Says her control over my movements

Helps her achieve her highest level of orgasm

So she commands me

And I listen

Ask me to kiss her passionately

And so I do

Moist soft lips coinciding as our bodies melt together

Tongue slowly parting her lips allowing her tongue to enter my mouth

Wants me to suck on her words, slowly

Softly…

Intimately building her desires

Fulfilling her needs with my own

And so I listen

Needs the moisture of my mouth on her collarbone

So I slowly kiss her down the path between her chin and her chest

Listening for her breathing to increase before I proceed

To ensure I am providing her body with everything she needs

I obey her commands

She ask me to take my time on her breast and her nipples and not to rush

And so I do

Tongue swirling delicately as her nipples harden with her desires

Make sure to please each mound properly as she holds onto my body tightly

She wants me desperately to stay longer

Although she waits impatiently for my tongue to explore more of her…

To go further down on her

But not yet, she whispers

And so I stay

Kissing her delicately on her left breast

As my left hand massages her right—

And then vice versa

She moans her satisfaction

And whispers further commands to me

Explore my stomach with your breath and make the goosebumps rise between my thighs

And so again I listen

Take the time to taste the sweetness of her body

Kissing softly around her belly

While her fingers run through my locs freely

Her breathing hastens

She pulls me closer and says she needs to take my breath away

I know what she means as I drift down between her knees

I pause and ask her what she needs

Don’t stop until I cum

She says in a low voice

Then pushes my face into her blossoming affection

My tongue dances between her lips

Enjoying the nectar she provides

I lick every inch…

Every crevice…

Every opening…

Ensuring she enjoys the pleasure of my tongue

Every place she deserves to be explored

I don’t ignore any part of her

As I spread her legs wider

And she rewards me with her moisture

All … over … my …

Mouth—

Lips—

Face—

Tongue—

Explores

More and more

Pressed firmly against her aching slit

So she feels the hunger I have for her

Her moans grow louder as my tongue travels up

From her ass

Up to her engorged clit

And here is where I kiss

…And lick

…And suck

Varying the pace

And the pressure

Until she succumbs to her rapture

And releases fluids rarely experienced from her lovers

And I continue as she cums

Her joyful release all over me

All over her

I continue to devour her

Not only because I want to

But because she asked me to

And I obey

Share

🎧 From my lips to your ears…

Subscribe now

🎤 Spit and Ink: A Live Poetry Exchange (Open Mic)

Co-hosted by The Speechless Poet & Melissa “justME” Ellis

Next event: Aug 18 at 8PM EST

All poets of all genres and experience are welcome.

Come for the poetry. Stay for the AfterWORDS!

Tip Your Co-host

AfterWORDS: Obedience Part 1

Don’t stop until I cum

A New Chapter

This is something Poerotica hasn’t done before. A serialized poem. Obedience isn’t a standalone piece, it’s the opening of a three part arc. Part 1 establishes the dynamic and the devoition. Part 2 will push deeper into bondage and explicit surrender. Part 3 will bring everything together. Think of this the way you’d think of the first episode of something you can’t stop watching. It sets the world, introduces the power structure, and leaves you needing to know what comes next.

The Path

Most erotic poetry rushes. It gets to the destination as quickly as possible because the destination is the point. This poem refuses that entirely. She won’t allow it:

The collarbone. The breast. The nipples. The stomach. The goosebumps rising between her thighs. Every stop on the path is a command she issues and he honors. Nothing is skipped. Nothing is rushed.

The obedience isn’t just in the acts themselves. It’s in the patience. In slowing down when every instinct says go further. That restraint is its own form of devotion.

She Commands, I Listen

The structure of this poem mirrors the dynamic at its center. Every section begins with her direction and ends with my compliance:

“She commands me / And I listen”

“And so I do”

“And so I listen”

“And so I stay”

“And so again I listen”

That repetition isn’t accidental. It’s a rhythm, a heartbeat running through the poem that reinforces the power structure with every beat. She speaks. I respond. Over and over until the pattern becomes its own kind of music.

The Subtitle’s Double Meaning

Her one direct, unambiguous command. Up to this point her instructions have been intimate and detailed. Kiss here, take your time, not yet, explore further. And then this arrives, low voiced and certain, and everything that follows is in service of that single directive.

But the subtitle does something else on first glance. Before the reader knows whose voice it belongs to, it reads as a personal statement. An instruction directed outward. The ambiguity is intentional. Poerotica has always invited the reader inside the poem, and this subtitle makes that invitation before the first line is even read.

Listening to Her Body

This is the most important craft moment in the poem. I’m not just following her verbal commands. I’m reading her body as a second language. The breathing tells him when to move forward, when to stay, when she’s ready for more. Her body and her words are both giving instructions simultaneously and I’m fluent in both.

The moan as command. The whisper as direction. Her entire body is speaking and he has learned to listen to all of it.

The Closing Distinction

That distinction, want versus obedience, is the whole poem compressed into four lines. I’m not just a willing participant driven by my own desire. I have surrendered my will entirely to hers.

The want would have been enough. The obedience is something more. A conscious choice to subordinate everything I want to everything she needs. That’s a level of intimacy that goes beyond desire into something closer to devotion.

Why This Belongs in Poerotica

The catalog has explored power dynamics from many angles. Poems where she controls the pacing, poems where desire is mutual and consuming, poems where surrender is chosen freely.

Obedience Part 1 takes that thread and builds something more deliberate around it. This isn’t accidental surrender. This is structured, negotiated, fully inhabited dynamic where her pleasure is the only metric that matters.

She knows herself. She knows what she needs. And she’s found someone willing to subordinate everything to that knowledge. That’s not weakness on his part. That’s the highest form of attentiveness the catalog has explored yet.

And there’s more coming.

Your Thoughts

Have you ever experienced or desired a connection where one person’s complete surrender to the other’s direction created something more intimate than equal participation would have? What does it feel like to be truly listened to? Not just heard, but obeyed?

Drop a comment. Let’s talk about the intimacy of surrender.

Leave a comment

If you enjoyed this, you might also like:

Her Breathing Sets My Pace - She places me on my knees and demands I taste her properly

Fuck Me Now - Use me how you like it

Irresistible - She asked, and he couldn’t say no

Poerotica Playlist on Spotify

Expose me to all of your sexual frustrations

No need be reserved

Use me how you like it

Use every position possible to reach your climax

Do whatever it takes

Make me beg for mercy

Unadulterated

Unhinged

Unexplainable tensions between us

That lead us to creative physical releases

Let us defy the laws of physics

Create our own gravitational pull that makes it impossible to separate us

You know that I can take it

Make the neighbors experience the earthquake we create in the bedroom

Take control of your desires

Fuck me with the passion held behind a political debate

With the ferocity of an argument you can’t win

Ride this dick like you’re trying to break it off

Fuck me harder than concrete streets

Let’s ruin the sheets

And the mattress

Create music as the headboard beats the walls

And I witness the power of your sex

Make me take it as you own it

Give me all the expressions of your lust

Use our time together

To experience the desires you’re too embarrassed to admit to your friends

Fuck me harder than serving consecutive life sentences for crimes you didn’t commit

Fuck me harder than creating a new unspoken language

Or attempting to decipher hieroglyphics

Don’t resist this

Or dismiss this

I’m genuinely being sincere

Fuck me harder than your erect nipples

Harder than your engorged clit

Harder than this erect dick

Harder than life itself

Until you experience orgasms from your head to your feet

And your satisfaction becomes inevitable

Immediate

Undeniable

Make me be obedient

Abiding your needs

Addressing the pleasures you keep hidden from others

Let me cum on your nipples

Or wherever you desire

Lay me back on the bed and mount my face

Force me to devour the sweet nectars you create

I don’t mind your aggression

I won’t make you wait

Create scratches in places that make us question how they happened

Bury your nails in my ass as you pull me in deeper

Longer

Fuller

Enjoy the pleasure of my girth swelling inside you

Between your thighs

Providing you with passion

Fuck the tears from my eyes

The sweat of my dedication

And of course you can taste it

Blissful satisfaction

Synchronized orgasms

Give your all to me as you consume all of me

And just fuck me

Now

Share

🎧 From my lips to your ears…

Subscribe now

🎤 Spit and Ink: A Live Poetry Exchange (Open Mic)

Co-hosted by The Speechless Poet & Melissa “justME” Ellis

Next event: August 11 at 8PM EST

All poets of all genres and experience are welcome.

Come for the poetry. Stay for the AfterWORDS!

