Tag Archives: emotional

Poetry from the Torture of Loving a Narcissist

These are from my,
RAW IN THE MIDDLE
LOVING A NARCISSIST
Poetry Collections
The Worst of It

The worst of it was his disbelief in my love
In how I truly felt about him
The conflagration of him; the intensity of my desire to be his.
How he affected me, changed who I was, and what I believe
I adored him and wanted to give him everything

He laughed at my passion and my offerings
His indifference to my flailing ruined what was left of a fragile soul
He misinterpreted, misconstrued, and misunderstood everything I was
It felt as if he did so purposely
He ignored my only talent and wouldn’t read my words

I am still a shattered mess, only aching to be understood
Something about his rejection rendered me invisible
Even to myself.
Now, he’s attempted to delete our tombstone inscription
As if a few scratches could expunge my grief at the loss

As if I could ever un-feel what I felt
As if I could reverse the affects of him on my heart
The worst of it is he banished me instantly from his
Moving along as if I were roadkill to be forgotten
Whew, that was a close one, glad he survived
as I drag my own carcass away from the crash site.

The worst of it is how my love for him, awakened me
Changed me, made me want to be more than I’ve ever been
A better me, because of him.
He didn’t feel any of that impact, not even a jostle of recognition
He irreparably wounded me to a core I didn’t know I possessed,
and the worst of it was he didn’t care a lick.

The worst of it is the weight of what I now carry
The baggage of un-spent adoration, love, lust and submission.
How can I ever give this to another?
Another will never be him.
But of course, he isn’t really him either.

Irretrievable, irrevocable, irreversible
Whatever toxin he infused, is a fatal affliction
I’ve come to decide I will not recover
I will continue as a shell of empty grief and sorrow
But who I once was, is gone, lost, destroyed

I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m still standing
The placebos I feed the world
I know the truth, but I’m the only one who cares
He doesn’t, never did, lied his way through my devotion
He didn’t care if it was a love note, or a suicide note,
it was simply something to feed on.

I thought the sex was love, and for me, it was more like worship,
But I think for him, not so much.
He loved his prowess and stamina.
He loved his power.
He adored himself as I writhed under his weight.

It’s strange how I still love him.
The façade he presented in the beginning.
The conglomeration of parts I’d always dreamt of.
He is a master of the craft, a fisher of emotions, an infantile monster of extraction and extortion.
He baited the net perfectly, and then laughed at his prey’s declaration of love.
An Oscar worthy performance as a vampire of emotions.

If my love was a lie, I’d be over him by now.
I’d have moved past this brokenness and mourning.
For me, it was so much more than lust, and chemicals.
My soul fell, and is still screaming through the abyss
My heart is obliterated and now I’m a nothing.

He interrupted my aura, and I was instantly changed. It was an irretrievable moment and I am still suffering through the sorrow. It weeps through my skin and strangles me with longing for a man who doesn’t exist. It’s like a straight jacket of locks and chains; a noose of emotional torture; this ache of grief that renders me fetal as I hold myself together.
I thought a year would at least provide a scar I could live with, but instead it rips free and bleeds on a regular basis. He laughed at my love, thought me a fraud and a liar. Of course, his disordered mind hadn’t a clue of love or it’s power.
It was naïve of me to think the firestorm I experienced, would translate to his awakening. My own metamorphoses was irrevocably enacted the moment I saw him, but for him to want me with the same passion, was a much too delusional fantasy on my part.
He set the trap well, offering me bait of my ideal. I saw his cage of writhing demons and yet still, still, I loved him with a ferociousness I will never understand.
Even still, a year past and I am swept away by the interruption of a continuous thought of him.
He tried to scratch away the inscription on our tombstone, but no matter, it is still him who haunts the halls of my heart and renders me useless to this world.

RAW IN THE MIDDLE

I’m working on a new book of poetry, prose and introspective articles/memoir.

I don’t know a release date yet, but I have my cover art.
Here are some samples of the poetry:

___________________________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________ ___________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

Why this name?

