Tables Turned

Innocence has no place in her heart and mind,
Her only purpose is to capture his soul
And make him take her to his dark sin.
The earlier the better, not after midnight, her patience grows thin.

She haunts his mind with her temptress smile,
She’s the Mistress of the art of seduction.
He, only a scapegoat, a pawn in her enticing game,
Tonight the wicked rendezvous will build his flame.

She waits in the shadows of her Sorceress lair,
Black silk caressing curves, hugging her secret wetness.
Candlelight gleams as he enters the door,
She turns with a low animal growl as she kneels to the floor.

His stops at the shadowy entrance, gazes over her body,
She holds her breath waiting for his claim.
She does not know his intent is to tame her
Her game gives way to his ultimate power.

She offers herself to his altar of sin,
He smirks as he watches her bravado crumble.
He stalks her as a predator stalks his prey,
His stride is certain, he’ll take her this day.

She becomes his in one single touch,
His growl in her ear releases her resolve.
Her skin burns like fire with passion’s yearning,
She begs him to master her, from which there’s no returning.

He is her Dominant, she his submissive,
There’s no turning back to reclaim the Mistress.
Her submission is his treasure, her deepest gift
To a man who will love her, protect her, to new heights he’ll lift.

He asks if it's worth this release of her power,
Can she become what he deeply desires?
Her only answer begs him to make his claim,
After all, she says, I’ll never be young again.

~CWylde © 2016

Unholy Torment

Bound, captured,
Caught in his lair.
His voice soft,
Wicked tones,
Knowing he will not spare 
My aroused body from
His dark carnal lust.
The feel of leather
As it traces my curves,
Breath catches,
So much to learn.
Unholy torment,
Taunting, teasing,
Sinful delight.
First strike sends chills,
First plead, his will,
Second strike,
Urge builds,
Third, fourth, fifth strike,
Craving mounts,
Reaching the nexus
Of unbridled desire.
Needing release,
Begging it so,
His quiet answer - no.
Leather on skin,
Tracing once more,
Six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
Pleading him to enter in.
That moment,
That burst
Of final climax,
Spiraling into his
Carnal salacious acts.

~CWylde © 2015

 

Sir's Beads

Sir's text told her what he desired,
Her heart stopped at his words.
The thoughts of his touch and
His desire of her, her Sir
Her trust in him
Brings her to her knees.
He comes to her and bids her rise,
The scene begins with
The pull of the beads.

The pull of the beads twirled her
And threw her face down on the bed.
Sir took each single strand and wrapped her arms and wrists to each other.
Her body glistened with beads of sweat
As she waited, not seeing his intent.
She felt the pull of her legs open wide.
His hands lifting her hips, bringing her
Back to her knees, exposing her, Vulnerable to his control.
His fingers toy with her bringing her
Further to ecstacy.
One strand left that hung from her waist
Inserted into her wet pussy.
She gasped at the cold entering and
The sensation of the beads inside.
Opening her legs even wider,
He fingers her, toying with the beads
As they pressed into her clit
Moving in and out
Making her writhe with desire.
Leaving the one strand,
He makes his entry with his
Hard enlarged cock.
She hears his gasp as he feels the pressure,
Beads against cock, against clit.
The inner massage of the beads
As he moves in and out,
Thrusting harder and deeper inside.
She's filled and is on the brink of orgasmic crest,
He thrusts deep holding to the end of the strand.
He thrusts deeper,
"Cum for me now, Little One! "
She bursts into the abyss,
He pulls the strand at that perfect moment,
He thrusts deeper and cums harder with
The sensation.
She cannot move, has no voice.
She only feels his pulsating throb
As he empties himself in her.
It all started with the pull of the beads.

CWylde ⓒ 09 / 05 / 14

My Sir

My Sir