Tip Your Co-host

AfterWORDS: Fuck Me, Now

Use me how you like

The Line That Waited

This poem started with a single line sitting in my notes for a long time: “fuck me like a confrontation.” I’d come back to it repeatedly, read it, and put it back down. The phrase was complete in itself. Confrontational, unexpected, immediately arresting. But I couldn’t find what it deserved to anchor. It just sat there waiting.

Then during a recent Mic Drop episode, justME and I got into a conversation about what we were currently working on and it turned into something more interesting. The lines and phrases we jotted down and kept revisiting without developing. I shared that line. And something about saying it out loud, putting it in the room, made it click. After that episode I went back to it with different eyes and this is what came out.

That’s what the Mic Drop conversations actually do. They look casual but they’re working. Sometimes you need to say a thing out loud before you understand what it’s been trying to become.

The Similes

This poem lives or dies on its comparisons. And they go places erotic poetry doesn’t usually go:

These aren’t random. They’re all about intensity that comes from somewhere real. From frustration, from injustice, from the impossible weight of something that demands everything you have.

The poem is asking her to bring all of that into the bedroom. Not to leave her rage and frustration at the door but to use them. To channel every unresolved tension she carries into this moment and release it here, with me, on me.

That’s not just erotic. That’s therapeutic. That’s an invitation to use physical intimacy as a place where everything that can’t be resolved elsewhere finally finds an outlet.

The Permission Structure

The entire poem is structured as permission. She doesn’t need to perform. She doesn’t need to be careful. She doesn’t need to be the version of herself she shows her friends or her colleagues or anyone who might judge her. Every escalation is an invitation to go further, take more, be less inhibited:

That line is the heart of the poem. I’m not just offering my body, I’m offering a judgement free space for everything she keeps hidden. That’s intimacy at its most generous. Come here and be exactly who you are when nobody’s watching.

The Escalation

The similes build to this moment. Moving from abstract social weight to the physical body to the ultimate abstraction. Harder than life itself. After consecutive life sentences and hieroglyphics and political debates, the poem arrives at the simplest and most encompassing comparison it could make. Everything. Give me everything. As hard as everthing.

And then it keeps going.

The Shift

The poem opens as an invitation and closes as an inevitability:

By the time those words arrive the pressure has been building for the entire poem. The title is a command. The closing lines confirm it. Everything between has been foreplay. Linguistic, emotional, intellectual foreplay. And the only possible release is those two words landing like a period at the end of the longest, most urgent sentence ever written.

Why This Belongs in Poerotica

This is the catalog’s most explicitly surrendered poem. And surrender in Poerotica has always been a choice, not a weakness. I’m not passive here. I’m deliberate. I’ve constructed the most comprehensive, most creative, most generous invitation I could and placed it at her feet.

Obedience chosen freely is its own kind of power. This poem understands that completely.

Your Thoughts

Have you ever wanted to tell someone exactly this? No filters, no performance, just use me, all of me, however you need to? What would it feel like to be on the receiving end of an invitation this complete?

Drop a comment. Let’s talk about what it means to give someone full permission.

Leave a comment

If you enjoyed this, you might also like:

Do Me, Dirty - No apologies, no hesitation, no judgement

The Sixth Dimension - Let’s redefine what pleasure means

Bad - When routine isn’t enough and you need to explore the edges

Poerotica Playlist on Spotify

Her eyes flash memories of her and me twisted in erotic passions

Although we haven’t had them...

Yet...

She sat in class

With her ass wrapped in tight fabric

She’s what the kids describe as “crew thick”

And all I wanted to do was lick her

From head to toe

And I don’t think she knows

Or even recognizes the things I could do for her...

Release her inner energy as I try to get through to her mind...

Body and soul

I want all of her

Wrapped up in a moment of mental ejaculations

That wont seem to leave me alone

When all I want to be is alone

She...

Strokes my bone

Hands caress my soul

And my lips surround her clit

While my tongue tells her my secrets

And she gets wet

Thighs squeezed together tightly wondering how good I could make her feel

Inside...

From the side...

Or behind...

However it is she likes to be handled

She visualized my hands under her skirt

Slowly undressing to take control of her

Eyes closed tight

She moans when I get it right

And her smile radiates the room like some kind of guiding light

She has the best of me

So I have a need to fuck her...

With my words

Share

🎧 From my lips to your ears…

Subscribe now

🎤 Spit and Ink: A Live Poetry Exchange (Open Mic)

Co-hosted by The Speechless Poet & Melissa “justME” Ellis

Next event: August 11 at 8PM EST

All poets of all genres and experience are welcome.

Come for the poetry. Stay for the AfterWORDS!

Tip Your Co-host

AfterWORDS: Mental Ejaculations

The Archive Delivers Again

This poem was written in graduate school. Years before Poerotica existed, years before there was a space that could hold it. It lived in the notes app waiting for the right home.

That context matters because the classroom setting isn’t just a poetic device. It’s a memory. Someone across the room, wrapped in tight fabric, completely unaware of what she was doing to the person trying to focus on their studies.

The restless, wandering, distracted mind that wrote this poem is the same mind the poem is describing. That kind of accidental symmetry is hard to manufacture. This one just lived it.

The Misdirection

The poem tips its hand early if you’re paying attention. Memories of things that haven’t happened. That’s not a memory. That a fantasy so vivid it has already rewritten itself as experience. But the explicitness of everything that follows is convincing enough that most readers won’t catch it until the ending arrives and reframes everything they just read.

That’s intentional craft. The fantasy has to feel real enough to deceive. And it does.

Mental Ejaculations

This is the most original image in the catalog. And possibly the most honest thing ever written about creative desire.

A mental ejaculation is a thought so consuming, so physical in its urgency, that it demands release. It won’t stay contained. It won’t let you rest until it’s been expelled onto a page somewhere.

That’s how this poem was born. Not from an encounter. From a thought that wouldn’t leave. From a woman who had no idea she was walking around inside someone else’s imagination generating poetry without ever saying a word.

The Imagination at Work

Everything in this section is happening in one place. The mind. The hands, the tongue, the thighs squeezed together, the moaning. All of it is my imagination constructing a version of her that responds to me exactly the way I hope she would.

That’s what desire does when it has nowhere to go. It builds an entire person out of what little it has and lives inside that construction.

Even the fantasy pauses to ask what she prefers. Even in imagination, her pleasure comes first.

The Twist

Three words that reframe everything. The licking, the tongue, the hands under the skirt. None of it happened. All of it was language. The most explicit poem is actually about the power of writing, the way desire gets processed through craft, the way a poet handles wanting someone they haven’t touched by building them a poem instead.

This sits alongside Attention Deficit in the catalog. Poems where the fantasy is more fully realized than the reality, where imagination does the work the body hasn’t been allowed to do yet. The different is that Mental Ejaculations names the mechanism. The release isn’t physical. It’s the poem itself.

Why This Belongs in Poerotica

Poerotica has always argued that desire and language are inseparable. The poetry is itself an act of intimacy, that words can do what hands cannot. This poem is the purest expression of that argument.

Even in the fantasy, the tongue isn’t just performing pleasure. It’s communicating. Confessing. The erotic act and the creative act are the same act. And the closing line makes that explicit in a way nothing else in the catalog has.

This is what Poerotica is. A need to fuck people with words.

Your Thoughts

Have you ever been so consumed by someone you’d never touched that your imagination built an entire relationship out of nothing? Or been on the other side… found out later that someone had been quietly carrying a version of you around in their head?

Drop a comment. Let’s talk about the ones who live in our minds rent free.

Leave a comment

If you enjoyed this, you might also like:

Attention Deficit - Dividing her thighs like unresolved fractions

Just A Thought - A thought you can feel in your body

Your Attention, Please - Her need to read keeps me writing

Poerotica Playlist on Spotify

Brings back memories

Of you and me

Lying together

Naked pleasures

Engulfed in the heat of the day

Bodies wet

From the sweat

Generated by the heat of the moment

Slow movements

Precise and deliberate

Touching your body repeatedly

Thighs like silk

Nipples erect

Lips, moist

Cool breeze from the window cools our souls

As I climb

Between your thighs

You feel me rise

Inside you

Firm

Passionate plunge long awaited

Your soul melts

Your clitoris gyrates

From the vibration of the two of us

In this heat of the day

That reminds me of you

Share

🎧 From my lips to your ears…

Subscribe now

🎤 Spit and Ink: A Live Poetry Exchange (Open Mic)

Co-hosted by The Speechless Poet & Melissa “justME” Ellis

Next event: August 11 at 8PM EST

All poets of all genres and experience are welcome.

Come for the poetry. Stay for the AfterWORDS!

