Poetry competition CLOSED 3rd October 2013 9:47pm
WINNER
hemihead (hemi)
hemihead (hemi)
Erotica, but prose...
The Art of Reluctant Submission
So here I sit, naked in the dark, my hands cuffed behind my back, waiting for Her to arrive and do whatever She wants to me. It's not really a situation I'd ever pictured myself in. I've never seen myself as a submissive. I like to let the woman take charge every now and then, but for the most part I prefer to be the boss.
At least, that's what I had thought.
I shift, trying to get comfortable. Sitting naked on a cold linoleum floor makes you very aware of your nakedness. It's not like lounging comfortably nude on your couch; it's quite clear that you're not naked by choice. My balls keep touching the floor and making me jump. Sure, I could stand up, but eventually I'd want to sit back down again, especially since it's dark in here, and it's a lot harder than you'd think to sit down on the floor without the use of your arms.
I can hear Her, outside the bathroom, getting ready. I can't tell what She's doing, but the noises make me nervous. Is She building something? How long have I been waiting?
Anyhow, I never thought I'd choose this sort of situation, but I've been dealing with some sexual issues, and this seemed like a possible solution to try that might help me center myself.
My ex-wife never wanted to take control. Sex with her wasn't a two-person experience. It was me abusing her for her pleasure, with very little feedback from her about what she liked or wanted. When we first started playing BDSM games, it was awesome. I was so excited about all the naughty things we were going to do with one another. But the excitement slowly died as I realized WE weren't going to do anything WITH one another. No, I was going to be doing things TO her, and she was either going to love it or hate it, but either way, I'd probably have to figure out which one it was on my own.
It wasn't just sex where I had to figure out everything on my own. That responsibility bled into every aspect of our lives. Finances. Relocations. Job hunting. Raising our child. Going back to school. Eventually I realized that I didn't have a partner; I had a follower, one who chose not to share with me the reasons why she followed. I hated it. And eventually, I grew to hate her. I never told her I hated her, though. That would have felt like telling your dog it's a bad dog when it hasn't done anything wrong lately. I know, I know, it was cruel of me to try to hide this, but I didn't know what else to do. We were married. We had a kid. I figured I'd simply deal with my issues on my own, as that's what I'd been doing all along. Sure, I hated her, but I also still loved her.
I'm starting to get a little cold. It's funny how you don't really worry about being cold most of the time. If it gets cold, you put on a jacket, or slide under a blanket, or adjust the temperature. It's not that often that you're in a situation where you can't do anything about being cold. I wasn't freezing, but the fact that I couldn't address my chill served to remind me of what I was doing here.
What was I doing here? Why on earth did I think it was a good idea to do this? I mean, it's not like I'm submitting to a stranger; we're friends. We've even played around a bit, so it's not like this is completely unexplored territory. But seeing as how I've never really submitted in regard to anything in my life, my decision to give up all control still confused me.
Sex with my ex-wife eventually became mechanical. Insert tab A into slot B, then pull tab A partially out of slot B before sliding it back in. Repeat. We finished having sex and she immediately went to the bathroom to clean up. No snuggling, no talking, no "Wow! That was awesome!" Every now and then when I fully let my lack of respect for her slip out in the bedroom, we had awesome sex. And immediately afterward I felt like shit. It wasn't that she got off on the brutal things I was doing to her. I could deal with that. It was that we only had awesome sex when I let my negative feelings toward her guide our sexual activities. I realized that on some level, I really enjoyed hitting her, shaming her, and using her body in careless ways because I was finally being open with how I felt about her. I wasn't enjoying it because she enjoyed it; if anything, her enjoyment made it less fun for me. I started to hate myself almost as much as I hated her.
