Puddling Up

This morning, I caught myself fantasizing about being a poet.
My imagination,  lead me to
 believe it was true.
Stealing bits of my mind, my  
thoughts making me believe
It was real ,  

Erotica was my vice.
Whatever I desire I could live,
 by spilling ink, on fine paper.
Colors would change,  according
 to my mood.
Deeper I went into the sights,  
sounds, and flavor of the ink.
Cognitive,  tactile, emotional,
it bent me into shapes,  
I began to rely on it.

Women, men were equally,
delicious.
I could live my life,  on a hot plate
of desire.
Realism was pulling on nipples,
 sucking here,  licking there.
Penetration was an exceptional
 treat with toys,  fists,  whatever
 I wanted.

I holed up in my loft, needing
more ink poured over me.
I no longer needed fine paper.
It ran down my thighs,  between
 my breasts.
Coating my box with its heat
I began to delve further,  into
 sweet perversion, with clips
ropes,  ties, and clamps.

Deeper still, I crept into the
art of Japanese knots.
Wrapping, twisting corded jute,
to redden my skin.
Suspended, I would hang as
circulation began to tingle
 Between my lips,  the knots
felt good and wet.

How far would I go?
Should I go to reach satisfaction?
Wave after wave I conquered
more juice flowed freely
Dripping, squirting, puddling up.
Endless possibilities before me.
Only, was this real, or still my fantasy?