Doggie Style

He was rough.
From a man who bragged about how hard he was,
About how powerful he was,
About how powerless he left all the other girls…
She shouldn’t have expected anything else.
Every night with him was a constant struggle to keep her insides intact,
A constant struggle not to anger him by falling apart and crumbling to the floor in front of him,
‘Cause you see he didn’t like to be interrupted;
Interruptions meant he had to start over,
So she kept still, her eyes riveted on the white washed wall,
And she kept up this constant recitation in her head:
“Don’t worry…He’s like this because he’s passionate about you…
Don’t worry…It’s only a matter of time before he realizes that there are other things he can do with you…
Don’t worry…If you can only take it just one more time, the next time won’t be as hard.
Don’t worry…”
But all she did was worry.
Would he come home, sweating and panting?
His appetite for her pain fueled by the empty bottles of Johnny Walker left behind the bar at Spirit’s pub?
Would he do it with her clothes on this time, or command her to strip naked?
Believe it or not, naked was the worst.
It meant she had to take the humiliation skin to skin and body to body…
Would he close the bedroom door so that baby girl Keisha couldn’t see her mother writhing in pain?
Would he fall asleep after a few strokes and not wake up to do it all over again?
Every night was just as bad as the night before,
And every night she expected to die from all the hard pounding….
But there was an ease; the only thing that made it easier,
The only thing that made it shorter,
Was for her not to fight; to just give in,
To accept it,
To simply bend over and take it the best way she could;
Bite the bullet and offer up her ass
Because the best way to please him was to give it to him the way he always wanted it…
Doggie style…
And this is not what you think.
Because if sex was all it was then all she would’ve needed was a tube of lube,
Or an inspirational porn video playing in the background.
But when your man insists on pounding you with fists
His knuckles connecting to your chest like a hammer to your tits,
His knee gorging out your stomach while he screams:
“Take that bitch!”
Then you’re in a very similar predicament to the dogs that roam Market Street.
You know, the one’s you kick away when they come too close;
The one’s that are only accepted by vagrants and amused tourists;
The ones with mange that hang their head low and make you wonder,
How on Earth do they survive?
This, ladies and gentlemen, is a whole different type of doggie style.
This is not the one you see on the X rated channels,
This is not the one that’s the bona fide way to make some women cum.
This is the one that makes 911 calls to Mount Saint John at three o’clock in the morning,
This is the one that will lead a body to a body bag.
This doggie style describes an even more painful level of penetration;
The kind that rapes a woman’s soul and scars her children…
And she takes it every night,
And he’s always rough.
From a man who bragged about how hard he was,
About how powerful he was,
About how powerless he left all the other girls…
I guess she shouldn’t have expected anything else.

Viking of Obsession

I came, I saw and I am ready to plunder!
I take what's not mine; I rip what I want from the palms of others.
Remorse is not my forte; I'm concerned only with satisfying my hunger,
So you can tell that hopeless female that you are no longer her lover.

I came, I saw and I am ready to plunder!

I was creeping up on you from miles away;
I drove by your residence just yesterday.
I saw you washing your car and I was mesmerised by the way
Your biceps flexed and your back muscles stretched...
I took a quick video, and I keep it on replay.

I came, I saw and I am ready to plunder!

My plan of action is set, I'm already giving chase,
Tell that girl to step aside or she will be disgraced,
'Cause I'm a go-getter and I intend to make haste
As I play like a pirate and usurp her place;
Obliterate her existence as I erase
Your memories of her and seal your fate...
With me.

I came, I saw and I am ready to plunder!

"No" is an unacceptable word for me,
It's a meaningless addition to the English vocabulary,
And if you don't fight me, it will be easier to see
That my approach is logistical and my fantasy
Can be our mutually beneficial reality
'Cause I've seen the prophecy and I foresee
That we will only work if you give in to me
And let me make you into what I want you to be.

I came, I saw and I am ready to plunder!

I don't like repetition, tell that chick to step aside!
I have no patience with her relentless pride,
I'm not asking for her co-operation, this isn't something she needs to decide
All that's required is that she step away and simply say goodbye...
I came for you, I came to make you into a man of my design.
I came, I saw and I will have what's mine.

Naked Among the Thorns

She spends most of her time undressed, passed from sweaty hand to sweaty hand in the land that belongs to men.
Long ago she gave up the right to call her body her own,
Trading it to the merchants in exchange for paid bills and filled bellies at the dining table.
Uneducated, she takes her daily lessons from the unsheathed shafts of many men
Who have better use for her femininity than she does.
Exposed among the thorns, she opens up,
Unfurling her delicate petals, parting her soft lips wide,
Permitting the thrusting; the pricking and digging of her depths.
She is a mine and they are searching for gold,
Relentless in their pursuit of her wetness
As they do to her what they aren't allowed to do to other roses.
Other roses that are nurtured and left to bloom in peace.
And what is sown eventually becomes what she reaps;
The thorns leaving thorns inside of her after they have withdrawn themselves from her.
She becomes bitter and her heart becomes encased in that prickly thing,
Until she convinces herself that this is what God put her on the Earth to do;
To open her legs and feed the hungry men who knock on her sepulchre,
Offering them the death that her vagina has become.

The Welcome

Palms clammy, my eyelids lowered and trembling.
His molten gaze caresses my breasts
Saying: come here, let me look at you.
My lips dry and parched from wanting.
His smile curls against me
Saying: come here, let me wet your mouth.
Tiny hairs stiff on my neck, as erect as my nipples.
His nose inhales and exhales
Saying: come here, let me bury my face at your nape and smell you.
Slippery dew between my legs.
His tapered fingers reach out in tantalizing welcome
Saying: come here, let me touch you.
Body naked, completely exposed.
His manhood throbbing
Saying: come here, let me bury myself deep inside you.

Page Turn

It is that juicy moment between reading one page and moving onto the next.
It is the feeling of your fingers, warm and wet and slick with the anticipation of touching the next sheet of paper;
The expectation of continuing on to the next facet of that adventurous chapter.
Your eyes are riveted on the words engraved on the present page
And your heart beats passionately at the ferocity of the tale,
And although you can faintly hear the voice of someone calling your name in the nearby distance;
Although you’re aware that there are other things in need of your attention,
You just cannot move;
Cannot bear to drag yourself even an inch away from the refined sheet of cellulose pulp that is gripped between your eager digits.
You can barely wait to find out what the protagonist does next.
It is the promise of the next that has your attention focused so religiously on the author’s mythical use of vocabulary,
It is this magical display of the printed word that ignites your obsession.
Your divine reason for living in this very moment is this story
And you are blissfully trapped and wrapped in this orgasmic experience of living inside someone else’s creativity.
You are caught in the next of the story;
The what happens next; the who, the where, the when, the why
That will be revealed on the subsequent page…
And in that tiny break of time you take to watch the page finally turn; this sacred ceremony executed by the priest that is your fingertips,
You wonder: Could there be anything more thrilling than reading a book?

(Submission to dVerse's M:/P MAG competition)