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Two Poems

Content note: explicit sexual content


The Space Between


Leave it in the space
between daydream and
wet dream, in those mornings
when I wake up in pain,
fall asleep in pain,
and the only comfort
is a hand rocking my clit.
I whimper out in orgasm,
feel the pain slip away
even if it always returns.
Not just the stiff, burning
electric-shock pain of a
chronic pain condemnation
but the loneliness creeping in.
the inadequacy. The longing
to be touched and the
resistance. The fear.
I am still a virgin,
Dreaming virgin dreams,
calling out the names of
old loves, faces eroded
by a frazzled memory.
I imagine you on top of
me, I mime it
with my legs spread
wait for you to fill me up.
To kiss me as you fuck me.
The first time will be
overwhelming or it will
be disappointing. I am
afraid it will hurt.
I am afraid I will be
thrown back to some
past violence, afraid I
will crawl away in fear.
Most of all, I will be afraid

to look into your eyes
where you might see me
vulnerable for the first time.
So it’s easier to imagine
it rough, where I tell you
to spank me, pull my hair,
bite my shoulder or
twist my nipple.
It’s easier to imagine
scenarios of polyamory,
of having my face sat on,
of being hidden.
For all my teasing, all my
jokes and desperation,
all I really want is you
inside me, above me,
holding me, pulling me in.
telling me I’m the one.
Not any other girl or boy,
who I might imagine
joining us in bed
to escape the heartbreak
of rejection.
You’ll slot yourself inside me,
smile and say,
“I love you.
I want to fuck you because
I love you.
I don’t want you to hurt
anymore.”


Becoming someone’s pet


I read an article
where a woman
spent seven hours
getting flogged.
Afterward, she drove
home, took a bath
and, with a glorious
realisation, discovered
the chronic pain
in her legs and back
had vanished. It wasn’t
the pills and their
liver-poisoning side-effects,
it wasn’t physio and
it wasn’t CBT.
It was pain. The delights in
being punished had reset
her brain, knocked her
nervous system back
into order.
I’ve been thinking
about that a lot
myself. Those secret fantasies
I dare not commit to paper
when I play with
my nipples, late at night.
I wonder if it would work.
I take so many vitamins and
antidepressants. I deep freeze
my legs, drink three cups
of coffee a day,
bathe in Epsom salt baths
just to function.
My subconscious strays
into the realms of bondage,
of spankings and teasing and
‘Open your legs!’
Could I train my body
to see the pleasure in pain?

Could I take the sting out
of its persistence?
Would it let me stand
on my own legs for
more than ten minutes
without them buckling
beneath me?
Or would it be a placebo?
Would pain overwhelm me?
Would I become its
Master, in the same way
I’d turn my body over to
another, allow them to tie me
down, blind me and make me
theirs?
My legs are useless now,
why not string them up?
Why not kiss my thighs
plunge yourself inside,
while I’m crying and cumming,
and call me a good girl?
If the pain outlasts the session —
will you make me yours?


Caucasian woman with short hair and red patterned head band. headshot.
Sarah Loverock

Sarah Loverock is a writer, poet, and MA Creative Writing student. She has been previously published in Streetcake, ang(st) zine, Perhappened and Pussy Magic. She loves all things witchy and spiritual, history and mythology, and cute animals. She is available on Twitter @asoftblueending.

 

 

This is part of the Sister Stories series.

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