Not The Usual Valentine's Day Poem

A poetic tale of treachery, lust and revenge.

Revenge Pawn / The New Empress’s Coat

As a Valentine’s Day treat, here’s a poetic tale of sinful lust, forgivable treachery and sordid revenge.

Photo by Piotr Makowski on Unsplash

On learning of her ill-deserved success,
we did not immediately sate her pleas,
despite my teasing apart with ease
the gossamer veils of her
new empress'd clothes,
exuding obsequious
tongue twisters for her delight.
Instead, we appealed her victory cries
deserved release another, better time.

So, promised invites sent,
our devious dinner party commences.
Drunk, the empress leans on me, opining
she wants no more rehearsals
for an act which I might direct.
Our drama can be played outside,
I suggest, reducing husbandly hindrance
to my desire for an entrance.
But first I have one simple request.

Of course she accepts, and soon exits,
to lean on our balcony railing,
on eager, daring tiptoes.
The drama begins, moves planned
for weeks by my incisive wife.
‘She’ll dress short, heels tall,' she'd said.
‘Dare her to bare her reared conceit.’
She’s right. There’s no hindrance to
my probing of her self-entitled heat.

She brazenly unzips my tip,
her hand’s gratified grip
enveloping my poisonous gift.
Guiding it between slick thighs,
fingers pressing me through
the curtains of her downfall.
The hardest part is enduring
an agonised tide of barely silenced lust,
as she writhes on our revenge.

Grasping, pulling on my hips,
her wanton yearning soon converts
to ego-soaked moans,
measuring the length we’ll go
to slide revenge deep into a rival.
I curse my guilty surging urges.
It must be her who concludes
her conquering thirst
for an ill-staged promotional revival.

My hands and mind strive
to stifle any premature upstaging
as, indoors, our contrived party comes alive.
I see my conniving wife
pleading to our guests,
of how she's taking no stand
in being forced to reveal
a woman's – a wife's – compromise.
At her subtle signal, I unclamp my hand.

I remember her earlier wifely grin
as she again forgave my necessary sin.
She waves my requested trifle of a garment
at the husband of its donor,
(who still urges me on, her all now undone)
at pains to explain - turns music lower -
the ribald sounds they now hear outside
come from her own misguided husband,
piercing this other’s sole joy and pride.

Outside, our cries die to a shuddering pass
as I withdraw from her quivering ass,
praying for both our imminent demotions.
Yes, her husband's commotion inside
slackens her thighs, eyes opening wide.
I give way to the outraged cuckold, him
tearing false empress layers away,
her protests a pathetic obstacle
to our manufactured spectacle.

Rezipped, I throw her the costly coat
which encased her gloating arrival.
Our invited audience is mute
at her career-ending dethronement.
Witness the facts: wanton volition, lack of atonement.
My wife's false tears for my acted betrayal
mask joy at her long-sought prize:
the rival empress spider usurped,
by her own spun tissue of lies.

Photo by Samurai Stitch on Unsplash