Lovers’ dilemma

A dilemma of delights:

To wake to your lover cradling or cradled,
Body beautiful beside you,
To caress and kiss to drowsy waking,
And slow morning lust.


To find your dreams directed,
At your muse’s ardent attentions,
Until sleep merges into conscious passion,
Irresistible desire melding you together.


– – –

Except of course, the dilemma is only an apparent one, and before the event, for lo the solution is presented automatically when chance dictates which partner wakes first.

Perca fluviatilis

Steady-turning, tip low,

feel extended through finest lineaments.

My arm’s sweeping twitch-response,

tugging darting replies, unequal to freedom.

Flash of black-barred gold and fiery fin,

within the cloudy flow,

as mounting pressure compels,

into the waiting net.

But not the pan.

New Lovers 5 – 7

The ‘story’ continues:


The slick of you,

the slide, the grip,

the clasp of you.

The trap of your eyes,

the lure of your lips,

the curve of your hips.

The way you sway me.


The spell of you, cast so long ago,

ritually burned into my being,

with each shuddering orgasm you undergo.



These fingers still feel your skin,

your slick walls.

My mouth seems fresh-kissed,

but ever eager for the next.

Your taste lingers, in unerase-able memory.


My eyes see yours at every moment,

my ears hear your gentle voice,

your tuneful laugh.

Your parting words still burn my consciousness;

a promise now made 2 days hence,

to be fulfilled in 4 days more.



Freshly fucked

a warm contented smile

graces her glowing face.

Shining eyes affirm this new lover.

A gentle graceful touch, irresistable,

draws both close again.

Clothes fall.

The world will wait.




Poem: Muse 1



A magic muse,
Magnificent,empowered, inspiring,
I dream within her web of words,
Her image-laden seduction,
Her response a spur to my endeavour,
My reward, her greatest of favour.

– – –

The picture was sent to me by a completely lovely young lady, and seemed to match the subject matter well.

My thanks as ever for such a beautiful offering to aid my work.

The Working Dead

There is a tiredness of mind, where limbs likewise lay lethargic,

Exhaustion more than physical,

A spiritual malaise dragging down a body without spirit.

Mind-numbing work, no challenge, little reward,

Bores its way into the psyche, draining all that hints of joy and life.

The longed-for return to family home, to warmth, nurturing, caring, sharing,

Becomes but laying down to sleep, as soon as essential chores are done.

To see the chance, harness reserves, to momentarily escape, to feel release,

These hard-found attempts at transient joy, are all that is striven for.

As life continues and leaks away, slipping between tired lifeless fingers.

Poem: The Great Rite

This extended poem will be an entry into Exhibit A’s erotica competition* based on the wonderful Sinful Sunday project’s submissions for week 159. My choice for inspiration was a photo from Sinful Sunday’s prime mover:

I want to thank both the inspiring Molly and Exhibit A for motivating me to submit this, and LadyS for comradely support in rivalry.




The Great Rite


Witch as Biker-chick, sky-clad beneath black leather,

Scarlet lips for the scarlet woman.

Soon, shrouding ebon skin discarded,

Ivory revealed, within astral-blue circle,

She will prowl, empowered,

Goddess drawn-down, charged.


At full of moon, occulted by trees,

The stones silently ring for them,

For her, as priestess,

As woman, witch, and multi-named Goddess.

Her coven watch, respectful and entranced,

As she unsheathes her blade,

The gleaming sword of Art,

Fit for this greater circle.

A gift from her lover, now ex,

Freely gifted again on their parting,

In love, respect, and remembered passion.

Holding his symbol erect, she holds herself,

And in fond remembrance, kisses cool steel,

Silent thanks to him, and to the Lady,

Ruler of love and life.


Now metal extension of her will,

Held firm and proudly,

She calls all within her space,

Making it hers with flashing blade,

Invoking pentacles create quartered towers,

Watching space, and spaces between,

Guarding the workings inviolate.


New nervousness afflicts him now,

New as partner, new as priest;

New and perfect, wisely chosen, she had smiled.

Unconscious approval lights her eyes,

As the charge sounds from his bearded lips.

Crowley’s commission, craft transmitted,

Vibrant with sonorous power,

Whose rhythmic, bell-like echo in psychic realms,

Draws down the moon.

Moon-music, making a greater Goddess still,

Than all she is,

In daily life as avatar, priestess, teacher, lover.


Strong, striding, powerful,

A dancer with a tigress’ power,

Divinely possessed, she leads the twelve,

Coaxing their power with hers,

Connecting them to nature,

Bonding with the seasons, earth’s cycle.

For her coven, the blood-red wine,

In precious chalice, hand-held by their leader,

Is pierced, penetrated, energised,

By steel athame within his hands.

