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.

A predator wants most that which must be hunted.

Patient until the very last moment and then not patient not waiting not just or kind or thinking just hungry, just hunger itself, just close enough for the scent of rising heat to drive out all thoughts but that of bared flesh and the feast at hand.

There is a certain dark beauty in using skill and instinct when bringing to ground that which you chase; it is a prayer, an act of deadly seduction and the space between predator and prey is sacred because when it is gone there is nothing but the blood and viscera of desire.

It is the predator’s curse to feel most alive in the hunt; it is the prey’s fate to feel most alive when caught.

I am learning a somewhat terrible truth.

I make a better wolf than person.

There are two ways to take you apart.

With care and deliberation.

And without.

Door, stairs, hardwood floor – no time, right here. Clothes ripped, pulled, pushed aside. Teeth and fingers and you wet, already wet, wet before you knocked, wet on the drive over, wet the moment I said the words “Come here.” that led you to me.

No thoughts. No words. Just bared intentions and the sound flesh makes when it’s abused. The sound an animal makes when it is caught and taken.

After: bruises on your thighs from the hard steps I pressed you into; bloodied lower lip where I bit too hard trying to taste you; teeth marks on your breasts; nipples aching; cunt sore.

Clothes no longer in a state to be worn outside the house.

But I make you wear them anyways when I send you home.

What I do know is that when you admit your own hunger, I feel an unfurling of low, dark, energy, a current that makes me want to grab you by the throat.

It puts me in a place where my control over the wolf is barbwire thin.

Do you believe in the beauty of rain?

Do you read books not to distract you from the world, but because it makes the world even more wondrous?

Do unexpected kisses make you shiver in delight?

Do you want to spend an evening naming your favorite villains while eating chocolate ice cream?

Do you like leather and lace?

Do you like to laugh while being naughty, and does being naughty make you laugh?

(does the word naughty make you laugh?)

Do thorns make you turn away, or will you pluck the rose despite the sting?

there is a beauty to a curve that
doesn’t quite end, it just
becomes another curve
like a smile
or silk
like a kimono showing
a bared shoulder
is a curve
you
are a curve

Without words I have no voice.