by Carlos Martinez
(09/06/06)

There is always an element of play, subsumed in threat,
when I tie you to a chair, step behind it, unstrap that part
of myself I love best, and place my testicles on your shoulder,

pull your hair, hard but not too hard, and whisper what
I'm going to do today to pass the many hours, before we rise,
at last, soaked in sweat, cross-eyed with pleasure.

I know it makes you wet, to hear what I have to say, stepping
through a portal from the world of everyday into the bottom
of my head, where fantasies live, chained against a wall,

the deepest well of self, wanting to run in daylight. I know
it makes you wet, when you hear those evanescent words,
that evaporate in air, that rise like cigarette smoke

and in a moment disappear. How beautiful you'll look,
legs spread, panties off, light shining on your labia, breasts
pulled from your bra, exposed, already covered with the grease

of my desire, as I bend to lick your areolas, to make
your nipples pucker, in the light, in the day that will last
as long as I do, having entered you, not at first, but later,

after the copious flow, after I've rubbed and slapped
your hidden clitoris. Think of it: the two of us, the cats
indolent in the window, what passersby do not know,

what we will do, when my cock head enters you, between
your legs, or into your mouth deeply enough you gag
while my testicles rub your chin. The nights are sometimes

longer than I'd like, when I can't sleep and I think instead
of rope burns along your wrists, where they'd chafe because
you'd struggle against them. The aria of your pleasure

is what I'd like to hear, to watch your feet pressing against
my chest as I press into you, until the moment comes
and I do, too. Today, you'll walk through the door,

as always, saucy and insouciant. I will wait behind it,
cock hard, clear drops of fluid at its tip. For you,
my love, I've saved my hardest spurt.

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