Slowly I now open, My tired and weary eyes, Discovering your presence, Subdued and tied. Your wrists bound tight, Ankles pulled apart, A criss-cross pattern, Protecting your heart. Your satin nightie, So taught under strain, Eyes tearing up, In lust without pain. As I flex my wrist, Your arms lurch forward, As I own every motion, Controlled by a cord. Exposing your body, To my every desire, This submission you provide, Becomes fuel to my fire. You whimper some words, That tempt my ear, “Fuck me hard Sir, Take me now, right here.” With a smirk I respond, With a jerk of the rope, Spreading you apart, Exposing your hope. “Oh baby won’t you, Wait there for me? Upon the crisp edge, Of pure ecstasy?” My reply leaves you short, Of life-filling breath, As I whisper once again, At the nape of your neck. “Pour me a river, In amber not gold, Be my little angel, And do as you’re told” ~~8~@ (c) 2014 PJ Bayliss
By PJ Bayliss
.The sweeper was there in the club that day,He donated his time and gave us a smile,But I was busy and could not afford to stay,The next day he dropped after running a mile..The red-nosed gentleman always said hi,Regardless of what went on in his life,Eager to hear how my day had gone by,I heard of his death by his gracious wife..We drove down the road, cursed at the car,Casually labelling the stranger a jerk,Even with doctors attending right there,The stranger remained, never made it to work..My Grandfather always seemed grumpy & mean,But strong willed and always merry with beer,Until one afternoon he coughed up his spleen,My last words had made my feelings quite clear..The dust barely settles as he falls on foreign soil,The uniformed child with his kids at home,A journalist captures the moment blood spoils,His kids learn when online they roam..I sit in my bunker and peer through my eyes,Calmly putting everything to the test,Hiding from this world and my untimely demise,Running from the night when I don’t rest..My existence lives in a corridor of time,Rolling messages and pages of words,Caring for lives who are not mine,Content with an ending if I am heard..
(C) 2012 PJ Bayliss