Thursday, December 12, 2013

Macabre Joys

As I lie in wait
The path that you take
Seems to be the logical choice.

You strut and you stroll
Down a path you should know
Gives no echo to a quivering voice.

My eyes watch you slow
The press of danger starts to grow
And you begin to question all noise.

My heart beating madly
Tension pushing me gladly
As I begin the night’s macabre joys.

Emelyn St. James ©

Friday, October 25, 2013

True Faith

He sits high in his leather chair; lounging in his dark finely tailored suit, the very face of GQ model perfection, holding a tumbler of seductive dark liquid.  Every now and again he brings the glass up to his perfectly cruel lips and tastes the top-shelf bourbon.

I am on the floor in front of him, awaiting his next word like some kind of trained dog.  Little does he know that street mutts never fully heel to their masters.  The wildness, the desperation, never leaves. The hunger and pain is just one word or gesture away and we know this.  Betrayal is just around the corner; better to bite and run then feel slapped once more. I have learned all too well what happens to men like that when they are around me.

I know what he expects of me, a silent submissive posing in all my glorious nudity; the devoted worshipping at the temple of her religion, bowing at the feet of her god.  The candle-lit room, dark furniture and deeply enriched tones are all props set to enhance his position and mine.  I know what he expects, but does he know what I expect in return? Is he as prepared as I am?

This is an important night for us, so I wait until he is ready.  I have all the time in the world, really, to play this game.  Maybe this is the one that will finally be worthy.

I catch the note of crystal glass set against the hard surface of the side table.  The gentle creaks of leather as he rises slowly to his full height.  I can’t help but shiver slightly at this song of seduction.  Nothing says sex like the slow creak of worn leather.  Approaching my spot next to the bed, steps strong and sure, he halts just in front of my knees.  Kneeling this long is hard on my body by waiting is worth the reward, in this respect. 

Another pause that lasted eternity and he kneels down, lining our eyes on the same plane. That was your first mistake, master.  My mask stays in place even as my body prepares for the inevitable.

I glance toward his left hand, a studded leather collar held loosely in his large grip. “Are you ready?” he asks, as if we haven’t discussed this a hundred times before. His repeated need of reassurance loosens my leash just enough. Instead of words, I pull my hair up so he can slip the collar around my neck;the mark of faith and trust in his Dominance. 

Each tingle of the buckle increases my fire; an inferno of need and desire.  I know what is coming and I need it more than my next breath.  I can feel his rapid breaths against my neck and I close my eyes to that I can commit each moment to memory.  His breathing becomes ragged and strained.  The heat against my skin where his bushes across mine is scorches and I revel in the pleasure/pain of it all. 

The last click of the collar is secured and I am set ablaze.  Turning, I stand up while he crumbles down to all fours.

“You failed.  Your strength, your conviction, were not absolute.  You asked me for my all yet cannot give it in return.”

I knock him over onto his side with a slight push of my bare foot, exposing his chest and the fear in his eyes.  I reach toward him, running my fingertips over the soft material of his sweat-soaked button up.  The heat radiating from me is not helping his struggle for air.  The flames licking around my skin singes the cloth away, leaving his chest bare.  He feeble attempts to get up are useless, and I reach down and take what I offered him so freely; the bloody release of his soul dripping from my hand.

Never turn your back on this stray for she will bite you the moment you falter. Strength and confidence are the only things some creatures respect, even a creature such as me.

Emelyn St. James ©

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

The Unquiet Mind

The quiet of my voice 
Bares no reflection to the
Cacophony of words
Raging within my mind.

Sunday, October 20, 2013


Your wandering fingers
Would feel better
If they were still attached
To your hands.

Saturday, October 19, 2013

Wednesday, October 16, 2013


I look to the counting of the words. 

Counting of the minutes. 
Counting of the beats of my heart within my torn chest.  
Counting the notes of the melody; an undercurrent playing out within the words that fly onto the page.  Counting on the end to come so that I can rest in dreamless bliss. 

Tell the world to dream its dreams on its own dime.  

Counting on the love to push me into another day. 
Counting the minutes, seconds, until the sun rises and I can breathe again.  

Let the world sleep. I don’t give a flying fuck about all but a few.  The few chosen beats that make this old heart bother to pump at all.  Let the world burn around me as I relish the heat in this cold corner of my sad and twisted mind.