I’ve answered this question a few times. Yes, I know, my name is odd; to have chosen such a name is a curiosity. In a world where the current operating system dictates we only spew positivity, and are not allowed to share our pain and suffering without being preached at about living in the half-full, I chose a name that would make most cringe. With it, brings a raft of implications, and even though the spelling is creative, it is still a label of anguish.

Back in 2008 I was almost thriving. My horse training and teaching business had weathered much, and I was finally making a living. It was a hard life, and a lot of work, but I’d been at it for nearly 25 years, and finally my passion surrounding horses, was paying for itself. I had a barn full of mine, and client’s horses and enough drive-in lessons and training that I finally felt as if I’d made it.

I live rural, in a stunning part of California. The summers are cool and rarely reach 80F. The winters are temperate and rainy and it never snows! I leased a horse facility near me with 10 stalls and an indoor arena. I needed the indoor for our winters. It was across the road from miles of trails and just a short haul up to the show grounds for variety. I also live only 5 minutes away.

Even though I’d been there for 20 years, and I thought the owner and I had a solid foundation between us, she changed her mind, and restructured the lease to the point I couldn’t afford to stay. There was no other place for me to go. I explored every option at my disposal, even moving from the only place I adored living and where all my family and husband also dwelt. I would have moved, and taken all my horses with me, if I could have found something.

In the end, I was forced to give everything up, even all my horses. Even my 13YO superhorse who I’d had since he was a yearling. All of it, gone with no hope of retrieval. I collapsed and had a massive breakdown. I’d lost everything, including my cemented adult identity. I tried to commit suicide, and obviously failed at that too.

At this point in time, I wasn’t a writer or author. I’d always told stories, and written for myself, but in an extremely limited capacity. I also didn’t have the academic learning to back up any sort of writing aspirations. But I had to do something and I couldn’t afford a therapist, so I began putting it all into words.

I hurt. I ached. Everything in me was in severe pain, and it wasn’t physical, it all stemmed from the emotional. I was in a mire of depression so deep I saw no way out. Even though my faith game is incredibly strong, and I was begging for illumination, no answers were presented. So, I began a story about a lost soul who needed a miraculous rescue. Her name was, Payne.

Before this episode, I’d never had much depression, and I’d dealt with all my physical pain easily. I had multiple injuries over the years, and nothing slowed me down, but now, the inner anguish was radiating, and my entire life, my body, my emotions, my soul, all of me was in utter, and devastating pain. My outlook on life wasn’t much different. I still wished for death every day for well over a year. But I wrote, and I wrote, and I kept writing her story. In the beginning, she was me, but as it evolved, I became her, and together we began to heal.

I adopted her name as it became clear I had a book on my hands and I needed a pen name. I was no longer the horseygirl of my past and I’d severed all connections to that old life. I had only 2 people who cared if I lived or died, and they are the only 2 who still use my birthname. Now days, 7 years later, I am known as Payne.

Much has happened and much has changed in my life and inside me over the past 7 years. Oddly, I’m still not that excited about being alive and I often pray to be taken at the earliest possible age. I’m not suicidal, I’m just tired. This system and this program doesn’t work for me. Nothing about how other humans operate, works for who I’ve evolved into.

I’m persevering however, and my life is very full. I’m embracing the distraction of, ‘busy’, and spout the company line whenever I can muster a fake smile. I’m no longer in pain, but my soul is still alone and my soul is still, Payne.

My blog feed goes back to the beginning of my journey as an author and poet. You can find a link to it on my webpage, along with millions of words and multiple pages of my personal reflections and writings, here:  www.paynehawthorne.com

All my fictional work is up in novel form, in both print and digital on Amazon, here: Payne Hawthorne on Amazon

I wrote a lot for 5 years and I learned as I went. I have 12 novels to my name now, all of which I am quite proud of. All but one is fiction. Just this year, 2017, I released my first memoir which included two poetry collections. This title is autobiographical and about a young man I feel deeply in love with, but we couldn’t make it work.
Look for it here: Peeing with the door open; Not a love story

That first book I wrote, where Payne is the heroine, is now a series and still my favorite. Someday I’ll manage to finish the third book in that series. Look for it under the name;
AdventuresinPayne Remnant, (book I)
AdventuresinPayne Discovery, (book II)

Back in late 2015 I was forced to stop writing and start earning a living again. My time was up, and nothing was bringing in enough, (any), money to live on. I’d given myself 5 years to show I could at least generate a grand a month from my writing. That didn’t happen, even though I produced so many great titles. I tried a go-fund-me page, thinking all the ‘fans’ I’d gathered and the ones who’d received all my work for free, might donate to my cause so I could finish some of my series.