Eventually I had trouble even getting excited about sex, especially vanilla sex. We'd reached the point where if I wanted sex it was expected that I would take it. And yeah, that's fun every once in a while. But it can also be very tiring, and very frustrating, especially when I wasn't feeling like playing rapist. If I wanted to have sex, I'd need to go watch porn first, cuz there certainly wasn't going to be foreplay. And I'd need the porn so I'd have a strong enough erection to last through the struggle. Apparently I don't get off on the struggle, or at least, I don't get off on it when the struggle is simply a requirement I have to complete before I get to fuck.
And now, almost two years after the inevitable divorce, I still have intimacy issues. I get anxious when sexual encounters and play sessions require me to make most of the decisions. I seem to have trouble getting sexually excited when there's an actual person involved, as if the requirement of dealing with that person puts me so on edge that there's no way I'm maintaining an erection. I push people away, rather than take a chance on learning to enjoy sex again.
I'm terrified that my new-found sadism will forever be linked to actual negative feelings toward the target of my sadism, and that the only people I'll ever be able to get off with will be people I hate.
the rest can be found here:
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/128706-the-art-of-reluctant-submission/
So here I sit, naked in the dark, my hands cuffed behind my back, waiting for Her to arrive and do whatever She wants to me. It's not really a situation I'd ever pictured myself in. I've never seen myself as a submissive. I like to let the woman take charge every now and then, but for the most part I prefer to be the boss.
At least, that's what I had thought.
I shift, trying to get comfortable. Sitting naked on a cold linoleum floor makes you very aware of your nakedness. It's not like lounging comfortably nude on your couch; it's quite clear that you're not naked by choice. My balls keep touching the floor and making me jump. Sure, I could stand up, but eventually I'd want to sit back down again, especially since it's dark in here, and it's a lot harder than you'd think to sit down on the floor without the use of your arms.
I can hear Her, outside the bathroom, getting ready. I can't tell what She's doing, but the noises make me nervous. Is She building something? How long have I been waiting?
Anyhow, I never thought I'd choose this sort of situation, but I've been dealing with some sexual issues, and this seemed like a possible solution to try that might help me center myself.
My ex-wife never wanted to take control. Sex with her wasn't a two-person experience. It was me abusing her for her pleasure, with very little feedback from her about what she liked or wanted. When we first started playing BDSM games, it was awesome. I was so excited about all the naughty things we were going to do with one another. But the excitement slowly died as I realized WE weren't going to do anything WITH one another. No, I was going to be doing things TO her, and she was either going to love it or hate it, but either way, I'd probably have to figure out which one it was on my own.
It wasn't just sex where I had to figure out everything on my own. That responsibility bled into every aspect of our lives. Finances. Relocations. Job hunting. Raising our child. Going back to school. Eventually I realized that I didn't have a partner; I had a follower, one who chose not to share with me the reasons why she followed. I hated it. And eventually, I grew to hate her. I never told her I hated her, though. That would have felt like telling your dog it's a bad dog when it hasn't done anything wrong lately. I know, I know, it was cruel of me to try to hide this, but I didn't know what else to do. We were married. We had a kid. I figured I'd simply deal with my issues on my own, as that's what I'd been doing all along. Sure, I hated her, but I also still loved her.
I'm starting to get a little cold. It's funny how you don't really worry about being cold most of the time. If it gets cold, you put on a jacket, or slide under a blanket, or adjust the temperature. It's not that often that you're in a situation where you can't do anything about being cold. I wasn't freezing, but the fact that I couldn't address my chill served to remind me of what I was doing here.
What was I doing here? Why on earth did I think it was a good idea to do this? I mean, it's not like I'm submitting to a stranger; we're friends. We've even played around a bit, so it's not like this is completely unexplored territory. But seeing as how I've never really submitted in regard to anything in my life, my decision to give up all control still confused me.