Tip Your Co-host

AfterWORDS: This Heat

The Weather as Muse

Not every poem starts with a person or a memory or a conversation that sparks something. This one started with the temperature. A hot summer day in Maryland. The kind of humid, oppressive heat that slows everything down and makes the air feel thick enough to touch. And somewhere in that heaviness, a memory surfaced. That’s all it took. The weather reached into the past and pulled someone forward.

That’s one of the most honest things about desire. It doesn’t announce itself. It arrives through side doors. A song. A smell. A season. A particular quality of afternoon light. This poem is about what happens when summer does that to you.

The Sensory Architecture

This poem works differently from most of the catalog because it doesn’t build toward something. It creates something. Every image is physical and atmospheric simultaneously:

The heat outside and the heat between two people become indistinguishable. You can’t tell where the summer ends and the desire begins. That blurring is intentional. The external temperature and the internal one feeding each other until they’re the same thing.

The Form Matches the Feeling

The short sparse lines aren’t just an aesthetic choice. They perform the poem’s content. Each line arrives and then stops, creating a pause before the next one. The reading experience mirrors the physical experience being described. Deliberate. Unhurried. Present in each moment before moving to the next. The poem breathes the way the scene breathes.

The Cool Breeze

This is the most important image in the poem and the easiest to miss. Everything before it is heat. Outside and inside, atmospheric and physical. And then this single line of relief arrives, the breeze cooling not just our bodies, but our souls.

That word choice, souls, elevates the moment beyond the physical without abandoning it. Two people tangled together in summer heat, briefly cooled by the same breeze. There’s something quietly perfect about that image.

Memory as the Real Subject

The closing reframe changes everything. The entire poem, the silk thighs, the erect nipples, the passionate plunge, the melting soul, has been a memory all along. The present tense was an illusion. The heat outside triggered something that felt so vivid, it could only be rendered as if it were happening now. But it isn’t. It happened. And summer keeps bringing it back.

That’s the most intimate thing about this poem. Not the explicit content but the fact that someone is out there in the Maryland heat being reminded of you every single summer.

Why This Belongs in Poerotica

This is one of the quietest poems in the catalog and one of the most complete. No conversation, no invitation, no complex power dynamic. Just a hot day and a memory that refused to stay buried. Desire doesn’t always announce itself with urgency. Sometimes it arrives slowly, like heat rising off pavement, until you’re completely surrounded by it before you even noticed it coming.

That line does everything. The physical and the spiritual collapsing into each other in three words. That’s Poerotica at its most distilled. The body and something deeper than the body, inseparable.

Your Thoughts

Has a season ever pulled someone back to you? A particular kind of heat or cold or rain that lives in your body as memory? What is it about summer that makes desire feel closer to the surface?

Drop a comment. Let’s talk about the weather that reminds us of people we haven’t forgotten.

Leave a comment

If you enjoyed this, you might also like:

Escape With Me - Run away with me to a place where only our flesh can exist

Off Rhythm - When someone gets so far under your skin they scramble everything

Just A Thought - A thought you can feel in your body

Poerotica Playlist on Spotify

Like some type of magnet or perhaps maybe lint to a sweater

And it’s not because I sweat her

In fact, it’s the opposite

She told me she can feel vibrations on her clitoris and my warm touch on her inner thighs

And I can tell she’s being honest when I look into her eyes

When she looks at me

It causes me not to breathe or even think

“Have you ever had a taste for something you just have to have,”

Is what she asked

To have something so soft and so warm yet still be aggressive

Aggressive and persuasive

Enough to ensure we stay connected without forcing her hand

Or my own

Have you ever had a thought that you can feel in your body?

A THOUGHT you can feel in your body

A thought you can feel

Like feeling every…

Single...

Moment...

Is what she asked of me

Share

🎧 From my lips to your ears…

Subscribe now

🎤 Spit and Ink: A Live Poetry Exchange (Open Mic)

Co-hosted by The Speechless Poet & Melissa “justME” Ellis

Next event: August 11 at 8PM EST

All poets of all genres and experience are welcome.

Come for the poetry. Stay for the AfterWORDS!

Tip Your Co-host

AfterWORDS: Just A Thought

what she asks of me

The Archive

This poem lived in my notes app for years alongside hundreds of others, waiting. That’s how a lot of Poerotica works. Pieces written long before this space existed, sitting quietly in a phone until the right moment arrived to share them. Poerotica became that moment.

The catalog you’re reading isn’t just new work. It’s years of accumulated thought finally finding a home. This one waited long enough that I can’t even tell you exactly where it came from or what sparked it. Sometimes that’s how it goes. The poem exists. That’s enough.

Two Voices

This poem moves differently from almost everything else in the catalog because it isn’t one voice. It’s two. Her observations, his responses. Her questions, his surrender. The poem builds itself out of that exchange, moving back and forth between what she says and what he witnesses:

The lint and sweater image is deliberately casual. Almost self deprecating before the poem reveals how serious everything actually is. That’s the setup. By the time she’s describing vibrations on her clitoris and he’s forgetting how to breathe, the opening lightness makes the depth hit harder.

The Typographical Choice

That capitalization isn’t accidental. It’s a visual disruption. The word breaking its own rules mid-stream, the way a thought sometimes does when it arrives with more force than expected.

It asks the reader to slow down, to look twice, to feel the word differently on the page than they would if it were printed normally. That’s a poet making a choice that only works on the page and trusting the reader to feel it.

A Thought You Can Feel

This is the most original idea in the poem and the moment it transcends the physical entirely. The poem has been building toward this. The magnetism, the vibrations, the warmth, the eye contact that stops breathing. And then she names what all of it actually is. Not desire. Not lust. A thought. Something that originates in the mind and radiates outward until the body can’t tell the difference between thinking and feeling.

That’s the most intimate thing in the catalog. Not the explicit content. The idea that someone can think about you hard enough that you feel it.

The Deceleration

The poem slows itself down deliberately at the end. The ellipses forcing pauses, the line breaks creating space between each word. After the rhythm and momentum of everything before it, this landing is almost still.

She isn’t asking for pleasure or connection or transcendence. She’s asking to be fully present. To feel every single moment as it happens. That’s a harder ask than anything else in the poem.

Why This Belongs in Poerotica

Most of the catalog lives in the body. In heat and motion and desire that demands to be answered. This poem lives somewhere else. It lives in the space between two people before anything physical happens. In the moment when someone says something that rewires you completely and you realize this is going to be different.

That stillness is its own kind of intimacy. The suspended breath, the stopped thought. Poerotica has always argued that desire is more than physical. This poem is the purest expression of that argument in the entire catalog.

Even the title “Just A Thought.” As if to say casually, with a straight face, this thing that just changed everything. That understatement is the final move and it lands.

Your Thoughts

Have you ever had a thought you could feel in your body? Someone who occupies your mind so completely that the thinking becomes physical? A warmth, a pull, a presence you can locate somewhere specific inside you?

Drop a comment. Let’s talk about the thoughts that feel like more than thoughts.

Leave a comment

If you enjoyed this, you might also like:

Off Rhythm - When someone gets so far under your skin they scramble everything

Escape With Me - Run away with me to a place where only our flesh can exist

Your Attention, Please - Her need to read keeps me writing

Poerotica Playlist on Spotify

In the hours when most are consumed by work and stress

Is when I desire to undress you

Caress you

Fuck you in forbidden places

In the light of day

Allow me to slide my hands underneath your sun dress

And experience the wetness that you disguise from others

Let me take your lunch break

To break you off

You can serve as my midday snack

As your legs wrap around my shoulders

And I devour you on desktops

Let’s rearrange the furniture

Find an unoccupied room so I can bend you over a table

Or a back corner to press you up against the wall and fuck you raw

Press my dick inside your walls

So that you stand on your tip toes

Fingers inside your mouth to silence the moans of pleasure you let out

I know you come prepared

No barrier beneath the clothes you wear

Let me finger you while we break for lunch

Underneath the table in crowded restaurants

While you smile innocently at the waiter and tell them to just give us a few moments

Fuck me in the daylight

In the backseat of parked cars or in the front if you like

Let’s make just enough space for you to ride this firm dick

Your wetness flowing down around my thickness

My hands gripping your ass

Your hands using the headrest to pull me in deeper

As our eyes gaze into each other

Fogging up the windows to hide our pleasure

I need to witness all of you

No shadows to disturb the view

No darkness

Just me inside you

In the middle of the day

Let’s take our time

Even though time is against us

No telling when someone will discover us

But even if they do

We won’t stop until your climax is reached

Fuck me half dressed

Sweat pouring from our skin

As the passion rises and our desires are fulfilled

Take a break with me

Get away from the stress of the world

Of the job

Of the midday

And let yourself go

In the light of day

Share

🎧 From my lips to your ears…

Subscribe now

🎤 Spit and Ink: A Live Poetry Exchange (Open Mic)

Co-hosted by The Speechless Poet & Melissa “justME” Ellis

Next event: August 11 at 8PM EST

All poets of all genres and experience are welcome.

