Introduction

I am only interested in women, for those who know how to write, to love, fuck and fight with passion and need. So no men.

In terms of wants, sex-fights and catfights are my primary interest, but if you touch me properly I will melt into you and whisper sonnets between your thighs and moan as your fingers and tongue unravel me.

To Ukraine, With Love (Svetlana)

Your tongue and fingers played me

like a violin—

and I, trembling,

gave myself to your music.

I lay back, pulse still echoing,

the last wave softening through me,

while somewhere beyond these walls

the world remained what it is—

unforgiving, unresolved,

a city that doesn’t sleep anymore.

But here—

you.

You look at me,

that knowing smile,

and something in me sharpens, wakes.

My turn.

I draw you up the bed,

kiss you deep—

tasting the echo of me on your lips,

a shared secret still lingering.

My hands find you,

sure in their intent.

I part you slowly,

feeling warmth gather,

your breath catching

as my fingers begin their quiet work—

learning you,

coaxing you open

like something trusted, not taken.

A soft sound escapes you,

and I follow it—

down the curve of your neck,

your shoulder,

my mouth mapping the places

that make you shiver.

Even as I move,

I remain with you—

my touch steady, deliberate,

keeping time with your body.

Your skin holds heat,

alive beneath my lips.

I take my time with you—

because time, here,

is something we claim for ourselves.

I return to your breasts

and linger—

drawing breath, drawing response,

feeling you rise beneath me.

Every motion deliberate—

nothing taken for granted.
I descend again,

slowly, deliberately—

a journey marked in pauses,

in restraint,

in promise.

By the time I reach you,

you are already open—

not just in body,

but in trust.

Between your thighs,

I breathe you in—

familiar, unmistakably you—

and let my mouth find you

as though it has always known the way.

Gently at first—

a question—

then more certain,
as your body answers.

Your hands find me,

your breath shifts,

and I follow every signal

like a language I’ve learned by heart.

I keep my rhythm with yours,

never forcing,

never rushing—

only building,

layer by layer,

until your body—
begins to tremble beneath me.

Outside, the world still waits.

But here, in this room,

there is only this—
your breath breaking,

your body rising to meet mine,

the quiet, fierce insistence

of claiming something good,

something yours.

I stay with you—

through every shift,

every tightening moment,

until you crest—
and I am there,

not taking,

but holding you through it.

When it passes,

I do not leave.
I soften, slow,

ease you gently back

from that edge—

my presence unchanged.

Because this, too, matters:

the quiet after,

the return to breath,

the way your body settles

against mine.

I lift myself back to you,

meet your eyes—

searching, warm,
alive—

and smile.

“How do you like

Sunday afternoons in bed, love?”

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This poem is a gift for another based on her bio and the story it wrote inside my head

Nukik of the Long Dark

There is a particular kind of silence,
it lives at the edge of the world —
before the storm,
before the crack of ice,
before everything falls into the silence of Mother Night.

On the glacier’s edge,
where the ice groans
when the pressure is too much to bear—
I exist.

Here, where the wind does not howl —
it hunts.
It claws along the walls,
finding every seam,
every weakness,
screaming like something that remembers your name.

The furs do little.
The pitiful fire does less.
And the night… the night has no edges.

Something knocked.
Not loud. Not desperate. Certain.
A patient thing,
tapping bone against wood,
as if it knew I would break before the door did.

I did not move.
I pressed into the furs,
breath shallow,
praying not like the faithful do —
but like the hunted.

Praying for the sun’s return.
Begging the dark would not reach inside me
and take what little warmth I had left
before the long dark loosened its grip.

It knocked again.
And the wind howled louder,
as if trying to cover the sound.
Or answer it.

Out here, the wind has names.
The Glacier’s Wrath.
Daughter of the Deep Cold.
The wind of a thousand knives.
Widow-maker.

I learned something that night.

The dark is patient.
It does not break the door.
It waits for you to open it.
To invite it inside your soul—
where it takes the light
and feasts.

Born of the North.
Shaped by mountains and frozen water.
It lives in my flesh and bones,
carved deep into my soul.
A daughter of the ancestors.