Instead of them rallying behind me, I was maligned for asking. I was told I should work, and still write, and nobody would help me. I ended up with the nick-name, “Funder-Cunt.” This story has more to it, but that was it for me. I already didn’t have much fight left, so I walked away, and I stopped writing novels.

Since then, I’ve written a lot of poetry and short stuff. I also wrote my memoir when that love affair ended and my heart was once again shattered.

Now days, everything I write is all real, all non-fiction, all my inner truth, and all of it is heartbreakingly ME, Payne.

I’ve risen out of my pile of ashes a few times. Now days, I find comfort in being alone and living as a servant to others. I don’t have much of a life apart from my work, and even now, finding time to write anything of meaning is not very high on my list. What I do write, I post for free on all my social media sites, and for sure on my Pinterest boards or my website.

It means a lot to me to hear if my words resonate with others. It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, it comforts my lonely heart. Thank you for reading me.

Payne

Semifinalist in Poetry Contest

I entered the below poem at poetrynation.com and was just notified I’m a semifinalist.  It also secures this poem and a small author bio in their upcoming print anthology collection of amateur poets.

Pretty exiting for me since I’ve never entered any of my writings in contests. My new mission is to enter more of my stuff, more often and on different platforms with the end goal of getting my name better known as an author and poetess of emotional, soul searching, and love focused writings.

So here it is:

The Devastation of Love, (revised edition to fit their submission guidelines).
I'm forever hopeful to be stolen by it, swept up and falling into...
I will cease to be a singular soul, alone. 
I will join with another, and become someone entirely new. 
It’s messy and often ugly. 
It’s devastating.
Perhaps it’s simply my love of playing with fire?
It’s a shattering experience. 
Life altering, soul modifying. 
It’s anarchy. Destruction. 
Demolish what was there, rebuild stronger joined as two. 
It’s crushing, humbling and overwhelming. 
It’s embarrassing, pathetic, and shameless. 
I must surrender to the tidal pull of another. 
I must submit to the power of two combined. 
I am no longer me. I am now, us and we. 
I hand myself over to the other. 
It’s a before and after episode. 
It’s a demon who burgles my deepest secrets. 
It’s a cresting wave, pummeling me into the depths. 
It’s a deity demanding I bow and worship at it’s alter. 
Scrape and beg, plead and surrender. Succumb. 
It sweeps me up into a hurricane of destruction. 
It blows through me without a care for who I once was. 
No matter my preparations, 
or how long I've sought this elusive beast. 
No matter…
It will destroy me, and still I seek nothing else.

Original Prose which inspired this shortened version:

The Devastation of Love Original Prose/poetry by Payne Hawthorne
The Devastation of Love
Original Prose/poetry by Payne Hawthorne

Weekly Erotica; The Claiming

The Claiming

It’s one of those biting cold nights. My little house is freezing and I need to get a fire started, but my fingers are numb and striking the match is darn near impossible. Rarely do I feel alone, but when I do, man it hits me like a tsunami and I crash. I fall into depression almost instantly, and usually I end up crying myself to sleep. I’ve been alone for a very long time, so it always baffles me when the despair hits so strongly. You’d think I would be used to it by now. 

I miss him, but I shouldn’t. It’s not like we ever met, and honestly, I hung on way longer than I should have. Two years of nothing but emails and phone calls should have been enough for me. I wish it could have been. I’m starting to think I’m defective. I should have just been okay with what he did give me and not ache for more. If only I were one of those women who hated sex and men in general. If only. 

I needed him to be real. Tangible. I needed his arms and his lips and his warmth. I needed to talk to him with body language and with only my eyes. I never got that, and now I’m more alone than ever. I don’t even have his voice. 

