cunnilingus, erotic poetry, faith needs pain, Our Lady of Pain, pain induced orgasms, poem, Poetry, sonnet
Both of your thick, sick thighs and the scratchy
flick rope binding my wrists will leave bruises.
Good. I’m greedy for scars. You bend a knee
and wet heat, mixed with your musky juices,
sprinkles my lips. Mewl, I said, make me mewl.
I am famished for that; that sort of pain ––
your faith claims waits for me in hell. A cruel
candle will not last the night, you explain,
snuffing the hot wax out on my shoulder ––
I thought thralldom would be a bore. But what’s
the point of nerves if they don’t sing? Scars bunch
up and down my thighs where you have tortured
my flesh; a whipping boy for the flay’s cuts;
which is to say, I’ve grown hard to your touch.