Surrender, erotic fiction by Greta Stone

Surrender Part 2

Part 2

Sexy erotic D/s fiction. Sexually explicit, obviously. *smirk* Enjoy.

{3880 words}


If you missed Part 1, check it out.

He’s still sitting behind me with his knee between my legs. With my panties tied over my eyes, I’m hyper aware of his breath on my fingertips. He slides his hands over my ass, thumbs settling beneath each cheek. His grip is firm, solid. When he touches me, he really touches me. Like he needs me. And I want to give him every little thing he desires.

When he speaks now, his tone is gentle, coaxing. “Hands up, please. I want to look at you.”

I could melt into him, find the perfect curve of his chest to fill, inhale his scent, and savor him wrapped around me, compressing me. I could spend all night there. But he gave me a command and I’m ready to behave now.

Bending my elbows, I press my thumbs between my shoulder blades and try not to think about the curve of my belly and the girth of my thighs. My shoulders ache in the awkward position, but I’ll hold it without complaining. He deserves this at the very least. He cares for me and finds the best ways to please me when I don’t even know myself.

The only sound for a moment is the shift of his thumbs rubbing over the soft skin at the crease between my thigh and ass. “You are so beautiful.”

“Thank you, Sir.” I soak up the praise until I feel weightless. Whimpering, I  press back into his hands. With a growl, he slides his thumbs away and bites the tender spot beneath my cheek. I clench. I need him everywhere at once, hard against my soft, rough against my smooth.

Taking his time, he slides his tongue between my thighs, so close to where I need him. Warm and wet, leaving a chill in its wake. I squirm as he drags it across the same spot he just bit.   

He digs his hands into my soft flesh. “Patience, pet,” he warns.

“Sorry, Sir.” I’m the opposite of patient. Even with my wrists cuffed, I want to spin around, shove him down, and impale myself on his erect cock, glaring down at him as I have my way, daring him to stop me.

But I’m the submissive and he’s my Dom. So I try to be patient. For him.

“Step forward.” He nudges me then holds me until I’m steady.

I relax my arms back down behind me and roll my shoulders to relieve some of the aching. The bed creaks and his shirt tickles my forearms. With one hand, he wraps all of my hair and slowly pulls it to one side, twisting my neck, careful not to disturb my panties blindfold. I can sense the change in his tone before he’s even spoken. He’s rumbling. I can’t tell if he’s heating up for action or if I’ve displeased him.

In a low tone that I can feel through my chest, he whispers in my ear, “Why did you put your arms down, kitten? Did I ask you to?”

Shit. He didn’t. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

I begin to bend them back into their proper position, but my bound hands bump the front of his pants. I freeze. He’s hard as a fucking rock and it shoots aching need straight to my groin.

I’m tempted to cup him in my hand and knead him until he squirts in my palm. I grin.

“Do not touch me unless I tell you to,” he commands.

He knows me too well.

“Yes, Sir.” I do my best to wipe the grin off my face but I can’t stop thinking about bringing him to his knees.

“Behave,” he warns.

I flatten my hands against myself. “I am! I’m not touching—”

He bites the back of my neck hard enough to make me jump and tightens his grip on my hair. “Listen. Don’t speak.”

He’s hot as fuck when he commands. He knows exactly what he wants, what we both want. And I’d be smart to let him lead us there, but I need to clear things up, let him know I mean to behave. “Sorry, Sir. I wasn’t trying to—”

“I. Know.” He tugs my hair and presses me to my knees. “Kneel.”

My toes jam into his boots as I fumble into position: kneeling tall, my back to him, heart racing. I clench, painfully aware of the emptiness inside me where he should be.

He taps the outside of my bare foot with his boot to tighten up my position. With his hand still wrapped around my hair like a leash, he shifts, tilting my head as he moves. His thighs press to the back of my shoulder blades. He curls his other hand around my throat and slides it up to my chin, forcing my head back, crown against his groin.

Low and quiet, he asks, “What did I say?”

“Listen. Don’t speak, Sir.” It’s hard to get the words out with my throat stretched tight. I’m uncomfortably bent, lost in darkness, and raging with thirst for him. I want to suck on him, on anything, to soothe myself. I open my mouth, searching.