Sunk slowly, absorbed by the symbol of life,

The ancient rite, fertility, rebirth, birth itself,

Begun with passion.

Held thus in mind of priest and priestess,

As echo of their own, now sacred here.


Her way is gentle on others’ inhibitions,

Skyclad is enough for them, to free their mundane shells.

Sensual, sexual, compelling respect,

Controlling her surging power-flow,

She turns to him as they remain,

Naked and alone, on cool grass, in caressing breeze,

“Now my love, ‘tis time to sow your seed,

In Ceres’ name, and in mine – in me.”

Fingertips stroke his soft beard,

Head turns to kiss her palm,

With hand held in his.


Distance closed she breathes his heavy spicy scent,

Flowers and musk mingle,

Before wine-taste thrills his parted lips,

As her tongue quests, a blade at play,

The sport of arousal, of force and restraint.

Heat builds between them,

Nipples hard-pushed through hairs to his skin,

Priapic surges lift his cock,

Hard, long and thick, pushing at her belly.

Hands roam his back, luxuriating,

As his cup her soft breast’s weight,

And smooth her arse’s supple curves.

Stag-horned in his mind now,

He moves to lick and suck,

Her nipples proud of dark areoles,

So sweet, there must be magic here.

Her sighs, softly-caused, are softly voiced,

Before she sinks to the Earth,

And invites, in dark-honeyed tones,

His continued embrace.


Cernunnos-crowned, he yet kneels,

Wild-hunt crying far off, echoing,

The echoes of nature’s way,

Of life and death, of blood and birth,

Innocent savagery sating hunger’s pricks,

Feeding the mothers, feeding the kin.

Cycles swirl within his surging mind,

But the hunger called forth is mutual;

Hers felt as much as his, he bends to feast.


Her mountain peaks, rose-capped,

Are mouth-eclipsed as nipples swell,

Firmness shooting electric thrills through belly to clit.

Hands nestled in forest-hair as lips dance lower,

Fire-spiders play where he touches, webs combining.

Her legs spread wide as hips lift, urging,

The sacred valley and fountain,

Flowing with sweet pussy honey,

Demand the fire be lit.

His tongue-torch obliges with liquid laps,

Labia sodden, coated with Tantric kalas,

Conveyed by cunnilingus to moisten and inflame.


Such sweet pleasure,

Divine indeed for the divine,

Earthly as earthly pleasures might be,

Decadent, sensual, overwhelming.

Sex as good.

As holy, delirious, sacred and profane,

Sex as fun, and sex as Goddess.


Ecstatic sensations engulf her mind,

Limbs demand she succumb,

As she loves to do with him,

Tongue-driven to orgasm by his sweet skill.

But greater purpose compels her here,

Than great but simple pleasure, or mundane bonding.

She calls for his cock, commanding,

And, attentive at attention, it attends her,

Pushing her open, sliding wetly within,

Slick lips embracing his shaft,

As first-penetration joy primally fills her being,

Carnality incarnate, paired, as one;

The paradox of lust.


The ancient dance is made anew,

As each time that they mate.

Her heat spreads, their bodies resonate,

Rhythmically paired in passion;

Her pussy volcanic as strokes stoke the fire,

Deep, passionate, focussed.

She cannot deny his power over her pussy,

His cock cunt-worships her as much as he himself.

Well-paired, conscious of their role,

Some part of each holds the sacred visions firm,

Even as their peak looms before them.


Toe-curling tension racks her frame,

Divine release beckoning with power,

Racked antlers grace her partner’s brow,

As, moon-haloed now, surrender blossoms,

A kundalini surge in Goddess incarnate,

Her self, part-lost, part-reborn,

Incandescent power transcends and flows,

Astarte, Gaia, Diana, Priestess; ecstatic.

As one with orgasm’s chaotic whirls,

Directed and directing,

She takes his seed and remakes the world.

Poem: Loveliness




An enticing name drew me.

Lured by witty intention, I read;

Intelligence bursting with exuberance,

Leapt from screen to engage my thoughts.

Wise words, frank sexuality,

An avatar of her avocation.

Two images are in my memories forever,

Tight dress and impact device,

Blond hair flowing in nature’s setting;

Reclining, temptingly be-hatted,

Brightness radiant from even darkened screen,

Confident, savvy, seductive.


Sadistic specialities excite and compel,

Thuds against skin and flesh,

Tight bonds physical and mental,

Bite into the psyche like sharpened fangs,

Her imprint enduring and loved.

A torturer’s imagination with a carer’s imperative,

Divine callousness so very much sought,

That is never callous.

Committed to committing others,

When proven worthy,

Of  ‘hitty wacky’ delights,

Or mental strictures.

The loveliest of Liliths:

Lovely Ness.


Written, of course, for The Lady Ness: @TheLadyNess,