Come for the poetry. Stay for the AfterWORDS!

Tip Your Co-host

AfterWORDS: Lunch Breaks

The Poem Melissa Started

This one belongs to a moment. My cohost posted her poem Come Morning and she spoke the line “morning sex” and my brain immediately went somewhere else entirely. Not morning. Midday. Nooners. The stolen hour when the rest of the world is consumed by deadlines and meetings and the ordinary weight of the day.

What does desire look like in that window? What does it feel like to want someone so badly you can’t even wait for the cover of night? That question became this poem. One line and the rest wrote itself from memories of past lovers and forbidden hours and daylight that refused to look away.

Inverting the Darkness

Almost every erotic poem lives in darkness. In shadows, in the private hours, in spaces that hide what’s happening. This one deliberately refuses that:

That inversion is the whole point. Desire that insists on being seen. Pleasure that won’t wait for the appropriate hour or the private room or the permission of nightfall. The daylight here isn’t just a setting. It’s a statement. We exist. This is real. We’re not hiding.

The Cinematic Quality

This poem moves like a film. Each location a new shot, each scene building on the last. The desktop. The back corner. The crowded restaurant. The fogged car windows. You can see very frame:

That image is the heart of the poem. The public performance of innocence while desire burns underneath the table. The gap between what the world sees and what’s actually happening. That tension is where the poem lives and it’s one of the most vivid scenes in the entire catalog.

Time as the Antagonist

The lunch break is borrowed time. Stolen from the workday, from responsibility, from the ordinary demands of life. That constraint creates the urgency running through every line. Someone could discover them at any moment. The hour will end. The world will reclaim them both. And yet:

The ticking clock doesn’t create hesitation. It creates focus. Nothing matters except this moment and this person and seeing it through to the end. That’s desire at its most committed.

The Closing Exhale

After all the urgency and the stolen moments and the fogged windows, the poem lands on something almost gently. An invitation to release. Not just physically but from everything pressing down on both of them. The job. The stress. The midday weight. For one lunch break, none of it exists. Just two people choosing each other over everything else the day is demanding.

Why This Belongs in Poerotica

This poem sits alongside Do Me, Dirty and Escape With Me as part of a recurring argument the catalog keeps making. Desire doesn’t apologize for its timing, its location, or its visibility. The lunch break is ordinary. What happens inside it is anything but.

That line is a refusal. A refusal to hide, to wait, to shrink desire into acceptable hours and acceptable spaces. Poerotica has always been about honesty and this poem is honest about something specific. That sometimes the wanting doesn’t wait for the right momennt. Sometimes it arrives at noon and demands to be answered.

Your Thoughts

Is there something about stolen time that makes desire feel more urgent? The lunch break, the hour you’re not supposed to have, the moment carved out of the middle of an ordinary day. Does the constraint make it better?

Drop a comment. Let’s talk about the ones worth rearranging the furniture for.

Leave a comment

If you enjoyed this, you might also like:

Do Me, Dirty - No apologies, no hesitation, no judgement

Escape With Me - Run away with me to a place where only our flesh can exist

The Sixth Dimension - Let’s redefine what pleasure means

Poerotica Playlist on Spotify

Run away with me to a place and time where only our flesh can exist

No distractions around to assist any escape

Just the pure satisfaction of enjoying the bliss of the two of us

Let’s live within a dream state of mind

Let’s cheat the hands of father time

And enjoy the lust that lives within us

Let’s fuck...

Until the walls cum from the vibe we create

Your toes curl down as your legs begin to quake

Let me dwell inside your walls

And never leave because there’s no cause

Let’s eat one another

Fulfill the wants of our flesh with the natural juices of our own passion

Let’s close our eyes

And recreate a definition of this physical ecstasy

This erotic illusion of you and me

Because to say “lust, love, sex or fuck”...

That simply does this shit no justice

When it is just us

Let’s just... be who we be when we be who we be

Exercise every muscle from your toes up to you eyes

Then stimulate your mind with our rhythmic breath

Inhale and exhale

Orgasms that shake that earthquake scale

Let me swell inside you

Moving faster and then slow

Changing positions and our flow

Getting wetter as the days go

And just go on and on and on

Because this dream can never end

So let’s escape...

I’m waiting

Share

🎧 From my lips to your ears…

Subscribe now

🎤 Spit and Ink: A Live Poetry Exchange (Open Mic)

Co-hosted by The Speechless Poet & Melissa “justME” Ellis

Next event: TONIGHT, July 21 at 8PM EST

Featured Poet:

All poets of all genres and experience are welcome.

Come for the poetry. Stay for the AfterWORDS!

Tip Your Co-host

AfterWORDS: Escape With Me

I’m waiting

The Poem That Waited

Some poems arrive fully formed and post within the week. This one lived in my phone notes for years before it found its moment. That’s not unusual. Some pieces need time before they’re ready to be shared, before the right space exists to receive them.

Poerotica became that space. And looking at it now, I understand why it waited. This poem needed a community built around honesty and desire before it could land the way it deserves to.

The Invitation, Revisited

If you’ve been following the catalog, the “let’s” structure will feel familiar. But where The Sixth Dimension was reckless and exploratory (refrigerators, tree limbs, sixth dimensions), this one is something quieter. More devotional. Less about the adventure of pleasure and more about the desire to disappear into it completely with one specific person:

This isn’t an open invitation. This is directed. Specific. There’s someone standing on the other side of this poem being asked to show up.

Cheating Father Time

This poem is obsessed with time. Suspending it, escaping it, living inside a dream state where it doesn’t apply. The dream state isn’t escapism, it’s preservation. When something feels this good, the natural instinct is to find a way to make it last forever. To close the door on the outside world and just exist inside the feeling.

That’s what this poem is reaching for. Not just pleasure but the suspension of everything that interrupts it.

No Justice, Just Us

This is the center of the poem and the most honest thing in it. The narrator has exhausted the vocabulary available for what they’re describing and found it lacking. None of the words fit. Lust is too shallow. Love is too broad. Sex is too clinical. Fuck is too casual.

What exists between these two people in this space lives outside language. And the wordplay acknowledges that while still reaching for expression. No justice. Just us. The only word that comes close is the two of them together.

The Dream That Cannot End

The dream state running through this poem isn’t about being asleep. It’s about existing in a heightened reality where the ordinary rules don’t apply. Where orgasms register on an earthquake scale. Where you can dwell inside someone and never leave. Where time bends around desire instead of the other way around.

The dream is the space two people create together when they fully commit to being present with each other and nothing else.

The Closing Wait

After everything, the transcendence, the wordplay, the earthquake orgasms, the walls cumming from the vibe, the poem lands on two words. Patient. Still. Hopeful. All that expansiveness collapses into someone standing at the door of something beautiful, hoping the other person walks through it.

That’s the most vulnerable thing in the catalog. Not the explicit content. The waiting. Because waiting means it isn’t guaranteed. It means the other person still has to choose.

Why This Belongs in Poerotica

Two poems written years apart ended up in natural conversation with each other without ever intending to. The invitation structure, the reaching toward transcendence, the “let’s.” Those elements are consistent across time because they’re consistent in the voice. That’s what a body of work does. It reveals patters the writer didn’t know were there.

Escape With Me belongs here because it captures something the catalog needed. Desire that is tender without being soft, explicit without losing its romance, expansive without losing its focus on one person. It’s the dream state version of everything Poerotica has been building toward.

Your Thoughts

Have you ever wanted to escape with someone so completely that the rest of the world simply ceased to exist? What would you leave behind if you could? And is there someone you’re waiting on right now, hoping they’ll show up at the door?

Drop a comment. Let’s talk about the ones worth escaping for.

Leave a comment

If you enjoyed this, you might also like:

The Sixth Dimension - Let’s redefine what pleasure means

Ripple Effect - When two people connect so deeply the world around them feels it

Off Rhythm - When someone gets so far under your skin they scramble everything

Poerotica Playlist on Spotify

Redefine the words that identity the who we are when we are together

Sure, there’s nothing quite like the fucking we create

The motion and the passion shared by us two when we lay

But let’s go wild

Create our own positions and styles

Do all those things we are sure to deny once we’re done

Let’s just have fun

Don’t question the placement of our tongues

Or the usage of that pole or phone

Who needs a picture

When the video could teach us that much more?