Maybe it’s because it’s New Year’s Eve. Maybe the being alone on this night is the reason for my despair. Hopefully I’ll fall asleep early enough so I don’t have to hear the celebrations of all humanity. I don’t understand their glee in making it yet another year. I’m so tired. 

It’s been almost four months since we talked. I know he’s still out there because I get little pins from him on occasion. He’s in all our old haunts, Facebook, Pinterest, Tumbler. All the places we get to be who we aren’t in real life. 

I want to be real. I want to be substantial to someone in a physical sense. I’ve grown bored with the cyber life. It’s much too transient for me; too counterfeit.

I finally get the stove lit and I sit and think as I watch the flames grow ever higher. I didn’t hear from him at all today. He was strangely absent from all my normal feeds. Maybe he was snowed in. There are supposedly horrible storms back where he lives. 

I don’t feel like eating. I don’t feel like doing anything, but I need to feed the horses a late hot bran mash with electrolytes because it’s supposed to dip down into the twenties tonight. I head out to the road with my flashlight and make my way up to the barn. I hear a car, and see headlights, but figure it’s the neighbors either leaving for a party or just getting home from dinner. I feed the horses and then head back down. Slipping my way over the frozen puddles in the road. There is a car parked at my gate. That is strange. 

I turn off my flashlight and stall right where I am. I consider heading back up to the barn and grabbing some sort of weapon. Not like anyone can hear me scream all the way out here. Wish my dog was with me, but I left her at home. Whenever I’m tending to others’ properties, I usually leave her home. I’m undecided and remain frozen in a shadow. 

The thing is, I can empathically feel the driver. It’s a masculine energy and unsettlingly familiar. It can’t be him. It just can’t be. It isn’t; I talk myself out of the feelings part of this, and assess the situation. It’s almost ten at night, my breath is steaming and my teeth are beginning to chatter. The only weapon I could gather would be a shovel, and I seriously doubt I can defend myself with that. So I turn my flashlight back on and with a thudding heart, I resume my march down the road. 

As I approach the back of the car, the door swings open. He’s tall, and broad, and fills the space between us. I can no longer pretend. His emotional imprint is too singular. Too focused and certain. It is him. 

I stop at the end of the driveway. There is easily twenty feet between us, and I can’t really see him, but I can feel him, and I know he can me. 

“Um, what…I…I…” I’m at a loss for words, and apparently my legs have gone numb. I can’t feel my feet. 
“It’s me.” He says and that’s when the tears begin. “Don’t be afraid, it’s me.” 
“I know it’s you, but…but…how did you…?”
“I told you I could find you. Come here.” 
“I can’t.” 
“Are you okay?” He rubs the back of his neck, and it’s the first time uncertainty shows in his voice, “With this? With me being here?” 

I’m still dumbfounded. Two years of continuous communication revealed who we were, both to ourselves and to each other. I know this man almost as well as I know myself. He knows me better than I do myself. “I gave up.” 
“I never did, and you knew I am a man of my word.” 
“Yeah.”
“Let me back in. Please.” Now his voice is almost pleading, and this man never begs. 

I stand there, breathing; my face is surrounded by fog. It matches the exhaust pipe of his still running car. He has yet to move. He gave me a direct order and I know it’s up to me to follow it, but still I can’t move. “Are you sure? I can’t…”
“Yes, I’m certain. I needed to make some changes. I just traveled all day to get here,” He chuckles and rubs his neck again, “You weren’t kidding about living off the beaten path.” 
I finish my sentence, “I can’t play this game anymore. Real or nothing. All or nothing. That hasn’t changed.” 
“That’s why I’m here. This is all. I am here to claim you as mine. Now get over here.”
My laugh is awkward at best and I confess my inability to move. “…I might fall down.” 
He starts to move toward me, his teeth gleam in the moonlight, “I’ll catch you beautiful.”

Something unsticks and suddenly my feet are flying, and I’m running. I do almost fall, and he meets me half way, and does catch me. Now I’m sobbing uncontrollably and I feel a fool. This shit doesn’t happen in real life. At least not mine. I don’t know who writes the stupid Hollywood romances, but I’ve not found real life to be even remotely close. 

