Dragonflypoetry.com

Forbidden or Otherwise
your words have this
effect that affects things—
tight, athletic, round,
shaking that grind
in her room.
I can’t help but stare.
Mirror now:
fuck,
two fingers move
in tiny circles,
eyes locked into eyes.
“Please.”
The image-party
slow-motion means 
the world to Me.
Music starts—
bass rhythm, lip-syncing,
fuck, baby.
Up and from behind,
forbidden words
flow from the top.
Go slow.
Please.
Your words come in waves,
slow at first—
of course—
I can’t pull my eyes
from My mile-away stare.
Now squarely in front of Me,
standing on perfectly manicured
tiptoes,
as if she already knows
we’re in the midst
of one of our sessions.
Stretched up high,
wrists sensitively guarded
because we know
certain things leave their marks.
Words trigger a release—
a heavenly flood
consuming every inch
of breathable space.
Properly balanced,
she begs
while holding
perfectly still.
Candles melt,
releasing their wax.
Eyes widen
until the blindfold
closes out the room. 
In that dark stillness
she feels her pulse
pushing pounding.  
Anticipation builds—
flinching,
at the tiniest touch.
Her back curves
to the feather’s kiss,
instructed:
Do not move.
My hand traces the curves,
relaxing somewhat—
her attention sways
until a slap
stings her ass
focusing her mind. 
The pleasure source
cupped to her ear—
only she knows
the whispered words.

The End.  Until Ms. asked if she could add to the poem. 

her addition:
Sir leans in, 
breath hot against her lobe:
“Count the drips of wax, kitten—
one for every time you clench around nothing.”
She trembles—
one…
two…
three…
Each drop brands her skin
with His name 
in molten script.
He slides a single finger
down the valley of her spine,
pausing at the small of her back,
then press—
a silent command:
Arch:
She obeys,
offering everything
in one perfect,
breath-held curve.
The room smells of vanilla smoke
and her surrender.
He waits. 
she waits.
The song loops—
bass like a heartbeat—
until the only sound
is her pulse
begging for more.