Home
Amateur
Art
Dom's Forum
D.O.M.
Dungeon
Editorial
Erotica
Fact/Fiction
Feature Articles
Getting Started
Humour
Interview
Master D bate s
Narayanna's Nook
Poetry
Reviews
Sub Missives
Switch's Corner
TDV Bookstore
Search TDV
Support TDV
About us
Advertise at TDV
Archives
Links
Logo
Contributor
Guidelines
Work for TDV
|
| Poetry is a very personal thing for both the author and the reader.
For some, it's an outward expression of their inner feelings, for
others it can be a reflection of themselves in someone elses words.
Whether or not you are a reader of peotry, please take a moment to
enjoy the poetry we present here, we're confident you'll see something
that touches you. |
My
Rock
by Moonfyre
I’m
frightened
I call to you with tears in my eyes
I don’t
need to know where we are
or where we are going
I don’t need to know where we have been
or how we got there
I don’t need to know why we are here
or see the map that shows us the way home
I just need
you to take my hand
to lead the way
I need you to be true
I need you
to be You
I need to feel, I need to believe
But only in you
I’m
fearful
I reach for you with a tremble in my hand
I don’t
need to know the details
I can’t handle the warfare
I don’t need to know the plan
I can’t understand this world
I don’t need to know the path
Or see beyond the reach of your arms
I’m
afraid
when I am alone, but I am not alone
I am safe with you in control
|
|
| lady
Moonfyre of Fyrewind is a Canadian Métis woman, a business
entrepreneur, & Alpha submissive of Lord Mykel’s household,
The House of Fyrewind. She writes educational columns on personal
development, relationship, sexuality and alternative lifestyle
topics, the owner of Moonfyre Designs; a custom design company
focusing on fetish apparel; a singer with the band Pocket
Universe a graphic
artist. She has recorded guided meditation/relaxation
CD’s to assist people with relaxation and personal exploration. |
Prayer
to the Patron Saint of Bondage
by L.A. Mistral
I long for the bone-jarring gods, the wind-twisted veins.
I long for the rounded-hip ridden, the flat-bellied cup;
never to expel his breath from my bed,
never to remove the bite marks on my thighs,
the wet he left there and
how he
showed me the side of skin
known only to angels.
The patron saint of binding:
let him leak out of me in clear streams,
let his sweat leave my cheek with no good-byes.
allow his long fingers,
by three’s and four’s.
to widen me. To lick his ass for how
his fist fashioned my insides.
I made for him a shrine
at my throat. All the gods
are dead. But not the gods of leather.
The gods of leather: My
flesh praises them.
Their many names carved into me. Loving me
as long as the red lines remain.
And then I ask for love again.
I hear their names in the
snap of the whip, the long
bites they make on the underside of my breasts.
Even when he is no longer near me, I open my thighs
to the memory of his commands.
I am a slave even when
the master is gone.
I long for shadows to never darken his memory inside me:
where he left his hand prints, lip prints and cock prints and the
secret language spelled out in welts and
subdermal free verse.
I beg the patron saint
of animal skins: make me raw again.
Renew the mouth he used
to teach my flesh the recitation of rough poetry;
reward his scent with flesh cakes and sharp cries.
I beg to hear the singing
of welts,
the ecstasy of his stinging tongue.
|
|
The
Opposite of Exorcism
by L.A. Mistral
The laws of my arousal
require possession; the harness and the
halter. Write your name
in my raw places. The correction of your
leather.
My open pages, where the whip is already laid.
Where the whip is already
Writing your name on my skin. You already named my
skin, how I
pull myself open for you, the cunt- lipped confession. My eloquent lies,
my wet indictments. All the sins I committed
resisting you.
|
|
A
Trinity of Knots
by L.A. Mistral
My
submission is a trinity of knots.
All
sacred.
(1)
The
Clove Hitch.
So beautiful
in that twisting. How he discovered
me with their tight cords.
How he
threw a blanket over me.
He saddles me. Rides me. Wears me.
He gets
swollen
with my shame.
(2)
The
Sheep Shank.
The rough-tongued
riding crop.
The raw talk of a short whip.
How I arc my back from these rumors!
I get wet
with my own shame.
(3)
The
Square Knot.
Instruments
of amateurs have no place in his hands.
He judges
me like an armored angel;
brings me to heaven on the wings of hurt.
May his
cock whip me raw. May he write his red
language all over me.
This is
his eloquence.
His thesis of skin. My essay of surrender.
His hands,
his expert insertions.
|
|
The author's erotic poetry has been published in Clean Sheets and
will
next appear in the July Poetry Gallery of the Erotic Readers and
Writers
Association and in either the International Journal of Erotica or
the
Erotic Poetry Society's publication. |
Heavenward
Thru Hell
when in my space, i'm a smear,
a streak of your great comet tail
of scourge and flail,
rope and torment,
tearing me into sheer
demon heaven sent.
when in my space, i'm ripped
to strips;
to strips, as your hand dips
to my opened cunt.
head tipped
like prey in a hunt when i'm in my space, i'm
no more
than the animal you crave
to fuck and use. in this nave
of our pleasure sanctuary,
i'm the whore
that angels carry. |
|
|
