Shhh! He’s coming! She tenses, acutely attuned to his mood as a gauge of what’s next.
“Bitch! Where’s my beer?” He shouts, head in the fridge. Not good.
Thwack! Right hook to her ear fells her to the floor.
Krrunch! The boot to the ribs, twice, drives home.
Gasp! She stays put, the fight in her dying by the day.
Splat! He’s lying on her, pawing. “Me darling girl!”
Vroom! One hand gags her mouth, the other loosens their clothes.
Bang! He’s in, animal, crushing her bones, her snuffable neck snapped back in his macho headlock.
On a gentleman’s charitable whim, a flight of gallant largesse, he funds her make-over.
He massages her urge to survive hard knocks
and arranges an experiment in social behaviour.
The hypothesis states: with temptation she’ll buckle
and develop a taste for the finer things in life.
Primed, groomed, escorted and taught elocution,
she obliges and ditches her rags and plain talk on cue.
Her noble patron puffs up with chauvinistic pride in his coup of a distinctive statistic.
Being of sound mind and body, Sub agrees to sign Dom’s meticulous, clinical contract,
to serve full-time for a spell as his literal slave;
to respect and obey, wearing his collar and baring her tail;
to grant and procure, as he wants, sexual contacts;
to relinquish society’s frills outside just for him;
to sit at his right foot, devout, with it all hanging out;
to count, while he canes, flogs or rends her, his strokes,
and to thank him for accepting her in his almighty system of disciplinary ciphers.
Precious blood-gems scintillate, mounted on gold; the marital ring signifies standards upheld
by institutional networks she buys into, for better or worse.
She and her husband try not to burn out or stray
from their domestic node where they may reproduce
unrestrained, rewarded for their contribution
to the bloodstock and brains for public production,
to extend and defend the national interests:
individuals churned out in numbers to neuter the personal place and force the race on.
The relative risks run by separate sex-pairing memes accrete to expunge one another,
when he who takes on all-comers with daredevil mettle
shivers and melts in her grace, craving her benediction
as if every woman is Kali, Tantrically-enlightened,
entitled to all he can muster, to his last breath,
in winning her devouring clench, her cascading devotion
unto death, even, proving her love everlasting.
With biases ceded in swelling communion, a kind, cosmic presence minds hearts that beat true.
© Caroline Hurley
50 Shades of Grey? Just an old-fashioned love story, says EL James
Caroline's poems have been published in e-magazine, The Electric Acorn.
She recently returned to post-graduate psychology studies and has also
written a novel, short stories, and both a stage and screenplay.