Let’s take us to higher plane of existence

Forgetting rational movements and touching

Let’s fuck on the refrigerator

Or outside on a tree limb

Let’s climb heights before unmentioned

And divulge in thoughts of animalistic tendencies

Toes and earlobes

Knee caps and elbows

Should all be included in the passion we create

Let’s lose ourselves

Beneath the rumble of the rooms quake

Let’s fuck to keep each other awake

Because sleep would interrupt our intent

And we don’t want to waste the time we spend

Let’s

Kiss and touch

No lick and suck

Don’t interrupt

This mental fuck

Just come inside

I’ll let you ride while I plunge inside against that wall just outside

The jacuzzi

The room needs no definition

We’ll fuck inside a sixth dimension

Let’s start with the ending

So we may trace back to our beginnings without any rhyme or reason

Let’s eliminate ejaculation

But concentrate on expectations of pleasures

We will cum and cum and cum with each flicker of our tongues

And yet go on and on and on without an end

Lets eliminate conclusions from our vocabulary

Because your juices will never stop flowing

Your insides will never lack for pleasure

My firmness will never expire

No matter what physical acts transpire

Let’s take it down to the wire

Or

Just fuck until we’re both exhausted

Share

🎧 From my lips to your ears…

Subscribe now

🎤 Spit and Ink: A Live Poetry Exchange (Open Mic)

Co-hosted by The Speechless Poet & Melissa “justME” Ellis

Next event: July 21 at 8PM EST

Featured Poet:

All poets of all genres and experience are welcome.

Come for the poetry. Stay for the AfterWORDS!

Tip Your Co-host

AfterWORDS: The Sixth Dimension

The Poem That Wrote Itself

Some poems start with an idea. Some start with an image. This one started with an invitation and just kept going. The words came, and the poem created itself. No particular person in mind, no specific encounter to document, just a voice reaching out and pulling whoever was listening into a space they hadn’t been before.

That’s the witching hour at work. When you get out of the way and let the writing lead, sometimes it takes you somewhere you couldn’t have planned.

The Invitation

Every “let’s” in this poem is a door being held open. You’re not being told what happened. You’re being asked to participate in what could. That’s a fundamentally different relationship between poet and reader. Most poetry asks you to witness. This one asks you to come inside.

The reader isn’t watching two people. They’re one of them. That intimacy is built into the structure before a single explicit image arrives.

Beyond the Physical

This poem isn’t really about sex acts. It’s about transcendence. The refrigerator, the tree limb, the jacuzzi, the sixth dimension. These aren’t locations, they’re escalations. Each one pusher further past the ordinary, further past what’s expected, further into a space where the rules of everyday life don’t apply. The physical becomes a vehicle for something that doesn’t have a name yet.

That line stops the poem in its tracks because it suddenly isn’t about bodies anymore. A sixth dimension is beyond what we can see or touch or measure. That’s where this poem is trying to take you. Somewhere pleasure exists outside the limits of what you thought was possible.

The Structure of Abandon

The poem moves the way desire moves. Not in a straight line, not logically, jumping from the refrigerator to earlobes to a jacuzzi to eliminating ejaculation altogether. That’s intentional. Rational thought has been abandoned by design. The stream of consciousness isn’t a lack of control. It’s the point. The structure performs the freedom the poem is inviting you into.

The Closing Proposition

After all the transcendence, the sixth dimensions, the higher planes, the eliminated conclusions, the poem lands on the most honest, uncomplicated thing it could say. All of that complexity, and it comes back to two people, fully spent, having given everything. Sometimes the most poetic ending is the plainest one.

Why This Belongs in Poerotica

This is one of the oldest pieces in the catalog and one of the most distinct. Because it doesn’t document desire, it creates it in real time. Every other poem in Poerotica has a narrator and a subject. This one collapses that distance completely. You are the narrator. You are the subject. The poem is happening to you as you read it.

That’s what Poerotica has always reached for. Not just writing about intimacy but creating it on the page. This poem does that more directly than almost anything else here.

Your Thoughts

What would it look like to completely reinvent what pleasure means with someone. No rules, no boundaries, no predetermined endings? What’s the one thing you’d put on the list if you knew there was no judgement waiting on the other side?

Drop a comment. Let’s talk about what we’d do if we started from scratch.

Leave a comment

If you enjoyed this, you might also like:

Do Me, Dirty - No apologies, no hesitation, no judgement

Ripple Effect - When two people connect so deeply the world around them feels it

Irresistible - She asked, and he couldn’t say no

Poerotica Playlist on Spotify

Sunrise sinking behind still waters

Her beauty

Was flawless

Never thought when our eyes were introduced

That she would have no boundaries

Was quick to ask me

If I could fuck her, dirty

Wants to drool on my manhood

Tongue, caressing the shaft of my dick

As she swallows my all

Wants my ejaculate to coat her face in ecstasy

Then bare witness as she licks the remnants from me

To share exchanges of photography

Detailing our obscenities in perpetuity

Asked if I was ashamed of eating her ass

As she stood in front of me

With me down on my knees as she used my locs to control my tongue

Force me to dine in between her spread cheeks until she baptizes her sheets in her squirting fluids

Her liquids

The depths of her wetness

Exposed

Was I intimidated by her toes

Because she knows when I enter her spread legs

With one foot over my shoulder

She wouldn’t resist placing her toes in my mouth

One by one as my tongue slid in between each one

Asked if we could fuck outside

Remove her clothes and spread her out in the grass

While others passed us by

On long walks in the daytime

Would I fuck her on balconies

In far away countries

Thighs spread wide

As I plunge deeper inside

Could she ride

This dick

Bouncing up and down at the pace she sets

Engaging her clit with her own spit

As my fingers tighten around her neck

Said she needed this

So she could experience a new level of wetness

Fuck her raw without worries

Unadulterated

Sharing our body fluids like never before

Said she liked it when she was allowed to explore her fantasies

Told me if I promised to savor her

Be a slave to her

That she would show me how she acts on her worst behavior

To be uninhibited and nasty

Just down right dirty

And not have anyone judge her

For enjoying the pleasures she preferred

Could we invite others

To watch or experience the level of lust and trust that we had between one another

Wants to sit on my face and fuck my mouth

Just to see if I will swallow her fluids

As she creams and cums

Her uncontrolled streams as she squirts

Or spread her fluids between us

All over us

As we bath one another in our glorious releases of moisture

Enjoying the wetness of our juices

Enjoys kissing my lips after I eat her

So she can taste the sweetness of her desires on my lips

See, she likes to be done dirty

Only wants to be fucked how she wants it

To enjoy her own body without question or judgement

No apologies

And no hesitation

Just enjoying all of her

Nasty

Dirty

Little

Secrets

🎧 From my lips to your ears…

🎤 Spit and Ink: A Live Poetry Exchange (Open Mic)

Co-hosted by The Speechless Poet & Melissa “justME” Ellis

Next event: July 21 at 8PM EST

Featured Poet:

All poets of all genres and experience are welcome.

Come for the poetry. Stay for the AfterWORDS!

Tip Your Co-host

AfterWORDS: Do Me, Dirty

The Opening Deception

This poem opens with restraint. Quiet, still, almost contemplative. She’s serene. Composed. The kind of woman you’d describe to someone and they’d picture something gentle. That image is intentional, and it’s a setup. Because the next line dismantles everything the opening just built:

That contrast, the stillness of the opening against the uninhibited woman who emerges, is the whole poem in miniature. What you see when you first meet someone and who they actually are when they feel safe enough to ask for what they want are two entirely different things. This poems lives in that gap.

She Asked

Like Irresistible, this poem is structured around her requests. She is the one asking, directing, wanting, claiming. But where Irresistible built around a single encounter, Do Me, Dirty is an inventory. A full, unapologetic accounting of everything she desires:

The list that follows is explicit and intentional. Not shock for shock’s sake, but specificity in service of character. Each request reveals something about who she is. A woman this fluent in her own desires didn’t arrive her accidentally. She has done the work of knowing herself, and she’s decided you’re someone worth trusting with all of it.

The Trust at the Center

That line is easy to miss in the heat of everything surrounding it, but it’s the most important line in the poem. Every boundary she crosses, every thing she asks for, every fantasy she names … none of it is possible without trust as the foundation.

The poem isn’t about shock or transgression. It’s about what becomes available between two people when judgement is completely removed from the equation.

She isn’t reckless. She’s specific. She knows exactly what she wants and she’s found someone she believes will honor it.