He is so strong and his certainty fills me up. His arms wrap around my back and he presses me to his chest. He is so warm and I bury my face against his sweater. My tears are still popping from my eyes and I can hardly breathe. He strokes my back and simply holds me as I calm down. When I register that it is his heartbeat thudding against my cheek, a new onslaught of tears ensues. He doesn’t seem to mind.
After what felt like forever out in the cold at the end of the driveway, I let him in through the gate and then the house. For the first time, I can see him, what he truly looks like, and his scent. His intoxicating aroma that I knew would affect me exactly this way. 

We haven’t spoken much, and I mumble, “I guess the time for words is over?” 
“Yes, we did that part.” 
I give him my awkward half grin, “Just words?”
“So much more than words.”
“Everything,” I say with irony. He was the only male I’ve ever communicated with who wanted all of me—everything I was, down to my darkest core self. 
“Everything,” He responds.

There had been a point near the beginning of our communications that he’d asked, what do you want me to know about you? 
My answer was simply, everything. 
He’d grown quiet and then with prompting confessed, excellent answer, that’s what I want as well.
I haven’t turned on many lights and the house is dim, but I feel almost drunk from being in his presence. I give him another glance and he’s staring at me in such a way I’m certain he has x-ray vision. I blush and my entire body flushes warm and then gooseflesh pricks from my nipples all the way to my toes. 

I choke on my words, “It’s more intense than I even imagined.” I drop my gaze and glower at the hardwood floor, “At least for me.” 

He covers the expanse between us in two massive strides and grabs my shoulders, “Look at me,” he orders and I obey. His tone softens as our eyes meet. “Me too.” Then he grips my chin and holds my face steady. It hits me we’ve never kissed. Imagined it a million times, but that was all fantasy. I bat my lashes and I feel my chest heave. “You’re mine. Never forget that.” 

I can’t reply because in the next instant his mouth is against mine. It’s tentative at first, on both our parts. I’m trembling so I don’t know if it’s him or me or the combination of us, but everything feels like an earthquake around us and in us; all is awash in monochromatic turbulence; except our lips. Our lips are hungry and thirsty and satisfying the other in bursts of vibrant color unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Fireworks isn’t accurate enough to describe what is happening. It’s a joining unlike anything I’ve ever imagined, or fantasized. 

He pushes me to the wall, and presses himself along the length of my body. He’s hard, and big, and now, after months of feeling like a parched desert, I’m almost dripping with need. I gasp as he allows me air, and then he resumes his insistence to be inside my body, even if just a tongue. 

His hands roam and find my plump bottom, and he drags me to his groin, and grinds against me. I apologize for being covered in so many layers and we both laugh. Then it hits me and I mumble, “Oh crap.”
“What? What is it?” 
“I’m, um…I’m not ready for you.” He draws his brows together, studying my features, and reaches up to gently tug on my pony tail. “It’s my…um…I haven’t shaved anything accept my underarms.” I wrinkle my nose and semi-shrug. “Sorry. For years I kept it all tidy…you know…just in case…”
He grins, “In case I showed up unexpectedly?” 
“Yeah, exactly.” 
His hand is still on my thick, unruly hunk of long red hair, and he uses it as a handle to drag my head backwards. His voice is incredibly deep and the dominant male I’d come to know, has apparently just revealed himself. “I’ll tend to that issue later. For now, a little bit of hair isn’t going to interrupt me entering your body in the next few minutes.” 
My eyes involuntarily pop open, “Now? Like, um…now?” I squeak, and he chuckles. 
Then he says the words I wanted to hear for years, “And you will please me.” 

There isn’t a question, or even a hint at it being a possibility. It’s so certain I feel it as a directive or a command deeply inside. My pussy floods obscenely and I gasp. He knows. He always knows, and his slight curl of lip tells me. He scents the air and his eyes go half-mast. His lip curl increases, and he almost growls, “Mine.” 

My voice is way too breathy, but I can’t help it. My nipples hurt behind the layers of warm clothing and suddenly I’m so hot I can’t breathe. “Yours.” 

