Mother Goosed

I know, I know. I hate poetry more than a healthy person should. I have been known to say "Any idiot can write poetry, and most of them do." I hate Wordsworth, Whitman, and Keats as well as every goth/emo kid that thinks they are so deep.

But I couldn't help it. It started with one line coming to me, one idea that struck me as funny/interesting. But it was a nursery rhyme, so it kind of demanded that it remain a rhyme.

Though I will say: this is not one to read to children.

Lady in the Shoe

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe;

Had so many kinks, she didn't know what to do.

She set out to try and experience each one;

Hoping that at least she would have some fun.

She started with paddles, riding crops and a whip;

But satisfaction continued to give her the slip.

Clips and clamps came next to her mind;

And then she fucked a boy from behind.

She poured wax on his skin and pulled his hair;

But satisfaction still just wasn't there.

She called him names, said he made her sick;

She dirtied her boots, and she made him lick.

She locked his cock in a plastic cage;

Then beat his balls with unholy rage.

He whimpered and cried, cried out to the lord;

Though never once did he use his safe word.

She used his mouth to relieve her bladder;

She moved her way further up the edge play ladder.

Knives and needles, blood and scar;

But satisfaction remained too far.

She switched and found herself a goddess;

Submitted to her whim and her tender caress.

She was tortured and taunted, endlessly teased;

She obeyed her mistress and eagerly pleased.

She fucked fingers and hands, sucked filthy toys clean;

She begged her mistress to be ever more mean.

Nothing was sacred, no hole went unused;

The poor old woman was horribly abused.

At the mercy of her mistress's every sadistic thought;

She suffered and ached as the pain was wrought.

She was marked and spat at, sold out as a whore;

And through it all, she just wanted more.

Her self worth was torn down, crushed under heel;

But satisfaction remained an idea so unreal.

She tried giving up kink, just to be absolutely sure;

But all other sex was the ultimate bore.

The old woman feared she would never find pleasure;

Feared satisfaction was an unfindable treasure.

Any fantasy she'd ever had, she went out and tried;

But her satisfaction remained forever denied.

Near surrender, she sat as she sobbed;

She just felt so sexually robbed.

He came to her then, talked to her with a smile;

They sat and they chatted for more than a while.

They shared their thoughts, held nothing back;

He admitted that he too had always felt a lack.

It wasn't the pain, the bondage, or being degraded;

He'd tried it all, but just wasn't sated.

At first, he too didn't know what to do;

Then he realized what he loved was taboo.

Nothing in particular, no specific kink to be had;

He liked anything that the world thought was bad.

The joy came from doing what he was told he should not;

It was there, he said, that satisfaction was wrought.

Doing what should not be done;

That was the ultimate in kinky fun.

The old woman saw that it was true;

With all her kinks, she now knew what to do.

She tried the things that she wanted to try;

And realized how much society wanted to deny.

She did as she pleased, not caring for rules;

Realized those who did were naught more than fools.

Finally she found what she looked for;

That satisfaction was behind every closed door.

There was an old woman, who lived in a shoe;

Now had so many kinks she was willing to do.