The Closing Reframe

The entire poem has been arguing that she has nothing to be ashamed of. That her desires are valid, her pleasure is her own, her body belongs to her. And then the ending acknowledges the world’s verdict anyway. They’re still secrets. Society still has a name for women who want what she wants, and that name isn’t kind.

But notice she doesn’t apologize for them. They’re her secrets. She owns them. The poem doesn’t end in shame. It ends in possession. These are her nasty, dirty little secrets, and she’s chosen exactly who gets to know them.

Why This Belongs in Poerotica

This is the catalog’s most complete portrait of a woman fully inhabiting her own desire. Not performing it for anyone, not apologizing for it, not shrinking it to make someone else comfortable. She knows what she wants. She ask for it by name. And she finds someone willing to be present for all of it.

That word, allowed, is the quiet heartbreak of the poem. She shouldn’t need permission. She knows she shouldn’t need permission. And yet the world has made her feel like she does. This poem is the space where that permission is given freely, without question, without judgement.

That’s what Poerotica is for.

Your Thoughts

Have you ever felt completely safe enough with someone to name everything you wanted without filtering it first? Or been the person someone trusted with their unfiltered self? What does it feel like to be seen that completely? Desirfes and all?

Drop a comment. Let’s talk aobut what becomes possible when judgement leaves the room.

Leave a comment

If you enjoyed this, you might also like:

Irresistible - She asked, and he could'n’t say no

Ripple Effect - When two people connect so deeply the world around them feels it

A Good Fuck - On the difference between sex and something that means everything.

Poerotica Playlist on Spotify

Spread her ass cheeks wide

So that I could divide her pleasures with my tongue

Dance circles around her indiscretion

Taste her unmentionables

While her juices flowed

Releasing her wants

She asked

My tongue to travel between her thighs

As my hands spread her wider

So I could taste her more

Fluids pour

She asked

To cum on my face

As I tasted her

More

Sucking her soul between her thighs

Moans rising higher and higher

She asked to fuck my mouth

To pleasure her wants with my tongue

And I couldn’t say no

Share

🎧 From my lips to your ears…

Subscribe now

🎤 Spit and Ink: A Live Poetry Exchange (Open Mic)

Co-hosted by The Speechless Poet & Melissa “justME” Ellis

Next event: July 21 at 8PM EST

Featured Poet:

All poets of all genres and experience are welcome.

Come for the poetry. Stay for the AfterWORDS!

Tip Your Co-host

AfterWORDS: Irresistible

The Callback

If you’ve been here a while, “She Asked” will feel familiar. And it’s supposed to. That was the second poem published on my Substack and it started with “She asked me for a poem.” The remainder of that piece built itself around the fragments of that sentence, each section opening a new door.

This piece picks up that refrain and carries it somewhere else entirely. The “She Asked” that stared with a request for poetry has become a “She Asked” that is unapologetically about desire, about pleasure, about a woman who knows exactly what she wants and isn’t shy about asking for it.

That’s not a coincidence. That’s the natural progression of this catalog. From the page to the body, from the written word to the wordless ones.

She Asked

The repetition is structural and intentional, but it’s also something more. It’s a consent framework built into the poem’s DNA. Every escalation in this piece belongs to her. Every request originates with her. She is the one directing, asking, wanting, claiming.

I’m not taking anything. I’m responding. That distinction matters, and the refrain makes it impossible to miss.

There’s also something deeply intimate about a person who asks for what they want without hesitation. That confidence, the willingness to name your desires out loud, is its own kind of irresistible.

The Power Dynamic

That closing line is the whole poem in five words. It isn’t weakness. It’s surrender to someone whose desire is that clear, that compelling, that consuming. She spread herself open, she asked for exactly what she wanted, and the only possible response was to give it to her completely.

Throughout the piece, I am attentive, present, responsive, but she is always the one in control:

She’s not asking permission. She’s issuing invitations. And the difference between those two things is everything.

The Language of Desire

The poem moves between the explicit and the poetic without apology. “Unmentionables” doing something playful and slightly ironic right before the language gets more direct.

And “sucking her soul” elevates the physical into something spiritual without losing the heat of the moment.

That’s the balance Poerotica always reaches for. The body and something deeper than the body, living in the same breath.

Why This Belongs in Poerotica

This poem is about a woman who knows what she wants and asks for it. And a narrator who finds that irresistible. That dynamic, desire that is clear and mutual and unapologetic, is at the heart of everything this catalog celebrates.

The phrase does a lot of quiet work. She isn’t hiding anything here. She’s releasing. Letting it out, letting it be known, letting it be answered. Poerotica has always made space for that kind of honesty. This poem lives there fully.

Your Thoughts

Is there anything more irresistible than someone who knows exactly what they want and isn’t afraid to ask for it? What does it feel like to be on either side of that: the one asking or the one who simply cannot say no?

Drop a comment. Let’s talk about desire that speaks for itself.

Leave a comment

If you enjoyed this, you might also like:

Ripple Effect - When two people connect so deeply the world around them feels it

A Good Fuck - On the difference between sex and something that means more

Off Rhythm - When someone gets so far under your skin they scramble everything

Poerotica Playlist on Spotify

We make other couples cum

Sending erotic reverberating waves through the streets

Whenever our lips meet

Creating contact highs with our vibe

Because its too much to contain in our bedroom

And she doesn’t mind sharing

Or if others are staring

When our souls meets

Skin to skin, her and me

We explore our personal pleasures

And discover unfounded treasures

That can only be described as multigasms...

When she touches me, the world stands still

And she has total control of my will

To please her and fill her empty spaces with my fulfillment

I watch her while I caress her skin

And the color of her iris

Shatter into tiny prisms

Releasing rhythms of joyous sounds into the atmosphere

Others are forced to come closer

And ride the waves of our erotic behavior

Caught up...

In the ripple effect

Share

🎧 From my lips to your ears…

Subscribe now

🎤 Spit and Ink: A Live Poetry Exchange (Open Mic)

Co-hosted by The Speechless Poet & Melissa “justME” Ellis

Next event: July 8 at 8PM EST

All poets of all genres and experience are welcome.

Come for the poetry. Stay for the AfterWORDS!

Tip Your Co-host

AfterWORDS: Ripple Effect

The Connection That Couldn’t Be Contained

This poem is documentation, not imagination. There was a woman. Carefree, open, completely herself. And when we were together, something happened in the space around us. People would stop us in public just to ask how long we’d been together. Strangers wanted to comment on our energy, on how relaxed we were, on whatever it was we were putting into the room without trying to. We weren’t performing anything. We were just us. And apparently that was enough to make people stop and stare.

That line is literally true. Whatever we had, it didn’t stay private. It spilled out into streets and restaurants and wherever we went. This poem is my attempt to capture what that felt like from the inside.

The Ripple Effect

The central idea is simple: two people so in sync that their connection creates waves. Not metaphorical waves. Actual energetic shifts that pull people closer, create contact highs, force the room to reorganize itself around what’s happening between two people:

A ripple doesn’t ask permission. It just moves outward from the source. That’s what this relationship felt like. Something that radiated without effort, touched people without intention, and left everyone in proximity a little changed by it.

The Prism Image

This image came organically while writing. And those are always the ones worth trusting. Looking into someone’s eyes and seeing genuine happiness for life is one of the most disarming things a person can experience. The iris doesn’t just reflect light. In the right person, it refracts it, breaks it into something more complex and beautiful than what went in.

That’s what her eyes did. And when a person is that full of joy, it makes sound somehow. It releases something into the air around you. That’s what I was trying to capture, and the prism was the only image that came close.

Multigasms

This word only works if the poem earns it. And by the time you arrive here, it does. The connection has been established, the waves are already moving outward, and suddenly we need a word for what happens when two people reach that level of physical and emotional synchronicity simultaneously.

“Multigasms” is both playful and precise. It’s also very Poerotica. Willing to name exactly what’s happening without apology or decoration.

Why This Belongs in Poerotica

Most of the catalog explores desire in its complicated forms. The wanting, the longing, the ache of absence, the impossible connection. This poem is different. This one is about desire fulfilled, connection achieved, two people so aligned that the world around them responds to it.

That’s not lust. That’s surrender. And surrender (chosen, joyful, mutual) might be the most intimate thing Poerotica has explored yet. This poem belongs here because it answers a question the catalog has been circling: what does it look like when it actually works?

Your Thoughts

Have you ever been in a connection so strong that other people felt it too? Where strangers commented on your energy, or you could feel the room shift when you walked in together? What does it feel like to be that in sync with another person?