He abruptly pulls away and I almost fall. He’d been holding me up and my legs are still overcooked noodles. He looks around the living room and I lean against the wall. He takes off his coat and carefully places it on the back of a chair, and then his attention is back on me. “Strip.” 

I don’t question him. I know he never says anything without meaning it. So I begin the arduous process of peeling my many layers. I find it odd that he spent years discovering my emotional complexities and now, now it’s just fabric, but feels like so much more. 

Then I remind myself he’s seen all of me, naked, bared, unashamed and attempting to please. He’s had the view no others ever have, and I did things for his eyes only. Things I’d never done before and certainly not since. 

I get down to just my long underwear and a thin cotton tee shirt. I don’t have on panties or a bra, and I look down to see why my nipples ache like they do. They’ve never been this hard before, and they are pornographically popping behind the thin cotton. I stand there, still trembling, and suddenly afraid to finish. This is it. The last little bit of protection and barrier between us. It’s not much, but it’s the last remaining armor I’ll ever possess in front of this man. 

He levels me with a look that I can easily interpret, and I pull the tee shirt off. I throw it on top of the pile of material that was once my shield. My breasts hurt from the constriction on the tips. My soft long underwear is the last thing, and I slowly slide them past my hips until they fall on their own to puddle around my socks. The terrain of gooseflesh down my thighs is almost comical because I’m no longer even a little bit chilled. 

He licks his lips. I don’t feel sexy, or attractive or any of the things that I know men visually appreciate. My body is aging and I’m not as fit as I once was. I’m also so pale you can see every capillary, scar, dent and bump on me. I feel as if I should apologize that I’m not more pleasing to view naked, but then I lift my eyes and I see his hunger. I guess its okay. Or rather, more than. His cock is so hard it is attempting to tent his slacks and his eyes are devouring me. 

I’m uncertain what to do, so I do nothing and stand there, waiting. My teeth begin to chatter and he mistakes it for me being cold. I shake my head, “No, nerves.” 
His grin is nefarious. He stands, “Don’t move. I need to inspect you.” 

Before he leaves the alcove where the couch is, he strips as well. His cock is hard and jutting and the tip is shiny. I know he’ll be pleased to find I too am wet and ready. He maintains eye contact on his journey and it takes all I have to stay upright. One hand goes to my ribcage, and then he travels it down over the swell of my hip. 
His exhale is so emotion filled, my lungs tighten and I gasp. His other hand cups, and then strokes up his own shaft. Another stuttering exhale. Now I can hardly find air and I wonder if I might pass out. 
He reaches behind me and again grasps my bottom, spreading me and releasing some of my lubrication. I breathe, “Oooohhhh gawd,” as his index finger tickles across my taint. 

Then he comes up close enough to rub the hot tip of his cock against my belly, and he uses both hands to spread me apart. I bite my lip and continue gasping for air. He has to lever himself down, but he does, and then bends his knees enough to slide against my inner thigh, at my apex. Upon retreat, his entire phallus is shiny. 

His fortitude is otherworldly as he meticulously continues to tactilely study my body. Touching my breasts, my hips, my bottom and then my neck and collar bone. It’s as if he’s blind and remembering me through touch. Or, maybe it’s all the places he instinctually knows I’m my most sensitive. My eyes follow his path until he turns me around and peruses my back, running his fingers down my long spine. 
His warm breath at my ear sends my entire body into overdrive, “Perfection.” 

He frees my hair from the captivity of the hair tie and it falls in an unruly wave of fiery curls all the way to my shoulder blades. He runs his fingers up against my scalp and tightens his grip. He is also rubbing his length up through my butt and against my lower back. He drags my head back with one hand and the other wraps around to my stomach, pinning me to his front with my head against his shoulder. He turns my face and takes my lips. This time, bruising me with ownership. 