Sex with my ex-wife eventually became mechanical. Insert tab A into slot B, then pull tab A partially out of slot B before sliding it back in. Repeat. We finished having sex and she immediately went to the bathroom to clean up. No snuggling, no talking, no "Wow! That was awesome!" Every now and then when I fully let my lack of respect for her slip out in the bedroom, we had awesome sex. And immediately afterward I felt like shit. It wasn't that she got off on the brutal things I was doing to her. I could deal with that. It was that we only had awesome sex when I let my negative feelings toward her guide our sexual activities. I realized that on some level, I really enjoyed hitting her, shaming her, and using her body in careless ways because I was finally being open with how I felt about her. I wasn't enjoying it because she enjoyed it; if anything, her enjoyment made it less fun for me. I started to hate myself almost as much as I hated her.
Eventually I had trouble even getting excited about sex, especially vanilla sex. We'd reached the point where if I wanted sex it was expected that I would take it. And yeah, that's fun every once in a while. But it can also be very tiring, and very frustrating, especially when I wasn't feeling like playing rapist. If I wanted to have sex, I'd need to go watch porn first, cuz there certainly wasn't going to be foreplay. And I'd need the porn so I'd have a strong enough erection to last through the struggle. Apparently I don't get off on the struggle, or at least, I don't get off on it when the struggle is simply a requirement I have to complete before I get to fuck.
And now, almost two years after the inevitable divorce, I still have intimacy issues. I get anxious when sexual encounters and play sessions require me to make most of the decisions. I seem to have trouble getting sexually excited when there's an actual person involved, as if the requirement of dealing with that person puts me so on edge that there's no way I'm maintaining an erection. I push people away, rather than take a chance on learning to enjoy sex again.
I'm terrified that my new-found sadism will forever be linked to actual negative feelings toward the target of my sadism, and that the only people I'll ever be able to get off with will be people I hate.
the rest can be found here:
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/128706-the-art-of-reluctant-submission/
Atakti,
Due to fairly extreme adult content, I am just going to post the links for you rather than post the stories here. I hope you don't mind.
Gemini
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/129324-beautiful-disaster/
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/90080-choke-a-bitch/
Due to fairly extreme adult content, I am just going to post the links for you rather than post the stories here. I hope you don't mind.
Gemini
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/129324-beautiful-disaster/
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/90080-choke-a-bitch/
Coming Home
I know it's her, it could only be her. My nose has found that scent, the one that sets my body to tinkling like wind chimes in a storm. It smells of the grace of waves that slowly stroke the beach.... The smell of eyes fixed in adoration on ever changing flames.
Theres no need to open my eyes, I'll leave them closed for now while the scent strums through me and leave the searching to my mind.
The sound of her feet is the sound of her sighs against the crook of my neck, the curve of the floorboards under her almost slender weight is an image in a dimly lit mirror of the way she moved beneath me.
The ground hisses in pain at the shortness of her soles kisses as she walks towards me, each step redefining the envy of the languages of the world. The day we find the language in that sound is the day the fruition of mankinds time on earth will be the formation of three words.
It's getting hard to hold on now as she moves towards that place that has no match in heaven, hell, nirvana or the redemption written in eternal words. The spot where the ground grew grooves that matched her stance when she turned to leave.
When those grooves are smoothed over by gentle steps, then the time will come to open the eyes that I closed so long ago. I'll open them and see the sweet honey skin on the palm that reaches for my cheek and the way she moves like a shadow caught in the joy of expressing life only known through the movements of others.
I will open those eyes that saw unwilling images and point them towards the lifting curves of lips that match my own and our hopes will rise with them.
When your soft lashes part and look through mine, I'll know your home.
And I will be too.
I know it's her, it could only be her. My nose has found that scent, the one that sets my body to tinkling like wind chimes in a storm. It smells of the grace of waves that slowly stroke the beach.... The smell of eyes fixed in adoration on ever changing flames.
Theres no need to open my eyes, I'll leave them closed for now while the scent strums through me and leave the searching to my mind.
The sound of her feet is the sound of her sighs against the crook of my neck, the curve of the floorboards under her almost slender weight is an image in a dimly lit mirror of the way she moved beneath me.
