I told you to come here and you asked why.

I have elegant answers.

And brutal ones.

But my chosen answer is simple, and it is a question of its own.

Which of the inner voices you hear is the loudest?

Your brash and fearless, finding-trouble in the cookie-jar voice?

Your cautious, should-I-maybe-better-not voice?

Your shy, curious, unsure-yet-precocious voice?

Or mine?

It is not mine.

My voice is never loud.

It never shouts. It does not demand. It won’t insist.

It doesn’t have to.

Because my voice is the voice of your unexpressed desires. It is the language of hungers too powerful to admit because voicing them only makes them stronger.

My voice describes the delicate cruelty of  fingernails tracing intimate curves. My voice makes you feel teeth catching nipples with deft intent and hungry succulence. My voice makes you see yourself at my feet, my hand tangled in your hair to focus your gaze upwards.

My voice is a current, a fast-moving river that outraces your patience.

It has found fertile ground in your repressed hunger. It’s roots go deep, finding a home in the subliminal and divine of your unspoken self. It’s vines are strong and they wrap around your limbs like armor. Bound, you are stronger than you’ve ever been. Freer then you let yourself dream to be.

My voice is a doorway. 

A cliff.

And it wants you to fall.

I am not a good man

I would choose the apple over paradise.

I am careful right onto the point of taking you to the ground.

I do not ask.

I do not persuade.

I act.

A good man would not want to see you suffer.

I crave your agony, even in pleasure.

A good man would not want to see you at your most vulnerable.

I am driven to see your throat exposed and your ass in the air.

A good man would not want to see you plead.

I live for the words that tremble on the precipice of your lips.

I am not good man.

But I make an excellent wolf.

You.

Yes, you.

The one pretending to be shy.

Come here.

No. Closer.

What? I’m not going to bite.

Mmmm.

I lied.

I will bite.

But that’s the least of the things for you to fear.

But you need not be _too_ afraid. You will enjoy every last one of them.

How can I tell?

I haven’t even touched you and you are already trembling.

…

No. I’m not going to tell anyone.

No. I am not afraid of the secrets you hide.

Yes. I am going to eat you.

…

But before I eat you, I need you…primed.

Mmmm. What am I doing?

I’m finding your pulse. Setting teeth to wrist and lips to throat. I am nipping at your skin until the blood rises with your heat and you feel fevered.

I want you well warmed.

No.

I want you burning.

Scald my hands. Make it hurt. I expose you layer by layer, until your bared skin sears my flesh. Your vulnerability is a poison I drink eagerly.

We will both die the little death tonight.

Ahhhhh.

Are you shivering?

I have stolen all your heat. I have marked you as my own.

But I am not done.

My hand, on yours…yes, I want it there. Nestled between your thighs. I can feel your fingers move under my own.

I don’t need to tell you what to do.

You can’t stop yourself.

Wicked girl.

Wicked, beautiful, sinful, girl.

I cannot wait for desert.

do not pity Midas
for turning love to gold

envy him
for capturing a moment
forever

if I had his gift
you would be an altar
for my sins

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.

I started writing for this blog thirteen years ago. I was twenty-nine. I’m now forty-two.

That is time enough to evolve as a person.

To become a better writer.

To become a better person.

To become a better wolf.

Only two of those things actually happened.

I started writing here as a means to encourage my creativity. I can write alone, but I cannot write in a vacuum. I need a muse, a spark. An audience, even if it is an audience of one.

That hasn’t changed.

The kink community has certainly progressed since I started this blog. Fetlife is now a staple, now as much a dating site for kink as a community for exploration. Fifty Shades came out, main-streaming rope and floggers. Instagram, twitter, and Fetlife writings have generally replaced blogs as a resource.

In those thirteen years I have bought a motorcycle and gained three tattoos.

I now favor depth over breadth of experience. I still want to take things (people) apart, but I have less patience for doing so with those not sharp enough to understand the subtleties that give it rich flavor.

I am pickier. More patient.

(most of the time)

But there is still the wolf of me.

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.