This bed is a ship

This bed is a ship is a sporadically updated internet journal, 
a home for odd scraps of writing.

I dream we are on a train, hurtling through the night on the upper deck. I lost the ability to discern dream from desire, one method of fabrication from another. 

You look back at me over your uniformed shoulder, stern, and I know we are headed toward punishment. The infraction matters less than its swift address. We follow the rules, except when we don’t. I crawl down the aisle, past grey cushioned seats. I carry the leash in my mouth. 

We are on a sunlit sidewalk in a foreign country, Belgium, maybe, and I follow just a step behind you. Every few blocks you reach your hand back and slide it under my skirt, just one second’s touch, less, just the slightest press against my cunt to check again that yes, I am not wearing anything underneath, and yes, this belongs to you. 

We are in a large white bed on the shore of a lake, and your hand is on my throat. You kiss my cheeks and my temples and my gasping mouth. 

We are sitting in a familiar bar. We are in the bathroom of a familiar bar. We are in the alley along the back of a familiar bar. I am up against the wall and you are up against me, and the air is full of summertime night, sliding along our pushed-aside clothes. You make me beg.