Femdom Fiction & Poetry by Will
A Triolet
You’re lucky I make do with just this cock
When I could have any as many as I please!
I could line men up, around the block
You’re lucky I make do with just this cock
You better give it all you’ve got,
Unless you’d rather be relieved
You’re lucky I make do with just this cock
I could have any as many as I please!
A Petrarchan Sonnet
I wrap my fingers ‘round your fluttering cock
You’ve been so good, fulfilling my demands
Now raring for reward, in my firm hand
You would be begging if I let you talk
It would be cruel, now, to stop
I flex my fist around your throbbing gland
You hold your cum and wait for my command
About to burst, your knees and elbows lock
But I won’t milk your eager cum today
And not tomorrow either if you pout
I’ll jerk your dick until I’m bored of play
You’ll just cum harder after holding out
‘Til then you’ll be attentive and obey
To earn reward you’ll prove yourself devout
A triolet, in which a haughty Mistress reminds her slave of his obligations. Maybe he forgot himself and selfishly sought his own pleasure at the expense of hers? Or maybe she is just having a little fun at his expense?
Don’t forget what you are for,
my horny little boy
You are my dildo, nothing more
Don’t forget what you are for!
You’re lucky just to be my whore,
to bring me joy, to be my toy
Don’t forget what you are for
My horny little boy!
A villanelle
Tsaritza might put me in my place
Beneath her merciful majesty
And her throne might be my face
Enthroned upon her purple chaise
I’ll wait, before her, on my knees
Tsaritza might put me in my place
Might my reward be just to taste
And savor her divinity
Please, her throne might be my face
I know I’m nothing, so dim and plain
Beneath such radiant royalty,
Tsaritza, still, might put me in my place
I’ll beg to do whatever it takes
I’ll suffer any indignity
O please, her throne might be my face
Let her lock me in a cage
‘Til royal pleasure has use for me!
Tsaritza might put me in my place
And please! O, please her throne might be my face
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The Lioness gives a tortured roar
Her lust is dangerous to deny
She bats her tail, but bears her claws
from the ache that boils between her thighs
She stalks from here to there and back
In penned desire’s unrelenting cage
Burning for the cooling balm
That soothes the pangs that turn to rage
Delirious pleasure, delirious rage
He knows there is no other choice,
when she pants in painful wanting
With that cracking in her voice
Her scruff is bristling, her back is bent
In heat for love or war
The lion now will have no rest
Until she purrs or roars
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John Donne sure is hot to trot in his Elegy to his Mistress Going to Bed. What might she have to say about it?
COME, sir? Have I not heard this panting plea before?
And then been left to hunger while you snore?
Left, like an apple bitten, but only once or twice
It’s flesh left wet and withering; once enticed
You lose your pace quicker than a hasty horse
The rider takes her mount, you’ve run the course
I’ve seen your lightening flashing, and heard your thunder pound
Then drip such drops that barely mist the ground!
The dancer knows the wooden stage can bear her sport
Without withdraw, or slacking its support
As long as needed to exhaust her energies
The flame atop the wick burns ’til she’s pleased
The steadfast candle fuels her, far into the night
It gives whatever’s needed to shine her light
Unlike your firecracker’s short impatient fuse
That’s fizzle flash snap, then powder fumes!
The care that must be taken to step on broken boards
Makes dancing awkward
The candle, drained of wax, may blamelessly burn out
And not just leave the thirsty flame to pout
So hold the rain for me, though the storm clouds nearly burst
To cool the dying embers of my thirst
Unless you want the orchard gates forever shut
Wait for my spur, and meanwhile, hold your nut!
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