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"The Witch"


      (kinky poetry)
On Fisherman's Wharf was a tourist trap
With sadistic tableaux, the chain and the strap,
And scenes of senseless suffering and pain.
I only went in to get out of the rain.

What I saw at each turn was a grisly scene,
The Axe, the garrotte, and the Guillotine,
The victims were tortured, were stressed and were troubled.
A Chinaman was boiling in oil that bubbled.

I strolled on through; I was faintly amused.
So often such crude mannequins were used.
I thought that I could easily make
A more realistic heretic burned at the stake.

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The fire was ribbons blowing in air,
"Burning" the woman in the town square,
And the gloating townspeople, more than a score,
Were a crowd of dummies from a discount store.

Then I saw in an alcove, away in the back,
A stunner: "Inquisition: Witch on the Rack."
The victim was a comely, blonde-haired wench,
Stretched out, naked, on a rough wooden bench.

There was a windlass, with a rope to her hands,
And her ankles were anchored with savage steel bands.
A brute of a torturer loomed behind her and stood
With his hands on the windlass, his head under a hood.

Every few seconds he'd heave on the crank,
And the rope would pull taut with a sickening yank.
The girl would scream with excruciating pain,
And then he'd back off and do it again.

Her face would distort when the ropes were tightening.
It seemed so real it was actually frightening.
I saw her eyes plead; I could almost feel
Her pain in my joints; it looked so real.

Each detail was there, with incredible craft,
Each pore in her skin, each golden hair shaft.
Eerily real were the subtle flesh tones.
Anatomically perfect were her delicate bones,

I could see the veins through her skin, translucent and fair.
Her toenails, her teeth, each detail was there,
And her quivering muscles, from her feet to her hips,
Seemed alive as she gasped through her pain-parted lips.

Her pink nipples were crinkly, each wrinkle was there,
And her breasts, they would tremble with each gasp for air.
Her taut belly sank concave each time that the wretch
Leaned on the crank and gave her a stretch.

He clearly cared nothing, this professional beast,
For the woman he tortured, not in the least.
He seemed quite impassive, did not even twitch
At blood-curdling screams from the terrified witch.

How could he be unmoved, as he tortured this beauty?
No doubt he would say he was doing his duty,
For the Church commands witches to confess and to tell
Of their sins so their souls can be saved from hell.

Somehow, I was certain this woman was real,
A flesh and blood human, bound with hemp and with steel.
My heart went out to this girl in her plight.
You could call it pity, or love at first sight,

But I was determined to do what I might
To put a stop to this horror, to set things right.
If only they'd free her, she would leap up and flee,
But no one would save her; I would have to be me.

I leapt over the railing and rushed to her side.
I'd swear that she saw me; her eyes opened wide
And fastened on mine with a look of such hope
As I took out my pocket knife and sawed at the rope.

The brute of a torturer ignored me and started
To stretch her again, but then the hemp parted.
I dashed to her feet and used both my hands
To free her ankles from the steel bands.

I cradled her head with my rescuing arm
And told her I'd come to save her from harm.
I reached for her knees, and then with a wrench
I lifted her clear of the torturer's bench.

My lips flew to hers for a passionate kiss.
She went limp in my arms with a sibilant hiss.
But I hugged her to me in a euphoric trance,
As her life's blood bled on my shirt and my pants.

The harder I held her the harder each spurt,
Hot hydraulic oil. Wow, did it hurt.
I had played the part of a love-sick fool.
She repaid me by scalding my sexual tool.

I dropped my rubber lover in the oil on the floor.
I scrambled in panic and made for the door.
I tripped over a cable, and caused a great spark.
The lights went out, and then it was it was dark.

Confusion was instant, the crowd started to shout,
But my only interst was how to get out.
Guards tried to catch me, said I'd have to pay,
But desperate and dripping, I slipped away.

So now I sit in my lonely room
Immersed in sadness and in gloom.
My life's a bummer; life's a bitch.
I fell in love with a waxworks witch.

- The End -

[Note: this story is protected by international copyright law,
all rights not expressly waived are reserved by its author.]


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