White Stockings, White Stockings She Wore

♦  If you get the reference in the title of this poem (without cheating), not only will I be SUPER impressed, but I’ll likely love you forever. Because win.

In any case, here’s a little poem I started writing a while ago but got creative block part way through even though I knew where it was going! Anyway, it’s done now and I think I’m beginning to discover some themes in my poems that I’m unintentionally returning to, which is very interesting! As always, I’m dying to know what you think, so please leave any comment or critique below! ♦

White stockings and feet

On Sunday, I put you in white stockings.
I held the silk-soft tips open and you dipped in your toes,
Wriggling them childishly as I started to slide the stockings slowly up.
Up, up over your calves to rest atop your milky thighs,
Mere inches from your freshly-shaven slickness.
Your bit your cunt-pink lip in false consternation.
I made a note to fuck the levity out of you later.

You hadn’t done anything special to deserve a gift,
But I’d got you one anyway.
I pulled a white cotton negligee from its hiding place
And slipped it over your upraised arms,
Tugged it down past coral nipples and freckled flanks.
I bent you forward and the negligee rode up to expose your bottom
And a peek of pussy.

It was all I could do not to thrash your thighs there and then,
Not to birch your behind until slick turned to sopping,
Not to dip my thumb into your hive and come out coated in milk and honey.
You stood stock still, an expectant angel, waiting for me to blink.

Not yet.

I stood and placed a lecherous hand on your bare bottom,
Another on your chest,
And tipped your torso upright, signalling the end of your appraisal
We were masks, you and I.
Mischief capered under your doe-eyed surface;
Under mine, only the thought of ransack. Rampage.
But first, we’d play.

Dressed in your spotless, sacrificial whites,
You listened as I set your task.
You’d dust this room from top to bottom.
You would sweep its floor and beat its rugs.
And when you had exchanged your purity for its,
I’d stand you on the coffee table and have you spin for me
Like a mannequin on the fucking shopping channel.

My secret?
For each smudge, a spank.
For each blemish, a bruise.
For each streak, a strike of the cane, a snap of the whip…
A mark for each of your marks.

I’d beat out your imperfections and brand them on your skin.
I’d pin you down and pull your hair.
And fuck what was left of your levity gasping into the air.

On Sunday, I put you in white stockings.
But you went home, smiling, in bruises, wet knickers and sin.

♦  For those of you who give up on the title reference, you may remember that I’m a proud Cornish maid. The title is a line from a Cornish song called Camborne Hill, about Trevithick and steam engines and with a bit of innuendo thrown in for good measure (I ‘ad ‘er I did, it cost me a quid?). You can hear it sung here by a lovely male voice choir (with a slightly fancified arrangement, but mostly authentic).♦

Wicked Wednesday

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