Tag Archives: erotic

A King for the taking


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Now taking a King,
Needed, one brotha grown into his skin,
and liking it there.

One not prone to calamitous attacks of egotistical self indulgence,
capable even of giving this devil her due…

To be returned in kind and ten fold,
A man who possesses a King’s ransom in truth,
A true master in possession of the knowledge of his own weakness.
And in so is able to appreciate the cracks which form a granite woman.

A capable brotha, able to shoulder proudly the responsibility of a woman’s love.
One who finds pleasure in her mind as well as her body,
Willing to bond in spirit with his Queen.

Now taking a King,
A queen in process of building her nation seeking conversation,
Consultation of unmitigated condor,
Was there ever a light that sparked deeper passion?

Seeking a creature of purposeful determination,
an enduring presence,
Not so fickle as to be seduced by the cheapness of a change in self definition,
as offered by the bosom of another.

Knowing it is so much delusion bought on by an inability to harvest pride from his life doings.

Seeking a King, hoping to find shelter in his arms,
as his heart is her fortress,
and their bodies temples of mutual exhalation, submission to faith,
In his steadfast dedication to meaningful things.

A hard won Crown seeking a Kingly companion.




A Tragic Destitution


She wants to fall into him,
To lose herself in the feel of his lips,
In his scent,
In the way his stubble scrapes across her skin when he tastes her.

She wants to be surrounded by him,
cocooned in his warmth,
On ever plain of their them-ness.

She wants to be taken by him,
made to feel more essential that air,
To know that she alone inspires the wanton that stoked the fire in his eyes.
the muse of his moans, his Persephone.

She wants to know him,
To be that kind of intimate it is so easy to be in the absence of love.

She wants to be wanted,
To encompass and enfold him within herself,
Want to metamorphose into this new being,
By being herself within him, while he occupies her.

She want to be owned.
Unmistakably, uninhibitedly claimed,
In word and action in a way that is…

It’s a tragic destitution to want so much.

To be so without center, insufficient, alone.

But oh what poetry to find that merging,
To have faith so richly rewarded,
To be so treasured.

She simply wants all of him.

Paint passion


Paint her face,

A portrait of pleasure,

Brush lips,

Slowly against her,

Spreading colour across closed eyelids,

Each finger stroke,

Leaving impressions on the image of her,

Make her yours,

Infuse meaning with each tender passing,

Of flesh over flesh,

And something more intertwined,

Paint her,

A portrait of passion,

To endure all ages,

On the canvas of your mind.


For some reason a title for this eludes me, any suggestions?

Beautiful female legs in pantyhose

It starts simply enough, playful

Some spooning, a poking,

A tet a tet

Then your wet, but playing hard to get,

Then your got, you know?


And for while it’s still playful,

A fidgety tongue playing across, between, inside, around,

You’re panting now, and that’s one.


Two is swift to follow when

You are entered, invaded, persuaded ever so deliciously.

Welcome the intrusion,

Of this thing, hard and driven,

Attached to someone hard and driven,

Driven hard on driving you to three. Sweet three.


But somewhere in the coming, this became a serious thing,

And the tempo is like your heart beat, strong and steady wins the race,

It’s intense but far from over.

and where you were once happy at the mission

you are now eager to do the riding,


well, it’s only right that four should be a thing of your own making,


Flipped, and switched now there it is, five, six,

On the heels of battering ram incisions

into somewhere you weren’t sure existed,

Hitting alphabets reverberating through your system,

Each stroke like a strike of Big Church bell.

Seven, eight this is your ticket to hell,

This is the taste of ambrosia made sensation,

And god never intended us to have this?


This on the verge of nine, and you are so intertwined

He’s trying to crawl into your womb,

And all things being equal you would let him.

For all that is within this thing of carelessly thrown legs

Unfurled that he may cum and have, be sated in the conquering,

Wild and hungry and you are just as yearned, learning for yourself the depths of your own depravity,

Waiting, begging, hoping but not hastening Ten,




Journey end?

When he comes with, and cums with and all is

Waves of afterglow washing over your pelvis,

You are now paraplegic with pleasure,

Joints well worn,

muscles stretched and your psyche torn and tatted in his wake,

And the only coherence left is to compare

your  jilted motions to a Fallow deer just after first breath,

So you stay and be held and be made well in the haze of the little deaths

Playful good intentions, ignited into mature passion,

Culminating in sleep… paralysis.

Between you, me, and these sheets.


We’ll be the death of each other,

You and me sinking lips,

Sucking life from our viens in turn,

Wary suspicious kind of loving,

Do I have you? Do you get me?


Let me taste you,

Feel you,

Touch you,

Want you,

In that unexpected moment,

When we forget to know each other so deeply,

When pain falls asleep and leaves us,

Laughing sweetly,

Let me have you,

Kiss you,

Comfort you,

Enjoy you,

Between you and me and these sheets,

Who’s to know?

What are our shades of broken,

They don’t matter in the now,

Let me ravage you,

Possess you,

Sate you,

Deflate your illusions in me,

Don your armor and conquer or rescue

I don’t care which as long as it’s you,

I see when sensation subsides,

And I need to swim in something impulsive,

We did together.


On top,


Any  surface available at the time,

Only reason and rhyme being want,

Because we want,

I savor you,

Love you,

Hate you,

Hold you near me,

In that impromptu conversation

Between you, me and these sheets.

©Michelle Toussaint. All Rights Reserved.

Le Petite Mort

Mind rape

A Smack to the ass

And she barrels out of sleep swinging

‘Cause that’s what you do when

Rudely awakened by that kind of pain

But he’s already got her

Arms stretched over her head

Both wrists locked in his hands

Nibbling at her ribcage

She’ll die a few times before it’s over

And she fights

Not for escape or revenge or whatever

But to get closer

Her sleep addled brain

Doing a sharp shift from defensive to nymphomaniac

On his path of nibble he finds a nipple

And she squirms

Straining against her restraints to tangle her fingers in his hair

And make him stop, or come closer, or….

Then he’s with her…deeply

And she dies immediately from the shock of it

He rides her out

Then he just rides

Busy lips nip sharply

Salacious and demanding

She dies again

But he is the one captured

His hips ground to hers

By the strength of her coiled legs

A guttural command forces through the haze

And she releases him

But the damage is done

And the ride intensifies

And he blazes a trail towards another killing

And she is lost again

In a haze of stinging sensation

A dizzying cycle of death and resurrection

How many? Who’s to tell?

As wave after wave obliterate coherence

And he whispers in here ear

His sermon of possession

As she jabbers

His praises, his condemnation,

A plea that it never end

But as all intense things must

This too comes to a closing

As he frees himself inside her

White hot scalding neon pleasure

And they die together

And rest

©Michelle Toussaint 2015. All Rights Reserved.

Now Taking A Lover


Now Taking a Lover, by Michelle Toussaint, is a collection of poetry which chronicles a woman’s journey from spurned lover, to finding love. With a few diversions to a lover or two.

Now Available on Amazon. FREE with Kindle Unlimited.

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