I love the things our bodies do,
When we’re alone and bare.
The way they bend and undulate,
How they mix and share.

Interlocking in delight,
Fitting, flush, in time.
Our symmetry unparalleled,
We’re the reason, and the rhyme.

The shapes we form amidst our joy,
The fluidity, the noise.
The way your walls spread open,
Your defenses now destroyed.

The way we breathe in unison,
How our flesh bonds and sticks.
The lessons we can teach and share,
While learning new and naughty tricks.

The blissful and romantic things,
We say and do and think.
The dirty and the deviant,
Forever interlinked.

Cameron Lincoln. 2014



My fingers at your throat,
Put you at my mercy, my command.
The flex of each strong digit,
The pulsing of my hand.

Your breath is short and urgent,
Air denied and strangled.
My other hand amongst your hair,
Pulling, tugging, tangled.

I clutch your neck and squeeze,
Hold you in my gaze.
You whimper at my powered touch,
All logic now erased.

I’ll starve you of the thing you need,
Make your senses spin.
You gasp and beg and writhe,
Choking on your sin.

With one hand I control,
Beneath it you submit.
To your submission I’m devoted,
To my mastery, you commit.

I’ll take you to the edge,
Each new breath a chore.
Your fierce fire flutters,
Stoked anew to roar.

Cameron Lincoln. 2014

LASH – A Poem

The sting of the lash
Weals pristine flesh,
Draws tender skin to air.
The marks were always there,
They needed help to show.
Exposed by careful, slicing blows.
Atoning for the sins of old
And those yet to blossom,
Trespasses untold.
Leather cracks sharply,
Teeth grit, breath hisses.
This joyful sweet agony
You beg never misses.

Cameron Lincoln. 2014

100th Post [Sort Of] & A Thank You

A short post today to celebrate my 100th blog post.  I’ve technically made more than a 100 posts, but some have been deleted or consolidated into a single post over time.  This gives me an opportunity to celebrate with a thank you.


Thank you to everyone who follows me here, on Facebook, or Twitter. Thank you to everyone who has ever read a single poem, story or book that I’ve written. Thank you to those who have taken time to comment, and review.  As an indie writer, it is humbling to know that people devote their time to spreading the word about my work.

From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.  I hope you’ll continue on this journey with me.


Welcome Home – An Intense Erotic Encounter



I know you are waiting for me as commanded when I enter the house and the door clicks shut in the silence; I can smell your perfume, delicate, sweet citrus, and I follow the trail you have left me.  Each step I take up the wooden staircase echoes throughout our home.  I am slow and deliberate, each step mirroring the rhythm of my heartbeat.  I cannot yet hear yours but I know it thunders quicker with each encroaching stride.

My feet find the plush silence of our bedroom carpet and I linger there, listening for your breath.  It’s slight, distant, but I hear it as clear as if it were gasping in my ear.  Soon, it will be.  You await in silent expectation, and I can deny myself the sight of you no longer.

In I step to find you kneeling before me at the bedside, your hands dutifully clasped behind your back, and as mandated you are bare.  Every inch of skin is flush with gooseflesh, and the swell of your breasts becomes points aroused with chill and longing.  Your eyes widen with excitement, servitude and desire, and my heart and body swells at such a real reaction.

I am what you want.  In the mirror that stands at the foot of the bed we are a vision; you, pristine and, naked to your core.  I in my charcoal grey suit and silk tie, my coat still hanging from my shoulders, my collar upturned against the elements outside.  I flex my fingers in the black leather driving gloves and the material creaks.  I play a digit down your cheek to your chin and turn your face up towards me; I watch those pupils dilate within their glittering irises and it thrills me to see how much you crave what is to come.

You will not speak, but there are no such caveats for me.  I smile.  “Good girl.  Now let’s begin.”

With a slow movement I unzip my trousers and slip my leathered fingers within; I watch your eyes follow the motions with care, and you bite your plush lower lip in anticipation.  I unleash myself, threading it into view, the only exposed part of me but for a face wearing a mask of pride and expectation.  Your eyes drift back to mine, and you angle your head to stroke the white cliffs of your cheeks against my engorged flesh.  You gently move your jaw so I can hear the moisture within your mouth, and your hot, quivering breath shimmers against my skin.

I place my gloves atop your hair and slide them slowly down to your temples, tickling the flesh of your ears as I put on pressure to remind you of your role.  You never disobey, and your mouth widens and approaches.

“That’s it,” I say.  “Nice and slow.”

I pull you onto me but I can feel you moving despite my insistence, devouring every rigid inch of me slowly, hungrily, right to the root.  Your eyes bulge and prickle with moisture but you will not tarry or shy away from the duties you so adore to perform.  It’s your fantasy and mine entwined as one, as soon shall be our bodies.

I am lost within you, every sense I have heightened and primed by your performance.  I delight at the sounds you make, the satisfied mewling, like you’re savouring the most delicious meal you’ve ever tasted.  It honours, humbles and arouses in equal measure.

“You’re a goddess,” I insist, and your eyelashes flutter with humility.  “Now, climb onto the bed.”