I walk the endless night—
the liminal road,
where the wind remembers every name it has taken.

I have bled into the ice.
I have fed the dark and lived.

I live within its shadow.
It knows my name.
I breathe its air.
It walks within me—
a shadow folded within shadow.

And the Winter always comes.

Oh Mother Night, I name thee—
dost thou desert me,
or have I already been claimed?

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No Longer Yours

It started with calls.

Traded insults.
Then threats.

You could not decide—

would not choose.

You manipulated our jealousy.

Our needs.

Our naked desires.

Our lust.

The scene was set.

The date chosen.

We would decide for you—

with fists, with teeth, with nails.

We tied you to the chair.

Our eyes full of rage—
for each other.

You were the witness.

The prize.

There are truths only bruises can tell—

and we spoke them in front of you:

in bites,

in fists,

in the trembling smack

of flesh meeting flesh.

My claws raked red across her back,

carving my name into her skin.

We opened for each other—

like doors torn from their hinges.

I forced her open with two fingers.

She answered in kind.

We fucked and clawed for you—

wet heat,

fighting for dominance.

She didn’t just strip me—

she translated me.
Every scratch etched in skin: a vowel.

Every gasp:

a sentence too sacred for speech.

And you watched—

oh, how you watched—

as our thighs locked tight,

as we tore each other open

for your gaze.

We fought.

Bloody.

Relentless.

Feral.

Fighting for whatever goddess
grows wet

from women warring like this.

She pinned me.

I ground against her.
Our sex at war.

Giving everything.

It was punctuation—

a full stop

at the end of who I was

before she broke me open

with her own need.

We spoke in sweat,

in hair between fingers

in the holy ache

of cunt against cunt—

bloody, female combat.

You moaned when I cried out.

With your free hand,

you touched yourself

when I whimpered your name.

And still,

you whispered without words:

I am no longer yours.
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Brentwood Rivals

I watch her.

Her eyes track my every motion—

jealous, tense—
her gaze a blade of jagged need.

She covets what’s mine.

She wants her.

And sooner or later,
she will move to take her.

We both know the ritual.

As women do,

we will speak with teeth and nails,

in the brutal music of impact and breath.

In the alley behind Sunset,

or on the polished hardwood of Brentwood,

we will debate our claim with skin and bruises—

each strike a question,

each gasp a frantic answer.

My body already remembers the pattern:

the tightening of thigh,

the heave of breast,

the low, electric hum before the lunge.

The ghost-feel of fingers tangled in hair,

the salt of desire and wet heat.

She catches my gaze.

Neither of us blinks—

predator meeting predator,

sisters in the art of wanting.

The doe watches from the bar,

wanting to see which of us will break the other,

and who she slips under tonight.

Desire stirs like a fever—

a hot, wet hunger to demonstrate our superiority,

to see the other beneath us, mewling.

Tonight, one of us will learn the kiss of thorns—

the price of the crown we seek—

and lie in the bed of pain we have built for each other.

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The Liturgy of Ache

We circle each other like dark priestesses—

offering pain as prayer,
pleasure as sacrament.

We worship the tension:

the long, excruciating wait,

the breath held before claws meet skin.

This ache is a living thing.

It coils in the dark between us,

daring us to demand

what the other refuses to yield.

And when we finally clash—

rolling across the floor

in our naked, terrible glory—

even the gods go quiet.

The boards groan 
under the gravity of our want.

Nails rake as we hiss and moan.

Hair litters the floor

as we scream out hate.

The air thickens with musk,
with salt,

with the sacred violence of women

who have forgotten how to hold back.

And when the silence returns—

when we lie shattered and wet,

your nails etched into my side,

our souls unspooled—

we know the truth:

It was never just lust.

It was an offering.

It was a recognition.

It was a vow.

Before you,
I unfasten the mask.

I bare my truth—

not as surrender,

but as conquest.

I give it to you, sister:

the silk of my fingers,

the breath before the kiss,

the purple kisses across your skin,

the dance we never leave.

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Start of membership: 2025-06-07