On 6 Dec 2003 at 10:07, Sue Scalf wrote:
> Bind if you  must my mouth,
> for with my lips I could cool
> your interest quickly should I choose.
> But dear to stop my hands
> would be a dreadful loss;
> no rope or silken cord
> should thwart what
> these small hands can do.
> Across your back my fingers
> speak words of their own.
> Let the binding go,
> the sweet trust that might ensue,
> instead unloose my wrists.
> For duct tape find another use.
> Sue Scalf

The black silken rope on her wrists
Comes taut as it gently resists
Her movements as Joan
Starts to wriggle and moan;
She suggests, then requests, then insists.

From their silhouettes, joined as he kneels,
We can’t doubt what each of them feels --
But though poets confide
What they shouldn’t, they hide
What pornography merely reveals.

And so I shall speak of her hands
That now only grasp at their bands
But, when something’s denied,
Then flex open wide
In a way that implores and demands.

And so I shall speak of her fingers
Those elegant now-bonded bringers
Of exquisite joy
All over the boy
In whose mind their sweet memory lingers.

And so I shall speak of the tips
Of her fingers, whose disparate grips
Combine with each thumb
To gently become
Reminiscent of puckering lips.

And so I shall speak of her nails
And their shock when a fingertip fails
To bring forth a groan
When she’s got him alone --
And the shiver their sharpness entails.

And so I shall speak of her ... but
What’s left after nails?  At least, what
That’s still worth the writing
Unless her exciting
Lascivious scent ... but:   tut, tut!

If I speak of her scent I must speak
As well of her distant wave’s pique
That pangs in one’s heart
Whether starting to part
Or having been parted a week.