Poet Gets Lucky

Looking beautifully brutal but not butch,
Everything long, black hair, eye lashes, nose,
Coat sleeves, pants and the straps of her bag.
All in black, her hand on her companions lap,
Whose silver smooth short satin dress,
Shining by the light,
From black wax candles through the glass table top.

The pair enjoyed my 20 minutes of erotic words.
Silver Girl clapped and smiled,
Brutal in Black only smiled,
Below the table, one hand squeezing inner Silver's thigh,
Her thighs squeezing back on the knuckles kneading there,

The club was half full, 40 people schmoozing, smoking,
Some paying attention, most engaged in distraction,
Against the background of my smutty speeches,
Some rhyming, mostly ignored.
20 minutes of self-fulfillment, like masturbating,
Before a mirror with eyes closed.

On the side of a hill, the club marquee cast shadows,
Down to the woodsy edges behind,
I read it before walking into the darkness,
For a smoke of my own,
"Ero-Poets Saturday After Midnight,
No Cover, Bands Coming Soon"

Poorly lit and narrow, the path led to
Low rock ledges, undergrowth,
A cellar door with dim glowing bulb,
Hanging from frayed wires, swaying,
In September's darkest morning,
I am thinking of Silver Girl and her friend,

The sound behind me was wind
And a tumbling pebble kicked by,
The wrong kind of shoes for a hill,
Silver clad, a smile and two long legs,
Black stockings, blacker 4 inch heels,
She stumbled the last 3 steps,
Wound into my one outstretched arm,
Tangled and breathless,

Are you alright?
Are you OK?
Are you cold?
Where is your friend?

She falls her weight against my shoulder,
The poets weak one, the one sheltered,
From her harm, she is the one,
All poets fear, real life, her trip,
Her Master's wish,

It is her mission, her job tonight,
To feel my fingers reach up her,
Silver dress, down her stomach into,
The undersized panties with elastic deeply,
Creasing her skin, puckering her pubic lips,
Into a wet bundle,

Silver Girl reacts, showing submissive moves,
Bending forward, arching back, tight permissions,
Movements of ache, of invitation, thirsty breathing,
Not speaking, just whispers about her Dom,
Her need to hear the story later, in the lair
Of her dark design. Of my penetration, my intruding,
Tongue to tongue. My hands leaving marks for viewing.

Behind a pine with rough bark, she joins her hands and begs.
She drops a shoe.
I remove one thigh high stocking to tie her wrists,
She thanks me while squirming, her wish I introduce,
Her discarded shoe to her bloated lips between her thighs.
The toe, not the heel. Later the Master will wear it.
Silver will lick and kiss and feel it again.

I may not fuck her, not allowed.
My will is hers, to make her cum with
The tip of this shoe against the fabric barrier
Of her panties.
Holding her when she does,
Held by a man who says stories made up,
And never tell she felt love tied to this,
Dark, rough barked tree.

She clutches the stocking in one hand,
Her pair of shoes in the other,
Silver runs up the path to the swinging door,
Of the Ero-Poets night spot near,
1:23 AM Sunday morning, mission accomplished.

The crowd has thinned, one more round,
A couple dances, sharing the weight,
Of each others foreheads to thin jazz.
I sit with Silver, my left hand on her naked thigh,
Occasional brushes with long fingers and knuckles,
In black kid leather gloves sliding up Silver's other,
The leg still dressed in black nylon.

Met between the legs of a woman,
Who feels two hands, two types of caress.
Unknown, we think of the same thing.
Black silk and leather,
Black wax dripping, shoe tips,
A slender long nose,
Long stories, fantasies poems are built of,
September Sunday mornings.