The ground hisses in pain at the shortness of her soles kisses as she walks towards me, each step redefining the envy of the languages of the world. The day we find the language in that sound is the day the fruition of mankinds time on earth will be the formation of three words.
It's getting hard to hold on now as she moves towards that place that has no match in heaven, hell, nirvana or the redemption written in eternal words. The spot where the ground grew grooves that matched her stance when she turned to leave.
When those grooves are smoothed over by gentle steps, then the time will come to open the eyes that I closed so long ago. I'll open them and see the sweet honey skin on the palm that reaches for my cheek and the way she moves like a shadow caught in the joy of expressing life only known through the movements of others.
I will open those eyes that saw unwilling images and point them towards the lifting curves of lips that match my own and our hopes will rise with them.
When your soft lashes part and look through mine, I'll know your home.
And I will be too.
Anonymous
hey dude, mine IS prose...
?
?
http://i115.photobucket.com/albums/n293/MichaelG_05/b358b10d-cf26-4d79-9bb4-019621247744_zpsb0812dc7.jpg
Do you trust me?
Implicitly
Her skin
still warm from the shower
senses even the subtlest shift in the air
as he encircles the bed
Tonight I'm feeling selfish Mayhem
and I wish for you to be my toy
Standing behind her
his hand guides her wrist into a velvet cuff
First her left… then her right
Kneeling down,
he softly kisses her forehead
and whispers
Yes Sir..
yes Sir
In return for your servitude
I can only offer you..
me ..
*I love you*
I will however require 3 things tonight
She feels the strength of his hands
as he grips her leg behind her calf
and begins to tie Kinbaku Rope
around her knee
Number 1, The Blindfold does not come off
Sensory deprivation
Blocking the vision
heightens the touch
Number 2, No speaking unless spoken to
Your only reply may be Yes Sir or No Sir
Her other leg lifts
and then bound in rope
The 3rd , you are not allowed to Cum
without permission
To which you can not ask for
*devilish smirk*
Kneeling again behind her
He closes his eyes and pauses
his fingers tracing her jawline
Do you understand these rules?
Yes sir
He places her collar around her neck
appropriately labeled Mayhem
Then let us begin
Do you trust me?
Implicitly
Her skin
still warm from the shower
senses even the subtlest shift in the air
as he encircles the bed
Tonight I'm feeling selfish Mayhem
and I wish for you to be my toy
Standing behind her
his hand guides her wrist into a velvet cuff
First her left… then her right
Kneeling down,
he softly kisses her forehead
and whispers
Yes Sir..
yes Sir
In return for your servitude
I can only offer you..
me ..
*I love you*
I will however require 3 things tonight
She feels the strength of his hands
as he grips her leg behind her calf
and begins to tie Kinbaku Rope
around her knee
Number 1, The Blindfold does not come off
Sensory deprivation
Blocking the vision
heightens the touch
Number 2, No speaking unless spoken to
Your only reply may be Yes Sir or No Sir
Her other leg lifts
and then bound in rope
The 3rd , you are not allowed to Cum
without permission
To which you can not ask for
*devilish smirk*
Kneeling again behind her
He closes his eyes and pauses
his fingers tracing her jawline
Do you understand these rules?
Yes sir
He places her collar around her neck
appropriately labeled Mayhem
Then let us begin
all of my prose experience is sci-fi, and i've never read (or written) erotica. i know enough to know it's not smut so i tried to write this accordingly. basically just a sexy dream i had that i embellished and skipped the weird parts. Please be brutally honest. if it's good i want to refine it. if it's shite...well i just want to know. thanks (673w)
Awake and lucid, on the verge, the fringe…or rather a precipice. Rooted down through the spectrum of chakra, frozen in time, not in place, while something greater is…Coming, through the canal of soft life and vacuum of the quiet cosmos. It’s the pale brilliance of an autumn crescent, one stunning sliver of light born of that grand engine that warms the heart, flesh and soul. Bearing down on two found souls in the delicate process of losing themselves. Faith. Drawn together by so fickle a force, like mercury, destiny, fate. And shivering sparks ignite around them, vibrating like rabbits in heat.