He presses his thumb in and I latch on, petting it with my tongue, sucking. He hums his approval. Letting go of my hair, he finds one breast and strums his fingers across my nipple, each catching on it and hardening it. I moan and press my thighs together.

“Good girl,” he whispers, pulling his thumb free. “Now let’s address your transgressions.”

He lets go of me.

I’m lost without his touch. Bound and blind with no anchor but the carpet beneath my knees.

His boots thud behind me, to my side, in front of me. A shadow passes over my hooded eyes. The creak of the cabinet door. Shuffling, wood sliding against wood. I’m clenched and halfway to an orgasm by the time the soft leather tip of his crop grazes the outside of my thigh.

“Up tall, kitten. On your knees.”

I straighten. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl.” He drags the crop up over my hip, dipping at my belly button, then dragging it up and over my other hip. “This is going to hurt. Do you understand?”

Breathless, I nod.

He gives me a quick warning swat on the hip. “I asked you a question. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” With the anticipation of his next strike, my focus fixes on his location. Nothing exists outside this room, his voice, and the crop in his hand.

“Good girl.” He releases the clamp between my wrist cuffs. “I’m freeing your arms. Keep them by your sides. Do not move them. I know this will be difficult for you but I’m positive you can do it. Do you understand what I expect from you?”

“Yes, Sir,” I answer quickly. The cuffs are thick and bulky against my thighs.

He drags the crop over my arm, around to my ass, and circles there. “I’m going to swat you once for each offense, three total. Do you understand?”

Three offenses and I can’t think of a single thing I’ve done wrong. Damn my memory. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl.” He traces the curve of my ass with the crop. “You look sexy as fuck, kitten.”

My mind does somersaults between his reprimands and approval. I’m both bad and good. I’m disobedient yet exactly what he needs. I’m sexy. I let a smile form on my lips. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Now, when should you touch me?” He draws circles on my cheek.

Right. There was that. “Only when asked to, Sir.”

The crop disappears and whooshes briefly before it cracks against my ass, leaving a focused sting. He drops his voice an octave. “That’s one. When will you speak?”

“Only when asked a question.” I want to rub the spot but know better.

Another whine, this one longer, the smack harder in the same spot. It burns. I clench my ass and curl my toes.

“That’s two.” Without warning, he cracks me a third time in the same spot. “But how will you address me?”

My ass is on fire now and it’s hard to catch my breath. “As Sir, Sir.” I really want to rub it. He’s made it harder not to now that my hands are free. I tighten them into fists at my sides, then release and stretch my fingers. But I do not touch the burn.

“Good girl.” He taps the crop between my thighs from behind. “Spread.”

I obey, reluctant to open such a delicate spot to vulnerability.

wiz and crack just below one cheek. I jump.

He raises his voice. “How will you respond to my commands?”

“With a ‘Yes, Sir.’…Sir.”

“Good girl. Best start remembering that, kitten, or you’ll regret it.” His boots pad against the carpet again as he walks around me, dragging the crop over my other arm, to my belly button, and down several inches to the height of the curve between my legs.

I’m shaking with adrenaline and need and anticipation. I want him to stop what he’s doing and fill me, fondle me until I come. But I love this more than anything else. I love the power he holds over me, the absolute control of my every thought and of my body. He owns me. There is nothing for me to think about or decide on or ponder. There’s just him and me and the next place his crop will land.

He pauses. “Kitten, breathe.”

I inhale and exhale.

He slides the crop down until it grazes my tender labia. My heart drops to my stomach. He wouldn’t. While he holds it there, I can feel my pulse in every inch of flesh surrounding his crop, an electric current from him to me.

He slides it back up to my clit. I bite my lips.

“Lastly, when will you argue with me, pet?”

“Never, Sir.”

Thwack.

At first, it tingles more than hurts.

But I fold forward, squeezing my thighs together against my need.

He gives me no time to either enjoy or suffer from it. “Up, pet. Stand please.” He helps me to my feet. “At ease.”

I stand with even weight on both feet, not slouching but not standing tall and straight. I let my arms hang by my sides, leaving my body open to him. Even though he hasn’t asked me to pose a certain way, I still keep his wishes in mind.