With saliva glistening upon your lips and chin you stand without ever breaking the clasp of your hands at the small of your back, and I guide you into the position I crave.  Your buttocks sway and I marvel at the curve of your spine in the mirror, watch musculature undulate as you lower your face to the sheets, face reflected in all its anticipant glory.  One gloved hand crosses both of your wrists and holds it tight in the small of your back, as the other runs from the nape of your neck and slaloms vertebrae, hurdling my restraining arm and coming to rest at the crest of your pristine valley.  I delve to the twinkling, dewy  furrow, and even the slightest touch with one finger makes you quiver and gasp.

“Are you ready?” I say coolly, and your whimper of agreement is the only signal I need.

I push inside slowly, steadily, my knuckles passing your lips with ease and you gasp out in glee.  I move my digits rhythmically, flexing them back and forth like a swimmer’s legs, caressing your inner walls.  Every inch they emerge shows them slick with your essence.  I adore the way you mewl and shudder at my touch, the way you thrust back gently to meet me.  It makes my primed muscle ache for you, and as it glistens with your spit it’s almost as if it twitches towards your radiating heat, desperate to plunge into that sweet canal my fingers are currently tending.

I put a glove to the back of your neck and hold your face to the cool white sheets, bearing down with pressure to arc your back and allow my fingers deeper.  Your fists ball in the small of your back and you gasp and whimper.  I recognise the encroach of your orgasm; it is as familiar to me as my own.  I know every inch of you.  Where to touch. Where to apply that extra attention.

I hook my fingers down and tug with a rapid, fierce motion, and the reaction is instant; you moan, low and guttural and desperate, and as the pads of my fingers find your most delicate of spots your body quakes.  I know what is to come and I relish the sight; you flood and spill, delicious splashes of your sweet nectar founting from you and running down glistening thighs.  The first day we discovered you were capable of this was revelation, and I adore bringing you to this wet, squirting climax as much as you do.  I direct my throbbing member into the path of the spray, coating myself in your celebratory champagne.  My fingers slip free and the last of your tincture drips in rivulets down thighs and across the crooks of your knees.

“Very good girl,” I say.  “You make me so proud.”

You are not quite cogent yet, words and logic lost in the orgasmic miasma.  I need no further invitation than your raised, presented buttocks.  Your gateway weeps for my arrival and I can deny you nor I the pleasure any longer.  Wet gloves grip tender cheeks and I need to do nothing but move my hips until my missile finds its target.

I am in you.

I plunge, deep and to the very root in one swift motion.  You cries are unstifled, your body roiling, and when it appears you will break the self-maintained clasp of your wrists I close my fingers to keep it steady.  It gives me leverage and I thrust out and in using your own body to lever myself to your core.  You are white-hot and wholesome, searing my shaft with your inner fire.  Though you are prostrate for me now it is I who am forever in worship of you.

I gain speed, pounding without mercy.  The love we make is beautiful, but that is for another day; this is raw and brutal and necessary.  I keep my breathing measured, my motions fluid, but the animal within me is pawing at its chain.

I cannot, and will not, fight to contain it anymore.

I take a handful of your hair and wrench you back and off the bed, my cock bending inside of you and grazing your g-spot with fervour.  A gloved hand squeezes your breasts and elicits strident yelps, then clutches your throat to catch the sounds before they can fully escape.  My other hand dives between your thighs and finds your clit, circling and strumming.

You are trapped within my folded arms and with each thrust you are lifted slightly off the bed.  You are weightless when you are here, invisible to gravity and bound to no anchor but me.  You know not to articulate words but your moans and squeals and gasps are a language in which I am fluent.  You crave my words now, to bring you to your exquisite end.

I bite your earlobe a moment then growl in a tone that slays your senses:  “You are beautiful.  You are perfect.  You are mine.”

You are no longer present.  My words carry you across the threshold into bliss.  Your physical, flapping body is restrained within my hold, but your mind is elsewhere, cannoned from this plane.  I am soon to follow.  The pulsing, squeezing , tightening of your pelvic muscles, and the cascade of gushing joy that flows from you and across my trousers, is my trigger.

I expel my passion inside you, crystalline liquid that coats, fills and overflows, backwashed in your own desire.  Our cocktail rains upon the sheets, a stain that will wash out, but the way we have marked each other’s souls will never fade.  It is indelible, forever.

I breathe and rasp into your ear, and you go limp in my arms, a fluttering leaf on a turbulent wind returning to earth.  I cradle you, soothing you with gently-stroking palms.  You are relaxing totally, dwelling in a satisfied haze.

You are safe, protected, and you shall forever belong to me.

“I am so proud of you,” I whisper.  “Always.”



You’re the liquid silk within my lungs,
The perilous velvet upon my tongue.
You’re the filthy habit I cannot break,
I crave your taste when I awake.

My devil-sent weakness, my favourite vice.
Danger’s delight, naughty and nice.
Addicted, enslaved, in clouds of sin.
I’ll light you up, and suck you in.

Within my soul you twist and taint.
You dizzy, dazzle, leave me faint.
You roll and drift, you coil and curl.
My nerves are raw without you, girl.

The lingering scent on fingertips,
Your fiery kiss upon my lips.
Unfiltered, toxic, my senses crash.
I’m left as vapour, reduced to ash.

Cameron Lincoln. 2014