He steadies me with a hand on my hip, but then forcefully folds me over with a hand between my shoulders, and growls, “Over the end of the couch, now.” I instantly give to him and seek the stability of the couch arm. I’m grateful since I was certainly going to fall down otherwise. He leans up and over my back, “Another will never touch you from this moment forth. Is that understood?” I make a sound of acknowledgement and nod frantically. “Who do you belong too?” 
“You!”
“Who is your Master?” 
“You!”
Then he pauses and a tenderness rushes over me. “I love you.” 
My eyes sting like I just opened a hot oven and I can’t staunch the flow. I sob, “I love you too.” 
Then the urgency returns and he forcibly readjusts me on the couch so that my ass is up in the air, “Good, because now it’s going to feel like I might hate you.” 

I can’t help but laugh. That exact phrase was a pin we’d traded back and forth many times. I don’t have much time to enjoy the comedy of the moment however as he begins spanking my bottom repeatedly. I try not to writhe, but I can’t help it and also scream in agony. Then he pauses and rubs over the hot skin of my ass with his massive palm. 

His breathing is labored now, but he continues on with my left butt cheek until it too is on fire. The wetness check reveals that now I’ve soaked my inner thighs and my tears are still flowing. I’m choking and sobbing and simultaneously hating and enjoying every second. 

When he’s finished caressing my sore bottom, he straddles up and over me and rubs himself up through my crack, over and over, growing hotter and bigger with each stroke. 

He suffocates me with his weight as he guides his cock to my dripping entrance, but he stalls. “I plan on fucking you all night long kitten. When I’m done with you, when I retreat, there will be a hollow place inside your soul that only I can fill.” 
I’m already on the brink of an orgasm, and I mumble through a, “Mmmmmm-huh.” 
His hand comes around my neck and from the front he grips me tightly. “Beg.”

“Inside…” I choke and my eyes blur. My pussy is a twitching mess of need and I can’t think. I arch my back and push against him. Desperation now plays every nerve. I manage to seat just the tip of him at my entrance, but he is strong, much stronger than me, and he stays me. “Please…inside…take me. Please!” 
His voice is thready and I can feel his hips roll as more of him presses into me, “Please what?” 
“Please, Master. I am yours.”

I guess that was all he needed. In the next instant, he slid himself home. My sheath welcomes him as he joins us, completing an ancient pre-destined connection. The electricity is sparking and I can feel him all the way inside me. As if he truly becomes my blood, coursing throughout my system, making himself at home. 

The crisp hairs of his groin rub against my softest folds. His heat and heartbeat fill me up and push against every perception. His strokes are shallow at first, as if he can’t bear the thought of leaving me in any capacity. I lift my ass higher, and I strain to hold the position so he has the best possible access. 

This is what I ached to feel my entire life. Sex with love. Sex with connection and with the person I belong too. He’s finally claimed me as his. I desperately needed him, and now he is here. As much mine as I am his. 

His urgency increases and the loud slapping together of our bodies is the most erotic sound I’ve ever heard. He begins to say, “Fuck...” repeatedly and I am making incoherent sounds of either ecstasy or agony. Only those participating will ever know. 
This. Him. Us.  
The Claiming.

Christmas Morning (Poetry)

Christmas morning

The tall cliffs protect as the ocean beats and flings itself haphazardly against the rocks below. The pillows of fluffy white deceive and the tendrils of rainbows forecast the promise of a sunny day. The veil of sea mist paints the air with tiny frolicking faeries.

I stand tall and still, and soak in the majesty. The mist soaks my cheeks and bleeds into my hair. The roar of the sea quiets my soul.

Sometimes the silence inside awakens when you are most still.

The air is icy and bites. It feels good to be touched. My skin rejoices as my heart is filled. Don’t move, don’t allow distractions. Soak. Absorb. Marinate. Remain still.

All around you is anarchy; disobedient water obeys no master. Headlands jut as time erodes. One cannot contain forever. Crevices give way as water cleanses.

My heart beats and my lungs billow behind my ribs. I remain quiet. My pulse quickens as waves roll and surge. The ground beneath my feet vibrates as water insists, attempting to claim me, reaching ever skyward.

I close my eyes and listen. Amidst the chaos, there is intense peace, a belonging to something deeper and bigger. The lighthouse winks as I once again allow sight to overtake. The rainbow tendrils dance like ribbons of butterfly wings.

~Payne Hawthorne

Mark Scheffer Photography
Mark Scheffer Photography

Photography by: Mark Scheffer