He holds me still with one firm hand on my shoulder. The other he slides down over the curve of my ass and between my legs, cupping me from behind, his wrist and forearm pressing between my cheeks. I can’t help but move against him.

His breath falls hot at the base of my neck. “So eager.” He tightens his grip. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you inside me, Sir.” Heat flushes up my neck to my face. It’s a selfish request and not the thing I wanted most a few minutes ago. I wanted to pleasure him.

I can’t think when he’s touching me.

He closes his warm, soft lips over my ear lobe and presses one finger hard against my clit. “What part of me do you want inside you?”

He knows what I want. And he knows I hate saying it.

“Just…you,” I offer meekly, squirming under his grip.

“Say it,” he rumbles.

“I want your dick inside me.” My whole body flushes hot, skin prickling.

“Good girl.” He pulls his hand away and gives my bottom a promising smack.

I’m reeling somewhere on the edge of reality as he unties my panties from over my eyes. I blink in the dim light.

He cups my face with one hand and leans closer, stopping short of a kiss. I haven’t been blindfolded for long but I still lose my breath at the site of him. He has the kind of face I could lose myself in. Every angle, every crease, every flaw. So perfect. And mine. I want to steal a kiss from him, take his whole mouth and have my way with it.

He smirks. “Is there something you want, kitten?”  

My gaze drops to his lips. “I really want to kiss you, Sir.”

The smirk disappears. “Please do.”

I don’t wait to thank him. Leaning in, I press my mouth to his, inhaling his heady scent. His lips are deliciously warm and soft. His skin is unusually smooth.

He’s shaved for me!

I dive back into the kiss with renewed fervor. Our heads tilt in unison, mouths open, fitting together perfectly. Tongue to tongue, teeth scuffing, until we’re breathless and settle into a slower rhythm. I could kiss him all night.

He draws away, and I cling to his bottom lip with my teeth. Don’t go.

He groans as it stretches and releases. One brow shoots up. He’s grinning like the devil. “Biting? You know the deal.”

A bite for a bite.

He wraps his arms around me and we spin, the room whirling, and fall onto the bed. He lands heavy on top of me even though he catches himself. His weight roots me and I’m home. His legs pin mine and he hooks both of my cuffs, locking my hands over my head. Sliding his other hand down my arm and over my chest, he brushes my nipple with his thumb.

His eyes twinkle with mischief. “Now, where shall I take mine?”

[To be continued]


 

Thank you for reading!
If you enjoyed, please comment and/or share.
I would be ever so grateful.
*curtsy*

Wrists In Ropes (Poem & Behind-The-Scenes)

Wrists In Ropes BTS- Poem by Greta Stone

This poem was written from a daily prompt hosted by DsubVerse on Twitter.  The title is the prompt word. ❤ See more frequent posts on Twitter (text only) and Instagram (with graphics).

I face you
with fear tied
to my tongue
like wrists
in ropes.
Paralyzed,
I safeword.

© Greta Stone

 

Behind-The-Scenes

 

I wanted to use wrists in ropes as a metaphor. To me, it relates to being tongue-tied.

words tied
to my tongue
like wrists
in ropes

From there, I thought about the reasons I might be tongue-tied. Flustered. Surprised. Afraid. I liked the idea of fear applying to both parts, being tongue-tied and being physically tied. I wouldn’t like to remain tongue-tied for long. So I thought about what I would do in play if, for whatever reason, I didn’t want my wrists tied anymore. I would safeword.

words tied
to my tongue
like wrists
in ropes
and I
safeword

Echo on words. Plus words was too general and didn’t indicate fear.

fear tied
to my tongue
like wrists
in ropes
and I
safeword

I knew I wanted to end with safewording. So to make the poem complete, I needed to start with an action.

[face an obstacle]
with fear tied
to my tongue
like wrists
in ropes
and I
safeword

What would the obstacle be? If I’m tongue-tied, I’m interacting with someone. If I’m tongue-tied with fear, I think of those times when you have something to say or something you should say but are afraid to. The simplest way to put it is…

I face you
with fear tied
to my tongue
like wrists
in ropes
and I
safeword

Now it feels a bit run-on. Instead of and I safeword, I feel like it needs one more thing to drive the point home, to really emphasize that feeling of being afraid to speak.

