If I Ordered You to Fuck Me

If I ordered you to fuck me

would you? Would your tongue be

as eager to my clit as to my boot?

Would the fingers of a freshly tawsed

hand  mine the pleasures of my cunt?


You say that to fuck is to top , that you can’t,

but know that I will be on top, riding you,

my nails spurs on your nipples,  my eyes

mapping the landscape of your flesh,

surveying all my future pleasures.


If I ordered you to fuck me

would you? Would you?


Savage Beauty

I will write one day about a special crush I have. For now I will just say that it has released a wave of creativity and got my writing poetry again. Here is my latest offering.



For Rebecca – as always


It’s not that I envy you, I really don’t.

There was just that time I missed the

McQueen exhibition and you went, and

I watched, only half admiring, as you

Posted pictures of your inspirations.

I may even have muttered “bitch”.


There are times I need this, so please,

Flaunt the things you have that I can only

Dream of, oppress me with your beauty,

Cut into my pride as if slashing my dresses with knives.

Take me to the shores of hating you,

Then pull back.


Make me savage.

Make me beautiful.



The Latex Skirt

This is a kind of love poem I wrote to the lovely swishy floral latex skirt I bought last year at the Birmingham Bizarre Bazaar from the wonderful mega talented Rebecca of Yummy Gummy Latex to who it is dedicated.

You read me like a book.

A cliché, I know, but true.

Remember the time you whipped

A skirt off the rack, a new design,

Held it up before me, smiling,

Like teasing a puppy with a rubber bone

Or selecting the fly with which

You would reel me in?

There I stood,

Falling in love with the skirt,

Aching to please.


I put it on. The weighty swish

Swelled into waves of desire

For the beauty you had, I hoped,

Designed for me, to make me gorgeous.

I foraged greedily for my purse, like

Paying for the first date with my latex love.

You read me like a book.

I write you as a poem.



As I couldn’t afford them

I cut them out of Vogue,

Put them in my handbag as a charm,

Mine to keep as long as

The paper bears my

Obsessive handling, on the tube,

In the morning coffee shop,

In the places where I take them out,

Weigh them in my hands like gems.


At night, as you lie beside me, sleeping,

I take out the birthday gift,

You will never buy, part my

Booted legs as if for you to fuck me,

Vibrate myself to Amazonian bliss.