Drop a comment. Let’s talk about the connections that ripple outward.

Leave a comment

If you enjoyed this, you might also like:

It’s Complicated - When the connection is undeniable but the circumstances aren’t

One Last Time - Holding onto a prefect physical connection when everything else is falling apart

Off Rhythm - When someone gets so far under your skin they scramble everything

Poerotica Playlist on Spotify

There isn’t a phrase that’s to obscure

Because she feeds on every syllable of every note

Uses my lines to live vicariously

Creating her reality through my fantasy

I’m flattered

To her, every story matters

From haikus I’ve discarded

To stories that haven’t started

She thirst for my poetry like a new born

Who knows nothing else than to scream out angrily

As if to say ‘please feed me’

And I’m forced to oblige

My fingers pour out nectar onto pages

Her yearning for me keeps me writing for days

I wonder if she knows

As much as she thinks my writing feeds her

It’s her need to read that keeps me writing

As I watch her grow from a distance

I feel my words have assisted her on her journey

From virginity to maturity

And it makes me smile

That the hundreds of thousands of words we’ve shared

Have diminished the distance between us

She inspires my stories

Pushes my pen

Makes my ink flow without end

And so I will continue to write

As long as I continue to capture her attention

Share

🎧 From my lips to your ears…

Subscribe now

🎤 Spit and Ink: A Live Poetry Exchange (Open Mic)

Co-hosted by The Speechless Poet & Melissa “justME” Ellis

Next event: July 7 at 8PM EST

All poets of all genres and experience are welcome.

Come for the poetry. Stay for the AfterWORDS!

Tip Your Co-host

AfterWORDS: Your Attention, Please

The Muse Reversal

Most poems about a muse are selfish. The writer takes the beauty, the inspiration, the feeling, and turns it into art. This one goes the other direction. Yes, she feeds on my words. But I had to be honest about what’s really happening:

That line is the whole poem. She thinks she’s the one being nourished, but she doesn’t realize she’s the one holding the pen. Her hunger is what fills the page. Without a reader that invested, the words don’t come the same way. THis poem is my acknowledgment of that. And my way of saying thank you without her knowing I said it.

The Archetype

She isn’t one specific person. She’s every reader who has shown up for all of it. Not just the polished, finished pieces, but the rough ones, the discarded ones, the ones that haven’t found their ending yet:

That level of investment is rare. Most people show up for the highlight reel. She wants the outtakes too. Writing for someone like that changes how you work. You write fuller, dig deeper, because you know someone on the other end is actually paying attention to every syllable.

Virginity to Maturity

This is about the path a reader takes with Poerotica. The first encounter is like virgin ears. Everything is new, a little surprising, carefully received. But over time they grow into it. The edges stop shocking them. They start craving more, wanting deeper, pushing further into the work. They go from experiencing it to needing it.

That transformation is one of the most gratifying things about building this community. Watching someone evolve alongside the writing.

The Nectar Image

I could have written ink. I could have written words. But nectar is something else. It’s sweet, it’s drawn from somewhere living, and it exists specifically to be consumed. Nectar implies that what I’m producing has a taste to it, a richness. And that the reader isn’t just reading. She’s feeding. The newborn image right before it earns that word:

That’s not casual readership. That’s hunger. And nectar is the only thing that satisfies it.

Why This Belongs in Poerotica

This one sits differently in the catalog. There’s no explicit content here, no bodies tangled together, no heat rising of the page. And yet it might be one of the most intimate things I’ve written. Because it’s about being someone’s creative obsession. About the quiet, consuming way a reader can claim you without ever touching you.

Desire doesn’t always live in the body. Sometimes it lives in the way someone needs you words. Sometimes the most erotic thing in the world is knowing someone would read your discarded drafts. That belongs here because Poerotica has always been about honesty, and this is an honest poem about what it means to be witnessed.

Your Thoughts

Have you ever been so drawn into a writer’s work that you’d consume everything they’ve ever written? Finished or not? Or on the other side, have you ever had a reader whose attention made you write better, dig deeper, keep going?

Drop a comment. Let’s talk about the relationship between the ones who create and the ones who can’t stop reading.

Leave a comment

If you enjoyed this, you might also like:

Why Are You So Good At This - When someone’s words have a physical effect on you

Inspiration - She inspires life, laughter, happiness, desire … poetry

Spit That Sweet Shit - A love letter to poets and the community they build

Poerotica Playlist on Spotify

The vision of you and me

Is too imbedded in my memory

The sight of you has me

Off kilter

Your touch

The feeling of your hands on my chest

Drifting down to my waist

Your movements slow and deliberate

Is fucking with my mental

Your kiss

All over my lips

So wet

So soft

So tempting you are

Occupying my mind

My thoughts

I can’t

Focus

Visions of you on top of me

Looking down on me

Riding me

Owning me

“It’s yours baby”

You are…

On my mind in every way

The way that you look at me and say my name

Grinding slow on me

Tell me to say your name

You control the pacing

The breathing

The fucking

I’m distracted in your memories

I can’t stay on task

Every shadow that moves in the darkness

Is a vision of you

Laid out bare and spread open

As I stare at you

As you move

Begging for me to taste you

So I do

Tongue on lips

Saliva mixed with your wetness

Clit engorged

I suck it softly

Kiss it intensely

“This pussy is yours baby”

I’m lost in these moments

Your voice

Has me confused on what you do to me

Something is off

My poise

My swag

My rhythm is out of control

Your eyes

The intensity in your stare

As if you are seeing a me that I’m unaware existed

Your moans

Your groans…

My name is your pleasure

And this we is your treasure

The fuck…

I can’t think

I can’t see straight

I can’t concentrate

You have taken me into this space

Consuming my all of you

By you

For you

In this room

I can’t…

Sleep

Share

🎧 From my lips to your ears…

Subscribe now

🎤 Spit and Ink: A Live Poetry Exchange (Open Mic)

Co-hosted by The Speechless Poet & Melissa “justME” Ellis

Next event: June 23 at 8PM EST

All poets of all genres and experience are welcome.

Come for the poetry. Stay for the AfterWORDS!

Tip Your Co-host

AfterWORDS: Off Rhythm

The Insomnia Frame

I generally can’t sleep when a poem is fresh on my mind or a thought has been sparked. This one started from a conversation about the best time to record a piece. And the answer kept coming back to the witching hour. That window when you feel the most vulnerable, the most present, the most connected to whatever is moving inside you.

When you’re in your own head and if you actually listen, the work tends to write itself. That’s why the poem opens and closes on the same line. I can’t sleep.

Everything that lives between those two moments is what the mind does when it refuses to quiet down. A loop of memory and desire playing on repeat until the sun comes up.

Off Rhythm as Theme and Title

The title came from a song on the Poerotica playlist. instructed me to sit with the idea of being “off rhythm” or “off kilter,” so I asked myself what does it feel like to be off kilter? Out of rhythm? Pulled completely off your game by someone you want?

I started writing toward that feeling. What it sounds like. What it does to you:

All the things that usually anchor you, gone, because someone has gotten that far under your skin.

The Fragmented Structure

The short lines and broken phrases weren’t an accident. They are the point. The words begin but there’s no ending. They’re disjointed. Connected but not at the same time. That’s exactly what it feels like to want someone so badly you can’t hold a complete thought:

The structure mirrors the mental state: distracted, scattered, unable to stay on task. The poem doesn’t just describe an inability to concentrate. It performs it.

Memory vs. Presence

I’m so focused on being in her presence that even when she’s gone, she still exists in the space. Every nerve ending reaches out to feel what she makes me feel. It’s as if she’s contained in the air surrounding me and still demands all my focus:

She doesn’t have to be in the room. She’s already everywhere.

The Power Dynamic

My poems almost always give the control back to the lover. Every action, every movement, every expression I make is because I know that’s what satisfies her. And that means she is always the one in control of how I respond to her. That dynamic lives in the refrains:

Even in her pleasure, she’s the one speaking, claiming, directing. I’m just present and willing. And that’s exactly where I want to be.

Why This Belongs in Poerotica

Poerotica has always been about desire that refuses to stay quiet. And sometimes that means desire that won’t even let you rest. This poem lives in the same family as Sleepless Nights and Dreamscape: pieces where wanting someone becomes a physical state, where memory takes up residence in the body and won’t leave.

But Off Rhythm adds something specific. It’s about losing your composure. Your poise, your swag, the very rhythm that defines how you move through the world. Because someone has gotten that far under your skin. That vulnerability is the point.

A lot of my work puts me in a place of attentiveness and intention. This poem is the opposite: me undone, distracted, unable to think straight because the want is louder than my focus.