I face you
with fear tied
to my tongue
like wrists
in ropes
[having no other option]
I safeword

I do some thesaurus searching for option, mute, trapped. Then I stumble across paralyzed and it’s perfect.

I face you
with fear tied
to my tongue
like wrists
in ropes.
Paralyzed,
I safeword.

Wayward & Adrift (Poem & Behind-The-Scenes)

Wayward & Adrift REL BTS- Poem by Greta Stone

This poem was written from a daily prompt hosted by TastyPoem on Twitter.  The title is the prompt word. ❤ See more frequent posts on Twitter (text only) and Instagram (with graphics).

My wayward
faith floats
adrift on
a sea of
fantasy.

© Greta Stone

 

Behind-The-Scenes

My wayward
faith floats
adrift on
a sea of
[something]

Faith could be in God, religion, love, a person, the future. What opposes faith? Doubt, fear. I’d love an F word for alliteration. But I’d also like a word with multiple syllables for meter. Fantasy, fickleness, infidelity? This is going to require some more intense word searching. I go to yougowords.com for help. Freedom, failure, fantasy. I like fantasy which is ironic because I’m such a realist.

My wayward
faith floats
adrift on
a sea of
fantasy.

Surrender, erotic fiction by Greta Stone

Surrender

Part 1

Sexy erotic D/s fiction. Sexually explicit, obviously. *smirk* Enjoy.

{2337 words}


With four bags of groceries over one arm and a jug of milk in my hand, I shove through the door and kick it closed behind me. My mouth waters at the smell of freshly baked pumpkin pie until I spot a Pumpkin Spice candle on the hall table. Three more candles flicker between the front door and kitchen. Every room is lit and the heat’s been turned up.

He wants me naked.

“Baby?” I drop the bags on the counter and exhale at the relief. “Are you here?” I know he’s here.

He steps into the doorway of his office, leans against the frame, and levels a gaze at me. It’s smoldering and speaks volumes. He’s wearing my favorite snug jeans, black boots, and a long sleeved T pushed up on his forearms.

My stomach growls.

Postponing his unspoken request, I bustle between the fridge and stove. “Will you put the cold groceries away so I can start dinner?”

“Dinner can wait,” he says, his voice deep, tone firm. I want to drop to my knees on the linoleum floor and suck him while he grips the oven handle for balance.

I cock my head and try to raise one brow, which I’ve never been able to do. The corner of his mouth quirks up at my attempt but he recovers, crossing the room purposefully.

“Baby, I’m hungry,” I say, backing myself against the counter to buy time. If he touches me, I’ll cave. “My meeting went straight through lunch—”

He’s a step away.

“—and I had to fire Aaron today—”

He takes my face in both hands.

“—and then grocery shopping in the snow—”

The heat of his lips on mine and the grip of his fingers on my jaw ignites me. I welcome his tongue, tasting and caressing it with my own. The kiss is lips and skin and teeth. It’s him and the way he makes me feel wanted. Needed.

I slide my hands around his waist, under his shirt, and up his back, squeeze him against me. I need you too.

My stomach growls and I swear it echoes from my open mouth to his. I grin, inadvertently blocking his tongue with my teeth.

“I’m sorry,” I say against his lips. “I really am starving.”

He groans, rolling his forehead against mine. “Half an hour.”

“That’s barely enough time to cook, nevermind eat. An hour.”

He raises one brow quite successfully. My stomach flips. His warning is one I’m quite familiar with, but it doesn’t stop me from glaring back.

He compresses me between himself and the counter, his belt digging into my belly, and his warmth against me from chest to thigh. “45 minutes, pet. Final offer.”

I fucking love him in Dom mode. And I’ll worship him the way we both need…in 45 minutes. Until then, we are equals. And I plan to take advantage.

“45 it is, Sir.” I attempt to push him away, knowing it will instigate. “For now, will you please put the groceries away?”

“Watch your attitude.” He pins my arms behind my back, his fingers wrapped tight around my wrists. Tucked into the vice grip of his arms and chest, I’m right where I want to be. The only way he could get closer is to get inside.

I deliver a slow grin, pleased with myself for effectively goading him. “I will. In 45 minutes.”

