will start to fill in anticipation of the slick prize that awaits me.

And then, like a coup de grace a tendril will fall slyly across her cheek. Unconsciously, I will reach out to drag the loose strands off her face so I have an unobstructed view of that glimmer of sex; the erotic pledge in her eyes. The feel of her soft hair in my fingers will prove my undoing. It is in that moment the battle is lost. My mind gives way in a shudder, my cock strains belligerently demanding satisfaction. Then my willpower flees, my desire grabs the reigns and I know that I won’t be satisfied until I am buried inside her, painting her in my most primal shade.

This is my undoing. To fuck her is to give a piece of your soul to her. Not something I usually like to do. But I’ll do it. Not because I want to, but because of those sly little tendrils.

Damn them.


Filed under Erotica