A soft caress of petals With their heavenly scent And thorns dragged against Exposed and bound flesh Bring arousal and Swell, hardening flesh The crack of the whip Or the pop of a crop Accents the words Each reads to create That perfect image Of the debauchery We each crave "Just a quick taste," she begs, "nothing more." A Hershey's syrup slave Lapping at life's door Kneeling down her tongue Snakes out and licks Her human plate clean These are a few of my Favorite things
Copyright © 1997 Anthony Dauer
http://www.oocities.org/SoHo/4640/
‘Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer Thought it scarcely worth his while To waste much time on the old violin, But held it up with a smile: "What am I bidden, good folks," he cried, "Who’ll start the bidding for me?" "A dollar, a dollar"; then "Two!" "Only two? Two dollars, and who’ll make it three? Going for three---" But no, From the room, far back, a gray-haired man Came forward and picked up the bow; Then, wiping the dust from the old violin, And tightening the loose strings, He played a melody pure and sweet As a caroling angel sings. The music ceased, and the auctioneer, With a voice that was quiet and low, Said: "What am I bid for the old violin?" And he held it up with the bow. A thousand dollar, and who’ll make it two? Two thousand! And who’ll make it three? Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice, And going, and gone," said he. The people cheered, but some of them cried, "We do not quite understand What changed its worth." Swift came the reply: "The touch of a master’s hand." And many a man with life out of tune, And battered and scarred with sin, Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd, Much like the old violin. A "mess of pottage," a glass of wine; A game and he travels on. He is "going" once, and "going" twice, He’s "going" and almost "gone." But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd Never can quite understand The worth of a soul and the change that’s wrought By the touch of the Master’s hand. Myra Brooks Welch
From somewhere in the room Your commanding tone brings me silently to my knees, my body aching for your touch, senses straining, searching, to find you. Suddenly your hand finds my my cheek, softly caressing the skin. Cupping my chin you tilt my head, Raising my eyes to meet your own, A core of warmth and love Beneath the icy layer of control. Leaning forward you brush your lips across my forhead then whisper softly, "I love you." Your hand releases my chin and my eyes lower once again. I hear you, follow you silently as you travel the room though my body never moves. Silence I gasp as the tails of the cat caress my flesh. Leather strands beckoning my skin to life, dancing over my body. They cut through the air, their *swish* combined with my cries creates the music to which we dance. I submit to this implement of torture, as it is an extension of you, and in this knowledge my pain becomes pleasure. My cries fill the room, a crescendo of pleasure and pain. And then it is over and collapse into your arms, reassured by your presence, your strength. As kiss my tears away, fingers gently caressing the welts so recently applied, and whisper once more... "I love you."
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