He rumbles a low hum, tightens his grip, and takes his time examining my cleavage pressed between us. “I’m tempted to cancel our deal, drag you into the bedroom right now, and show you what final offer means.” There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes as he grins. “But I won’t. Because I don’t want you hungry tonight. I need your full attention.”

He lets me go and smacks my ass.

We eat dinner in a flury and he sends me off to our bedroom to get ready. I strip, tossing my clothes over the back of a chair. He’ll expect to find me kneeling at the foot of the bed, hands on my thighs, back tall. I need to fold my clothes into a neat pile the way he likes, but the bed hasn’t been made yet. With a tug, I square the blankets to the headboard. One fluff for each pillow, just the way he likes.

I pick up three socks from the floor and walk to the hamper, toss them in. The light hits my dresser, catching my eye. A thin film of dust covers the surface and then my finger as I swipe.

The door swings open and he halts.

Oh, shit. I drop to my knees where I am and lower my head farther than usual. “Sorry, Sir.”

This isn’t like back in the kitchen. During play, I’ve agreed to submit to him. Failing to do so now is a much graver sin.

The door clicks shut and he pads across the carpet toward me, each step slow and deliberate. By the time the hard toe of his boot bumps my bare knee, I’ve conjured up all sorts of punishments, both thrilling and troublesome. I welcome them, the heart-racing, skin-tingling suspense of what he will do next.

He sets his hand gently on top of my head. “I’m pleased that you’re repentant, but it won’t change your punishment. Understand?”

I study the stitched seam over the arch of his boot while my mind wanders. How will he punish me? The crop on the tender part of the back of my thighs? The paddle square across my ass? Orgasm deprivation? I clench in anticipation.

I trust that he won’t hurt me beyond the threshold we’ve discovered together. The journey has been as exciting as the play. I haven’t found any other way to feel closer to him than this. My Dom, my love.

My scalp tingles as he slides his hand through my hair. I lean into his hold, yearning. I could purr and nuzzle him for need of his attention. More contact. I reach for him, slide both hands around his legs to the backs of his thighs. I want you.

He inhales deeply, and I want to bury my face in the front of his pants, open them with my teeth and—

He tugs my hair. “Look at me, pet.”

I do. He glares down, disappointed, and it sets my chest on fire. That look could send me crawling over hot coals without a second thought. That look stirs rebellion and obedience in me. That look tells me more about his love than any other. What is it about that look?  

His voice drops an octave. “Hands by your sides, please.”

I obey, regretfully removing them from his thighs, and blink up at him.

He opens his mouth to speak but pauses. “God, you’re sexy right now.”

My lungs fill with a sudden deep breath and I smile. I’m never as beautiful as I am in his eyes. I would stay here all day just for him.

“Doesn’t mean you’ll escape punishment.” He smirks. “Got it?”

The disobedience comes easy to me but the punishment does not. “Yes, Sir.” I study his boots again.

He corrects, lifting my chin.

“Tell me why I’m going to punish you.”

I don’t like to disappoint him and I can’t look him in the eye when I have. But he makes me and I’m not happy about it.

“Because you love whipping my ass red,” I say with snark.

The single raised eyebrow again. “Excuse me?”

My heart skips a beat but I glare at him, unflinching.

He digs his fingers into my hair, gripping tight, stinging my scalp. Two octaves lower now if that’s possible. “Kitten…”

I blink once. “Yes?”

He clenches his jaw. “You are very fucking sexy but don’t push it. Answer my question.”

I bite my lip to buy time while I consider ‘pushing it’ or submitting. I think I’ve pushed enough for now. Suppressing a sigh, I say, “I disrespected you by not being in position when you arrived.”

“And?”

I try to lower my head to escape his intense gaze but his grip on my hair doesn’t budge.

I lower my voice to a whisper. “And I touched you without your permission.”

“Yes. And you made me wait.” He releases me and walks over to the chair I slung my clothes over. “Not to mention this mess.” Shifting my shirt and jeans, he finds my panties, turns, and levels a searing glare at me.

I escape his gaze again, biting both lips. My mind sorts through all the possible ways I can beg for his mercy. I’m not afraid of the punishments. I trust him. But I want to do exactly what he wants before he asks. And he likes it when I beg.

