i steal
your breath
just
to
make
your
lips
part
for
me

there was a moment
when her eyes
met mine
that I
knew

she would be
poised
parted
and
perfect

I would know her
through her
beautiful eyes

and she would know me
through
my
hungry heart

I know your curves.
I learned them the best way possible.
by touch and by taste.
with time and with hunger.
deliberate and slow.
swift and sure.

I mapped the contours of your body with intent and your curves remember me well; strong hands and parted lips left landmarks.

I left my poetry between your thighs and my scent upon your skin.

you are known, but not discovered; there are secrets left in the cleft of your thighs, and the rising rhythm of your breathe.

I know your curves.

But I want to know them better.

So – you are wondering – after almost fifteen years, why is he posting poetry almost exclusively?

Well, I mean, who doesn’t love poetry?

Honestly, almost everything I share – prose, poetry, autobiographical – is shared with an intent to evoke a feeling.

And poetry is my sharpest knife. The fastest way to mainline my intent. To inject my current mood or feelings directly into the veins of those who read my words.

Life evolves. The wolf under my skin is still there, but he’s older, slightly (so very slightly) wiser – and just as hungry.

I never write for a particular audience. I always write for myself first, and for the attentive reader second. Throwing bottled words to the world to see what the tides would turn up.

NE is still here. She’s kneeling by my desk right now. I spend every weekend with her and Bear. In a moment I am going to have my hands around her neck and her breath is going to belong to me.

Like I said.

Some things never change.

from your knees
everyone seems
divine

subjugation by decree
submission through the
eye of a needle

there is such beauty
in a head lowered
and eyes
upraised

inevitable. a statement of fact.

that you belong _here_

bound. beaten. bought.

Tell me your secrets.

The dirty ones.

The ones you hide even from your closest friends because you fear they will judge you.

Share with me the wicked daydreams that slip into your days unbidden, making you unexpectedly wet. The kind that shock you in their vividness and make you blush at your own audacity.

Whisper to me the things you are afraid to admit because speaking aloud only makes them more real.

And tempting.

Show me the darker side of you. The shadowed places you go to when you’re right at the edge, the unthinkable taboos that give you a release so hard you are left trembling.

Ashamed, you swear to never go there again.

Until you do.

Don’t be afraid.

Let me in.

I know your devils well.

Alright, little girl, it is time for sleep.

Oh? You want to hear a story first?.

Are you nestled into your bed, nice and cozy?

Do you have your favorite stuffed animal? No? I suggest you get it and hold on tight.

This story can be rather scary.

Everyone knows about Theseus, the Greek hero who slew the Minotaur in his labyrinth.

But he was only the last in a line of sacrifices Athens sent to King Minos in tribute. For years, seven men and seven women were sent to slake the Minotaur’s lust for flesh.

This is the story of one them, a young maiden by the name of Clio.

Do you think you know darkness?

You do not know darkness.

Even before fire was invented, there were stars to light up the night sky.

Within the Labyrinth, there were no night, there were no stars. Just walls.

To be in darkness is to be lost.

And Clio was completely, utterly, lost.

She could not see anything. Not her hands in front of her face. Not the water she could hear dripping along the stone walls.

Not the creature whose breathing she could hear echoing around her. Deep, almost labored breaths, like a bellows. The kind of breaths that swallowed the air around it and came out as a gutteral release of power.

The breathing of a beast.

A very large and hungry beast.

A large, hungry, beast who was very close.

His scent was almost overwhelming, a mix of animal musk and human sweat.

And to poor Clio’s horror, her body responded. Base instinct of fear warred with an even baser instinct to rut with something capable of dismantling her.

The line between what is powerful enough to protect and powerful enough to destroy was too thin for her id to decide upon.

Which left her terrified, trembling, and in heat.

Clio didn’t need sight to know when He was close; his presence was palpable. His labored breaths felt as well as heard. He towered over her, his breath heating her skin as he drew in her own scent.

His hands. His hands were remarkably human. Human, but so very large. They lifted her as if she was a toy and pinned her against the stone wall. Rough fingers rested atop her hips and she knew.

She knew she was his.

She knew she was to be sacrificed to his hunger.

And she was.

He drove inside of her without pause, without question. A claiming in the basest sense.

He wasn’t just inside her. He owned her. She could feel him in a way that made everything else in her life less real. This. Him. His cock. Was everything.

She could feel him driving into her, over and over again until she was driven outside her body, his presence enough to fill the absence she left.

And yet.

And yet.

She could feel everything.

Every vein on his cock.

Every bellowing breath against the top of her head.

His hands, his large hands, holding her there.

It took forever.

And it didn’t take long at all.

She didn’t remember blacking out.

She didn’t remember anything after that.

Because that kind of hunger.

Takes everything.

golden aura
laughing eyes
and you
so perfectly
naked
and
divine

radiance as raiment
which is nothing at all
your bared self
is
a miracle
of beauty

Tell me where you are most brave.

so I may pluck it from you
sip the sweet marrow of your surrender
and make your hunger mine