October flame consumes them on the summit of this mount, for this one night called Glory, a terrace of lust, their content embrace in most vulgar twilight, tangled limbs and senses. Oh that harvest flame and Vulcan bless them, that reservations turn to ashes. As these things ignite, energy reaching out, opportunity thrusts against patience. So the rush comes like wrath, knees grow weak while waters rise.
Waist deep in churning desire, bubbling passion, a tide defying our world. Bare chests, rise, fall, swells of an ocean spitting hormones through the satin night, caught in the dance of Aphrodite as they are. A tantric constellation, a matrix of hearts kindled, and heavenly bodies aligned, making their courses betwixt, slow and firm circling the sun. The rising heat elevates their pace, rhythmic, furious, growing, toes curling back on themselves like hurricane winds. The man, chiseled from God’s own bones, unfit for a mold lest it be her, cut from the same cloth as Maya’s own veil.
Seven miles above sleeping California, invisible to her as she was, on her back like a fallen angel, she follows with her hand the man she inspires. The backbone of Atlas that elegantly tapers to the flexing, perpetual OH! He raises his mortal divinity, she parts her hungry thighs. The stormy abstinence pierced and resolve changing shapes, from lover to warrior until they blend as one. Yet this warrior moves like a poet, summoning Muses to their fire. And lo, draws forth a sigh, like lace tumbling lace ‘cross beach sand, a moan lingering low, the tactile glow of a simmering goddess. Then quickly comes a cry, sharp, the chills of A minor, drowning out the promised trumpets of God’s wrath. A demand for more and proof of the Almighty piercing the sky like a rescue flare from the trembling hand of a dainty siren. She follows the raw cacophony, rising into the dripping air, but now climbing to the peak of new climax. Holding him with all her might, that she might not lose that high, or claim another if she can.
Now he rises with her, the paradise rhythm unbroken, turning her about with a potter’s precision to face the masterpiece of tedious evolution, a testament to new life and virtue. His hands trace sigils in the language of love upon her rocking bosom, fingers plucking pure sensation from her body and smothering back to the source through passion and hardened nipples. Her own hands clutch at his neck and thighs, lust exploring the frame of ecstasy, soliciting blood, not much, from his back, ultimatums for orgasm race down his back to reciprocate. Their ballet in its grace takes them to the edge of the mystic bed that is this mountain, and with care he holds her over eternity. Rain falls on their fervor like a product of their pleasure, erasing the musk. But his raging heart has yet to fulfill its explosive destiny. Then, quietly, felt in the lull of momentum and a grip that gently tightens, it’s up on him. And then her.
They fall back into the petrified embrace of spent lovers, pleasantly shuddering, kindled in that peculiar, infinite energy. Her blonde hair wild from the jaunt, silver in the impartial light, liken to Luna herself, sharp eyes slowly glazing from the stern chemical rush in her veins. Glistening hips immortal in that moment like the crescent moon approvingly watching over them.
Awake and lucid, on the verge, the fringe…or rather a precipice. Rooted down through the spectrum of chakra, frozen in time, not in place, while something greater is…Coming, through the canal of soft life and vacuum of the quiet cosmos. It’s the pale brilliance of an autumn crescent, one stunning sliver of light born of that grand engine that warms the heart, flesh and soul. Bearing down on two found souls in the delicate process of losing themselves. Faith. Drawn together by so fickle a force, like mercury, destiny, fate. And shivering sparks ignite around them, vibrating like rabbits in heat.
October flame consumes them on the summit of this mount, for this one night called Glory, a terrace of lust, their content embrace in most vulgar twilight, tangled limbs and senses. Oh that harvest flame and Vulcan bless them, that reservations turn to ashes. As these things ignite, energy reaching out, opportunity thrusts against patience. So the rush comes like wrath, knees grow weak while waters rise.