“Close your eyes.” He walks behind me so I can’t see him anymore, which shouldn’t matter if I obey his command. But I don’t. Because I want to see what he’s doing.

“Don’t.” He spreads his hand over the top of my head and turns it back before I’m able to get a peek over my shoulder. Holding me there, his fingertips squeeze my skull and I hear the reprimand loud and clear. He’s reaching his max tolerance for my misbehavior. He needs me to obey now. He needs me to submit to him, to yield, to surrender wholly.

Behind me, I hear fabric ripping, then the clink of metal on the wood dresser. Fabric slides over my eyes. I can smell myself on them, my panties. I’m reeling with abashed desire as he knots them at the back of my head.

A breeze blows against my back.

“Don’t move. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” I hold still, kneeling, hands on my thighs, back straight and tall. I’m blind and naked and completely at his mercy, as excited as I am anxious.

The door swooshes open and the room is quiet for a long time. I should be contemplating my errors and my submission to him, the reasons this dichotomy is important to me, to us. But I’m too excited to play. All I can think about are the ways I want to pleasure him, by doing as he asks and by touching him the way he likes. My thoughts drift to steamy daydreams.

When the door clicks shut, I hear the rattle of china, a tea cup on a saucer maybe. The air around me shifts with his movements, sending a wave of fresh soap and citrus toward me. I’m curious as hell what’s going on. A clink on the dresser next to me and the rattling stops.

He places his warm hands on my shoulders. “Recline.”

Following his guidance, I lean back until he stops me at a 45 degree angle.

“Hold there.”

Crap.

His metal belt buckle clinks, followed by the leather flapping through his belt loops. My skin prickles with anticipation, ready for the sting though not sure where it will land.

“Hands back.”

Oh? This is new.

I press my wrists together behind me, my belly and thighs already beginning to ache from the position. He slaps a thick padded leather cuff on each wrist and binds them together with a metal clip, the clink of solid, well-made materials resonating. A leather leash coils on the floor behind me, pressing into my toes.

“Open your hands.”

I’m not sure how when they’re behind me. Palms facing each other, I splay my fingers. The tea cup clatters. He corrects my hands palms up and places the teacup in them. It’s difficult to balance, but I manage.

“Three minutes. Do not spill this or I will be very disappointed.”

Three minutes? I can’t… I’ll never make it.

The leather belt falls limp across my thighs and I jump, the teacup clattering.

His fingers grip my chin and his voice hits so close I feel his words on my face. “If you spill, you will get the belt. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” My thighs burn and the china clatters as I shake. I don’t know where he is. I can’t hear him anymore. But the door hasn’t opened so he’s still in the room. Watching, I’m sure. I want to make him happy above and beyond what he expects. I want him to know that, despite my misbehavior, I am his. He owns me. And I will do anything he asks to make him happy.

I make a concerted effort to hold still and breathe through my time. The tea cup quiets as I pull myself together and find calm. The burning in my belly dissipates. I am an inanimate object yet thoroughly alive, breathing just to please my Sir.

He finally speaks. “Your time is done, pet.”

I hold it for ten more seconds to demonstrate my penitence. It feels like an eternity.

“Bring me the cup. Don’t spill it.”

He gives no acknowledgement of my extra effort. A part of me is crushed, but I carry on.

Still blindfolded, I rise to a standing position, the cup jiggling behind me, the leather leash slapping at my bare calves as I shift. If I’ve spilled, I can’t tell. I’m thoroughly exposed to him with my hands secured behind me but I stand tall, unashamed. My body is his—his toy, his treat, his tool.

The location of his voice tells me he’s sitting at the foot of the bed about three steps away. I take two confident steps then a third careful one. My toes meet the hard side of his boot.

Stepping in front of him, I turn my back and present the cup and saucer. No shenanigans. No snark. Just as he likes. He takes it from me without even a brush of our fingers. I hear him sip and set it down on a hard surface. I don’t move.

“Good girl.” His warm hands land on my bare hips. I want to face him and feel his forgiving arms around me.

I stay put.

He bumps one knee between my legs. “Spread.”

[To be continued]

Read Part 2 now.


