Lexicon is my lechery
I do like a big one –
vocabulary, that is
catch me with clever conversation,
capture with candour and clarity
enthralled by erudition, I remain,
(faithfully, your humble servant)
retained with ropes of repartee
spoken to salaciously;
seeking satisfaction in scribings
DM me your dirty mind;
your depraved musings
whisper wickedness to make me whimper
talk titillates, discourse is desire
I am wanton with words, kibbitz your kinks
let us luxuriate in libraries of lust
narrating our novel of naughty and nice
scrolling through sin and paging perversions
meet me with mastery of metaphor
and dominance of dictionary
and I’ll be yours
She runs her fingers lightly across the welts and bruises blooming on her pale skin, luxuriating in their heightened sensitivity, their vibrant colours. She has never felt so alive and so much at peace; bound and beaten she was finally freed from the constraint of corsets and conventions which had thus far imprisoned her spirit.
Tonight she is hunting, prowling the narrow dim-lit, littered backstreets; with jaguar stealth and reptilian intent. As she passes, dead leaves and empty cardboard takeaway boxes crumble to ashes, conversations fade to uneasy silence, streetlights flicker. In her wake, wholesome desire becomes ravenous depravity, admiration darkens to slavish worship, human eyes dilate with human lusts. She ignores their tiny whispers, mere nibbles at the edges of her awareness; tonight she is stalking bigger game and has no time for these insubstantial morsels of mortals. She likens them to the cheap fast food they seem to enjoy so much; dead consumables made of fat and starch, produced by an industrial slaughterhouse for degraded tastes.
Why is she not afraid? Is it the reassuring presence of Elijah Blackstone, the man who has vowed to come to her rescue should she ask for surcease? He leads her by bound wrists through dark wooden passageways to his cabin, the largest room on the ship. Her tread is sure, her back straight; at a glance her bowed head would appear a stance of resignation or of fear. But no, it hides a wicked exhilaration – flushed and wide-eyed, there is an exultant smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.
It’s been three days since the mutiny which saw the Captain, First Mate and the Bo’sun marooned in a rowing boat with only a single pistol between them. Three days, and the smell of cordite has yet to dissipate from the cabin where they made their courageous but ineffectual last stand.
Since the storm, the journey has settled back into hazy lassitude. Repairs were made to torn sails, rigging untangled, items which had been flung into corners by the violence of the waves, repositioned in their rightful places. She kept the rope, feigning unconvinced anxiety to the Captain’s blithe assurances of safety. The skies have cleared. There is no more danger. more “In the cargo hold”
See that sweet spot right there in the middle? I never used to believe it existed. It’s such a small, low-probability intersection, considering my limited capacity to differentiate between romantic love and naive infatuation. I stopped believing in ‘happy ever after’ a long time ago. I don’t miss my illusions. They got me into all sorts of trouble. more “Love, Sex, Kink – a Venn diagram”
She’s working diligently; head down, fingers bouncing off the keyboard, a small furrow between her brows. To the casual observer, she could be a freelance web designer or accountant, HR consultant or researcher – the millennial uniform of smart-casual jeans, ankle boots, tailored jacket would be out of place in neither a wine bar or a boardroom. more “The Writer”
Hatches have been battened, sails have been furled. There is even less to entertain her than usual; the crew are universally tight-lipped and tense, paying her little regard as they attend to their foul-weather preparations. Her presence on deck went unnoticed despite her languorous touching of masts and rails, her speculative glances at ropes and cleats. Has she become invisible since the storm warning was sounded? Eclipsed by Mother Nature, she feels even more superfluous than ever, unable to contribute more than ornamentation to which the sailors are oblivious, she retires to her dark cabin and broods. more “The Storm”
She knows they watch her when she goes up on deck to take in the bracing sea air. She can feel their eyes sliding across the heavy material of her dress, see their rough work-hardened hands twitch as they imagine how soft her skin must be underneath the covering layers. When they turn away, grabbing and hauling ropes to displace their unspoken lust, she smirks to herself. more “The Governor’s Wife”
In the house of my psyche, she resides below ground level. Down in the deepest cellar, in her soft-furnished boudoir she sprawls across a four-poster bed, naked and tousle-haired and ready for mischief. Across her skin are scrawled the scars of a hundred lessons imperfectly-learned; crossed-out names and instructions ignored. She’ll flaunt them with insouciance, they are a challenge and a come-on. “Can’t catch me” they mock silently; and “is that all you’ve got?”.
I love a man in a suit. Well, I love the idea of a man in a suit anyway – sadly many actual men who habitually wear suits are dickheads.
So, hello unknown Men In Suits. Do you know what the sight of you does to me? Can you tell what’s going on in my head when I catch sight of you?
A well-fitted suit speaks to me of power, authority and responsibility. I want to submit to that power, feel that authority. I yearn to break through that professional detachment and make you forget your responsibilities until you can see only me, feel only me, want only what I can offer you.