Waist deep in churning desire, bubbling passion, a tide defying our world. Bare chests, rise, fall, swells of an ocean spitting hormones through the satin night, caught in the dance of Aphrodite as they are. A tantric constellation, a matrix of hearts kindled, and heavenly bodies aligned, making their courses betwixt, slow and firm circling the sun. The rising heat elevates their pace, rhythmic, furious, growing, toes curling back on themselves like hurricane winds. The man, chiseled from God’s own bones, unfit for a mold lest it be her, cut from the same cloth as Maya’s own veil.
Seven miles above sleeping California, invisible to her as she was, on her back like a fallen angel, she follows with her hand the man she inspires. The backbone of Atlas that elegantly tapers to the flexing, perpetual OH! He raises his mortal divinity, she parts her hungry thighs. The stormy abstinence pierced and resolve changing shapes, from lover to warrior until they blend as one. Yet this warrior moves like a poet, summoning Muses to their fire. And lo, draws forth a sigh, like lace tumbling lace ‘cross beach sand, a moan lingering low, the tactile glow of a simmering goddess. Then quickly comes a cry, sharp, the chills of A minor, drowning out the promised trumpets of God’s wrath. A demand for more and proof of the Almighty piercing the sky like a rescue flare from the trembling hand of a dainty siren. She follows the raw cacophony, rising into the dripping air, but now climbing to the peak of new climax. Holding him with all her might, that she might not lose that high, or claim another if she can.
Now he rises with her, the paradise rhythm unbroken, turning her about with a potter’s precision to face the masterpiece of tedious evolution, a testament to new life and virtue. His hands trace sigils in the language of love upon her rocking bosom, fingers plucking pure sensation from her body and smothering back to the source through passion and hardened nipples. Her own hands clutch at his neck and thighs, lust exploring the frame of ecstasy, soliciting blood, not much, from his back, ultimatums for orgasm race down his back to reciprocate. Their ballet in its grace takes them to the edge of the mystic bed that is this mountain, and with care he holds her over eternity. Rain falls on their fervor like a product of their pleasure, erasing the musk. But his raging heart has yet to fulfill its explosive destiny. Then, quietly, felt in the lull of momentum and a grip that gently tightens, it’s up on him. And then her.
They fall back into the petrified embrace of spent lovers, pleasantly shuddering, kindled in that peculiar, infinite energy. Her blonde hair wild from the jaunt, silver in the impartial light, liken to Luna herself, sharp eyes slowly glazing from the stern chemical rush in her veins. Glistening hips immortal in that moment like the crescent moon approvingly watching over them.
oh shit. it's the 4th. fucking insomnia!
Atatki if I may be so bold, would you still consider reading mine that I might get some feedback. I don't have many mature (or just intelligent[or clever really]) contemporaries for the time being.
I promise to never use my poetry for evil.
Atatki if I may be so bold, would you still consider reading mine that I might get some feedback. I don't have many mature (or just intelligent[or clever really]) contemporaries for the time being.
I promise to never use my poetry for evil.
Well, I managed to choose a clear winner - well done, hemi, you were up against stiff competition...
It's not over, though! All eligible entries will be considered for publication in the Erotica Issue. I'll come back and give a heads up closer to publication time (or just after), end of November, and tell you who made it in. (More details of this magazine on page 1 of this comp)
Luna, although your entry did not count for the DU comp, I have added it to the list of entries being considered for publication. I found the style interesting and creative.
It's not over, though! All eligible entries will be considered for publication in the Erotica Issue. I'll come back and give a heads up closer to publication time (or just after), end of November, and tell you who made it in. (More details of this magazine on page 1 of this comp)
Luna, although your entry did not count for the DU comp, I have added it to the list of entries being considered for publication. I found the style interesting and creative.