 

Thank you for reading!
If you enjoyed, please comment and/or share.
I would be ever so grateful.
*curtsy*

Transfixed (Poem & Behind-The-Scenes)

Transfixed REL BTS- Poem by Greta Stone

 

This poem was written from a daily prompt hosted by TastyPoem on Twitter.  The title is the prompt word. ❤ See more frequent posts on Twitter (text only) and Instagram (with graphics).

Transfixed,
I halt,
my objection
pierced by
your threat,
impaled by
your command.
With a rush
of repentance,
I kneel.

© Greta Stone

 

Behind-The-Scenes

Even though I know what transfixed means, I look it up to find the subtle nuances of it. I like definition 2, which I wasn’t aware of:

pierce with a sharp implement or weapon.
“a field mouse is transfixed by the curved talons of an owl”

I like this much better than the definition I first thought of. A person can be transfixed by a literal object or by an action. A tongue slices and pierces with words.

my objection
transfixed
by your [words]

haha Funny that my first thought is disobedience. >___>

[I halt],
my objection
transfixed
by your
threat,
[impaled]
by your
command.

Already I’m not liking transfixed in this usage. Let me try rearranging.

Transfixed,
[I halt],
my objection
pierced by
your threat,
impaled by
your command.
With a rush
of [heat/desire/submission] repentance
I [drop/bow/kneel]

I do some searching for other words for halt but don’t like anything I come up with. Stop, freeze, and pause are all weaker, in my opinion. Also, repentance comes to me for the latter half.

Transfixed,
I halt,
my objection
pierced by
your threat,
impaled by
your command.
With a rush
of repentance
I [drop/bow/kneel]

I could use the obvious submit for the last part, but I think I prefer kneel.

Transfixed,
I halt,
my objection
pierced by
your threat,
impaled by
your command.
With a rush
of repentance,
I kneel.

I probably could take this one further but I’ll end up running out of characters.

Submerged (Poem & Behind-The-Scenes)

Submerged BTS - Poem by Greta Stone

 

This poem was written from a daily prompt hosted by DimpleVerse (rendezvous) and TastyPoem (immerse/submerge) on Twitter.  ❤ See more frequent posts on Twitter (text only) and Instagram (with graphics).

Small talk
submerged
by the need
for deeper
contemplations,
a renezvous
of souls.

© Greta Stone

 

Behind-The-Scenes

Instead of my first reaction of rendezvous leads to immersion, I’d like to reverse that. Immersion leads to a rendezvous of [minds].

Immersed
in [conversation]
[something]
a rendezvous
of mind/spirit/soul

I like the concept of souls at the end. I’m thinking of switching to submerged.

[talk]
submerged
by [desire]
to join
a rendezvous
of souls

Talk, small talk, chatter

Small talk
submerged
by…

Desire, thirst [for deeper things]

Small talk
submerged
by the need
for deeper
contemplations,
a rendezvous
of souls.

First Touch (Poem & Behind-The-Scenes)

 

First Touch, sexy poetry

This poem was written from a daily prompt hosted by DsubVerse on Twitter.  The title is the prompt word. ❤ See more frequent posts on Twitter (text only) and Instagram (with graphics).

I want to bury
my face in
your warm, soft
skin that never
sees the sun.
With the
first touch,
you swell
for me and
I devour.

~Greta Stone

 

Behind-The-Scenes

While daydreaming, soft, warm skin that never sees the sun came to me. I started writing it into a poem, then went to check for any prompts to add to it. With the first touch fit well.

the soft, warm
skin that never
sees the sun.
[something]
with the
first touch

Going back, it was easy to add an opening, converting the to your.

I want to bury
my face in
your soft, warm
skin that never
sees the sun.
[something]
with the
first touch

When thinking of the something, I decided to switch it up.

I want to bury
my face in
your soft, warm
skin that never
sees the sun.
With the
first touch,
you…

What would he do? Respond. But that’s too generic. Get hard but that’s too obvious. Also, I like ambiguity and I want the poem to work for all genders.

I want to bury
my face in
your soft, warm
skin that never
sees the sun.
With the
first touch,
you swell
for me and
I …

Eat? haha Inhale? Devour. Yes, that. Also, I keep wanting to read warm, soft instead of soft, warm so I switch it.

I want to bury
my face in
your warm, soft
skin that never
sees the sun.
With the
first touch,
you swell
for me and
I devour.