A Girl On A Bench

A girl on a bench.

A girl on a bench in a park

A girl on a bench in a park, in the sun.

Wearing a yellow sundress, just a fraction too small. Her belly presses against the unforgiving cotton fabric in large, beautiful ripples. Her breasts are unseemly but the weather so hot and the park so vast, she takes the risk to bare her flesh.

A girl on a bench in a park, in the sun wearing a yellow sundress which strains with the fullness of her breasts.

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True love

A stain on your sleeve that doesn’t shift.
You think it gone,
Dissolved, until the light catches it; bleached and fixed forever.

A bruise that fades from the skin in time
But aches if you brush against it.

A silver thread stretching across your path, which makes you stumble when you think the road is clear.

True love sticks, shrinks to a tiny pool of nausea in your stomach, lurching thickly inside you.
True love is a bite, a scratch. An itch that leaves you bleeding and raw.

One recurring nightmare. A refrain at the back of your head.

An eternal migraine.

Educate.

Initially recorded as spoken word, listen to the original here

 

I want you to tell me things. I want you to challenge me.

Beat me at Scrabble – cross triple words, double letters, a hundred points scored in a single go and know it makes me shivery to see you do so.

I like it when you make me feel small, when you protect me.

When you educate me.

Explain things that I don’t understand – the mysteries of football, and how to make stuffing from scratch and that a griddle pan is not the best choice for frying an egg.

Smile ruefully when I get things wrong, on purpose. When I demand a bacon sandwich but won’t release you from my caress, but still demand breakfast sweetly in your ear as my arm holds fast around your waist.

Instruct me in my own independence. Send me on errands, with shopping lists and the money in my pocket. Trust me as you want me to trust myself when I fear I can’t. Etch tiny kisses at the bottom of the note for me to catch when I check I’m doing ok.

Teach me things about you – How you take your tea (milky, no sugar), how to grill bacon so it doesn’t curl at the edges, and how you like to be touched.

Let me take mental notes on how you touched yourself before you knew me – please let me watch you. I will never be as good as you but I can try, I can try to be good and do my best for you. Hold my fingers around you so I can hear the catch in your breath, the release of your moan and replicate them without your guidance.

Guide me in my own pleasure. Handle me gently and roughly and gently again. Shape me and test me. Soothe me to the brink of pleasure and finish me.

Teach me my beauty.

My worth.

Hold up the glass and make me stare at myself as you do; I want to see what you see. To understand what you know.

Your knowledge is my nourishment.

 

Serving Girl

I hate him. Hate hate hate him. Sitting there being paid sixteen times my wage to actively destroy the world, do his job badly, or well depending on which side you take. He disgusts me with his dishonesty, his foolishness, his abhorrent social and feeding habits.

And yet in my anger I become a sliver of sensual quicksilver, dressing each morning for the role of mistress; my crisp white blouse threatening to give way and expose the treacherous flesh beneath, and the accompanying black shirt is only just long enough to conceal the delectable curves of my arse. Bare legs that stretch on and up to meet silky french knickers.

This is all for him and all for me; I bend over to serve his teas and coffees, inviting his ogling; thinking he might just reach out one day and grab a handful in animal lust.

I am careless, I am beautiful. I stand in the corner of the room awaiting instruction, my phone clasped in one hand with the other exposing my cunt. I am taking photos of my pretty cunt to show to people who desire me and he may be watching he may not. His cock may be shifting and pressing against the front of his slacks as he catches the slick pinkness of my inner labia.

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