Poerotica isn’t only about confidence and command. It’s about honesty. Sometimes desire makes you sharp and present. Sometimes it scrambles you completely. Both are true. Both deserve a poem.

Your Thoughts

Have you ever been so consumed by someone that you couldn’t focus, couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t sleep? Where their memory took over a room they weren’t even in? What does it feel like when desire pulls you that far off your rhythm?

Drop a comment. Let’s talk about the people who scramble our focus.

Leave a comment

If you enjoyed this, you might also like:

Sleepless Nights - When the mind won’t rest and desire won’t quit

Dreamscape - Living inside a memory that feels more real than the room you’re in

Withdrawals - On what happens when that consuming presence disappears

Poerotica Playlist on Spotify

To her desires

An unintentional passing between two spirits

Who roam a space they don’t belong

Exuding confidence and lust in our eyes

And an unexplainable essence

That screams for others to pay attention

But we, connect

Immediately

Flawlessly

Following a casual conversation and an exchange of names

Move way too quickly

From a psychological introduction

To a physical expression of lust

She caresses my lips like she has kissed me 1000 times before

Her tongue parting my mouth open softly

Sliding forward

Forcing entrance into the warmth of my breathing

And then begging to be sucked

Like she was my favorite flavor of Now or Later candy

What became of this sweet treat

We kiss now but knew then I would experience her later

Her hands reach up gently

To touch the outside of mine

As mine hold on forcefully, yet gently

Around her neck

Pulling her closer to me

She whispers to me

That I am “the owner of this pussy, daddy”

Suggesting that it was my duty

To divide her thighs like unsolved fractions

Long

Division

Intentional

Exquisite

Our meetings are never accidental

We treat casual interactions

Like an infatuation of her favorite Lifetime television series

Without distraction

Binge-worthy

There is never any hesitation when we are together

Our passionate energies are always elevated

The chemistry, always apparent

And we make it impossible to keep our hands to ourselves

I yearn for her touch and she wants mine as equally

No hidden misunderstandings about who should take the initiative

Or start to build the desire

Since she IS my desire

My hands constantly exploring and learning her body’s pleasure points

And she, consistently

Memorizing the structure of my physique

As if she were learning braille

Focus

Pressure sensitive

Seeks the approval in my moans but never co-dependent on my want

Since her pleasure is internal and a necessity that craves her attention

Just texting her makes my erection unfold

Always desire to remove her clothes

Just so I can study the lines of her tattoos

Because I don’t want to overlook any of her details

The perfection of her scars

The details of her nipples

The depth of her bellybutton

Her slit

The moisture of her lips

The firmness of her clit

Just before she loses her shit and screams out “fuck, yes”

We move way too quickly to this

Introduction of erotic gods

In my minds imagination

Because I simply don’t have the courage

To ask for her name

Share

🎧 From my lips to your ears…

Subscribe now

🎤 Spit and Ink: A Live Poetry Exchange (Open Mic)

Co-hosted by The Speechless Poet & Melissa “justME” Ellis

Next event: July 7 at 8PM EST

All poets of all genres and experience are welcome.

Come for the poetry. Stay for the AfterWORDS!

Tip Your Co-host

AfterWORDS: Attention Deficit

Two People Who Don’t Belong

This is the introvert’s experience at social gatherings. You’re physically present but psychologically elsewhere. You don’t belong in loud rooms, crowded spaces, environments designed for extroverts who thrive on casual interaction.

And then: you see someone else who also doesn’t belong. Another spirit roaming uncomfortably, exuding the same “please don’t talk to me” energy while simultaneously hoping someone interesting will.

That recognition is instant. You see yourself in them. The discomfort. The desire to connect paired with the inability to initiate. The whole internal world happening behind a calm exterior.

The Immediate Connection

In my mind, at least. The connection is real. I feel it, I recognize it, I know we’d work together. But the connection is also entirely internal. We haven’t spoken. I’ve just decided, based on a glance, that we’re compatible.

“Flawlessly.” In my imagination, there’s no awkwardness. No fumbling for words. No misreading signals. We just… connect. Because in fantasy, you can skip past all the parts where real connection is difficult.

The Elaborate Fantasy

Everything from “Following a casual conversation and an exchange of names” through “her slit, the moisture of her lips, the firmness of her clit” is fantasy. Detailed, specific, sensory-rich fantasy.

I’ve constructed an entire sexual encounter. Kissing, touching, oral sex, penetration, her calling me daddy, me learning every detail of her body. All from a glance across a room.

That’s what the introvert mind does. We can’t small talk, but we can imagine entire relationships. We can’t ask someone’s name, but we can mentally catalog what their nipples probably look like, how their tattoos might trace across their skin, how they’d sound saying “fuck, yes.”

The detail is overwhelming. “Long / Division / Intentional / Exquisite.” I’m even imagining the pacing, the rhythm, the quality of how we’d fuck. “Binge-worthy” chemistry. “Pressure sensitive” touch like learning braille.

None of it is random. It’s all carefully constructed, vividly imagined, impossibly detailed for someone I haven’t spoken to.

The Comparative References

I’m imagining what she likes (Lifetime movies) and using that to describe our dynamic. But how do I know she likes Lifetime? I don’t. I’m making assumptions, building a personality for her based on… nothing. A look. A vibe. My own projections.

That’s the introvert trap. We create entire people in our heads based on minimal data. And then we fall for the person we invented, not the person who actually exists.

The Yearning

In the fantasy, it’s mutual. Perfect reciprocity. No anxiety about whether she’s interested. No wondering if I’m misreading signals. She wants me as much as I want her. Obviously. Because that’s how I’ve written it in my head.

“No hidden misunderstandings.” In fantasy, communication is perfect. In reality, for introverts, communication is where everything falls apart.

The Detail Obsession

I’m fantasizing about texting her. About removing her clothes not just for sex, but to study her tattoos. To understand the stories on her skin.

This level of attention to detail reveals how much time I’ve spent construction her in my mind. I’ve imagined scars (where are they? what caused them? are they beautiful?). Nipples (size, color, responsiveness). Bellybutton (shallow or deep?).

I know nothing about her. But I’ve decided everything about her.

The Sexual Detail

I’m even fantasizing about the exact state of her anatomy during arousal. How firm her clit gets. How wet her lips are. What she screams.

How would I know any of this? I don’t. I’m inventing it. Creating the perfect sexual scenario where everything works, where I know exactly what to do, where she responds exactly as I want.

The Gods In Imagination

“Way too quickly.” From glance to sexual intimacy in seconds. That’s only possible in imagination. In reality, there are steps: introduction, conversation, flirtation, consent negotiation, gradual escalation.

But in fantasy? You can skip all that. Go straight to “erotic gods”: the mythic, perfect versions of yourselves having mythic, perfect sex.

“In my minds imagination.” I’m trapped in my own head. Creating elaborate scenarios that will never happen because I can’t take the first step.

The Devastating Truth

After all that. After imagining kissing her, fucking her, learning her body, having her call me daddy, cumming together. I don’t have the courage to ask her name.

That’s the introvert’s tragedy. We can imaging profound intimacy. We can construct entire relationships in our heads. But we can’t execute the simplest social interaction: “Hi, I’m [name]. What’s yours?”

The gap between imagination and action isn’t just large. It’s infinite. All this connection, all this chemistry, all this perfect sex. None of it is real. And it won’t become real because I’m too paralyzed by social anxiety to speak.

Why This Belongs in Poerotica

This is the most psychologically honest poem about desire I’ve written. Not desire as confidence or pursuit or seduction. Desire as something that happens entirely in your head while you stand silently across a room from someone you’ll never actually talk to.

That’s real for a lot of people. The elaborate fantasies built on nothing. The inability to act despite intense want. The introvert’s particular hell: knowing exactly what you’d say if you could speak, but being unable to speak.

Poerotica makes space for this because desire isn’t always consummated. Sometimes it’s not even voiced. Sometimes it lives entirely in imagination. And that imagined desire is as real, as consuming, as worth writing about as the desire that becomes action.

Your Thoughts

Have you ever constructed an entire relationship in your head with someone you’ve never actually spoken to? What stopped you from making the first move? Fear, timing, introversion, or something else?

Drop a comment. Let’s talk about the gap between what we imagine and what we’re brave enough to pursue.

Leave a comment

If you enjoyed this, you might also like:

Before Hello - Desire that exists before you can act on it

L.O.V.E. At First Sight - Elaborate fantasy from a single glance

Questions of Curiosity - Wondering about someone you can’t ask directly

Poerotica Playlist on Spotify