little red went riding

and found the woods too cold

now she’s nestled next to me

doing what she’s told

My hunger is not your hunger.

It is defilement designed: decadently devilish while decidedly divine.

It is blunt, an instrument of destruction, obliterating obstacles to obedience owned.

My hunger casts a long shadow.

It is a key that turns.

At first taste it is sweet. At second, it is bitter.

In the end it is breath itself.

I’m never so possessive,
but in want
for a gold
(empty)
chalice
for me
to
fill

you are.

Let us talk of cold winter days.

Untouched snow in the woods.

Bitter snapping wind.

And you in white.

—-

How long can you stand here in the snow, barefoot and with only your thin white nightgown for warmth?

Let us see.

I love the reveal.

Your smooth skin exposed inch by inch as my hand slides the hem of your gown up over your leg and thigh.

The warmth – striking contrast to the bite of cold – and the shivers that mark the path of my hand.

My hand looks perfect against your pale skin, nestled at your hip where my fingers have gathered your nightgown.

I’m gentle. Patient and deliberate in my violation of your space. But now that my hand is against your hip, now that your thighs are parted and I can see the hint of something at the apex of your thighs, my thumb presses inward, fingers tightening until I hear you gasp.

Can I make you forget the cold?

Two fingers should do it. Curled deep inside of you, my free hand at your lower back to brace you and keep you standing as I beckon you closer in the most intimate way possible.

Some things are defined by the emptiness it holds.

A swell of darkness in the shadow beneath a cypress tree.

An abandoned church, an altar bare.

A silent house.

The space where you belong.

I will hunt you. But I will never chase.

When you run, glance over your shoulder: I will be at your heels, teeth nipping.

But if you run expecting me to follow…it’s not your heels I will be at.

I live in a townhouse and share a wall with my neighbors; my neighbors and I are friendly, if not particularly social.

Most of the time I am a good neighbor. I’m relatively quiet. I mind my own business. I don’t leave messes. I play the pirate for neighborhood kids before heading out to Renn Faire. I move mis-delivered mail to the right mailbox.

Most of the time I am a good neighbor.

But sometimes…

Sometimes the sound of my hand on bare flesh is loud enough to carry through the walls. And if that wasn’t loud enough – the yelps, the moans, the ‘oh fucks’ definitely are.

Sometimes a friend of mine will leave in a disheveled state. Half-dressed, dazed, sleepily satiated or on edge from the tease.

Sometimes I don’t wait for the front door to close before I have them pinned to the wall just inside, my hand buried under their skirts and between their thighs.

Sometimes I have them bent over the wooden railing of my deck outside, spanked and beaten. Or I slide to one knee and slip their leg over my shoulder as I devour them amongst the leaves falling from the trees overhead.

It’s not easy to see onto my deck from the upper floors of my neighbor’s windows.

Not easy. But possible.

Most of the time I am a good neighbor.

But sometimes.

Sometimes I’m really not.

Too late. My hands are already around your neck. I can feel your breath catch under my fingers, your heartbeat against my palms.

For you, my hand is steady and my literal and metaphorical knives are sharp.

For you, I will cut quickly, so that the nerve endings remain intact. I want you to feel what is under your skin, under the protective lining of your beliefs.

You are not sublimated or subsumed. You are measured, manipulated, and made.

You are a sin to indulge in, a moment to be experienced, an implement of intent. You are a skill underused, but often practiced. You are my craft in form, my faith derived, my art form, my belief, my self.

You are my mastery.

I don’t want to cut you
but I do want to see
what is inside of you
and cutting may be the only way.

—

It is the difference between asking a wolf to play.

And inviting the devil to.

A wolf wants to see you whimper.

The devil wants to see you cry.

A wolf will devour you. Sink teeth into your neck and claim you.

The devil will take you apart so thoroughly you will have nothing to hide behind but the weight of his hands.

A wolf wants to taste the heat between your thighs.

The devil wants to taste the tears on your cheeks.

When I say the devil wants to play.

This is what I mean.

I want to use without consideration.

Inflict pain without compassion.

I want abasement without reservation.

I want you so low to the ground that when my fingers tangle in your hair to lift your head, it is so you can breath.

I will nurse your injuries.

I will let you curl at my feet with my hand at the nape of your neck.

And then I will start again.

I knew the girl, but lost her name.
where her heart was kept
was not the same

I knew the shape, her silvered need
but not how deep the cut
to see her bleed

I lined each blade within a row
gave each a word (a word she’d know).
and I waited by the tower built
touched each edge, each blade and hilt.