thunder.

I wait for it, window open, clove between two fingers, whiskey like gasoline at hand.

thunder is a pulse

metallic scent, soft rain, and then –

heartbeat

thunder. Thunder. THUNDER.

prey.

one word.

one unambiguous word.

prey.

you, prey.

I. Prey.

one word.

a universe of intentions.

I prey, but entwined with

I desire.

you – prey, but entwined with

fierce, singular, selfhood.

I prey on your raised

selfhood.

(bared ass, all fours, caught, defile, devoured)

you – prey, of a mind, of a moment.

of surrender.

somewhere in the middle.

we prey together.

you were a dream I had
more light than thought
more thought than real
more real than waking

you were a dream I had
and you were
poised
placed
positioned

and you

pleaded
promised

part
ed

to
invite
me
in

you are my vessel
meant
for drowning

i fill you with
the way your leg looks
hooked over the edge of the tub

the droplets that gather
in concave and curve
tiny mirrors shaped
by your breasts

until
the weight of my regard
tips you over

there is too much color
in
stained glass
to capture
your reflection
but I see you in the way
the pieces
break

i made you that way
poured your words
into dark places
to ferment

a drought
of moments

bleached of light
i could still taste
crimson and clove
in the apertif
of you

you are lost in the woods

you are lost in the woods and you are alone.

you are lost in the woods and you are most decidely not alone.

you can hear my breathing
feel the tickle of my gaze on the nape of your neck

you pray

I prey

we pray together.

we pray through hands on naked curves
we pray through teeth on lower lips
we pray through fingernails biting into thighs
we pray when I open you
when I grip your throat
when I enter you
when you feel yourself sundered
to the choir and tears of angels
we pray

you are Andromeda on a cliff
blindfolded, bound
sacramental sacrifice
for the sins of another

you are Persephone caught
harbinger of winter
pomegranate slut
reluctant companion

you are Ophelia drowned
tragedy and beauty
just below the surface

you are Galatea, goddess kissed
carved for my pleasure
(and hungers, too)

I am something else.

I am the rope that binds you to the rock.

I am the seeds you that led to your downfall

I am the water you surrendered to

and I am the chisel that cut until you were free

Captured.

You know.

It doesn’t have to be with rope wound around your wrists.

Or hands pinning your hips.

Or a gaze that holds you in place.

It could be with a word.

Or an idea.

It could be this.

You, with your eyes closed, listening to me.

It could be the way my words find their way inside of you. The way they describe the shape of a hunger you are too embarrassed to admit.

You could be captured right now.

Your pulse may be moving a bit faster.

Your skin may be warmer.

Your breath may catch.

It’s perfectly natural to feel that way.

It’s how prey react when caught.

It’s how humans react when they feel danger.

It’s how _you_ react when your base needs are laid bare.

I see you.

I see the parts you are trying to hide.

I see the silhouette of your desire in the tilt of your head.

I see the hungers you can’t admit in the shying of your eyes.

I see you. And I know you.

I know the you that has been down the path through dark woods. You’ve pricked your fingers on the rosebush thorns and tasting blood, swore to avoid those paths again.

And yet they call to you.

And yet the scars on your fingers make you smile.

And yet.

Here you are.

In the dark woods again.

Alone.

No, not alone.

With a wolf.

With me.

And you are captured.

You are not so delicate that you cannot be devastated.

I will not let you be detached.

You will be here. With me.

And you will be devoted.

Blindfold. Red silk. Leather belt.

I remove your sight so you can better focus on my words. In the dark, my touch is your only guide.

You don’t want to get lost do you? Stay close to my voice.

You can feel the silk I wind from wrist to wrist; it caresses your skin softer than my own touch. Silk is the definition of gentle but firm, wound ribbons about your wrists and arms until they are bound.

My belt is an imperfect instrument, but imperfect instruments are meant for impure acts. The tail of my belt rests atop the silk, binding your forearms together even tighter. It is not quite cruel, but it is not so gentle either.

I leave your bound arms above your head.

There. Now you are bound.

My knee nestles at the top of your thigh with just enough pressure to keep your lower half pinned where I want it.

The beauty of darkness is anticipation.

You wait.

Helpless.

Go ahead, tug at the silk and leather. I want you to.

The harder you test your binds, the better you know how well and truly caught you are. You know it. I know it. And your hidden self knows it best of all. You might not be ready to surrender but it’s her that is arching your hips to meet my knee in raw need.

You strain. You shiver. And you wait in the darkness.

I do not make you wait long.

My teeth find your nipples. One at a time I nip, I bite, I tease them until they ache, until they are painfully hard and sensitive.

Shall I show you a trick?

When your nipples are this sensitive…one lick…one light tug on them…and you can feel it in your clit. I pluck this string between your breasts and your clit until the line tightens into an instrument for me to play.

And I do.

You call me cruel. Is it cruelty if you want it? Need it?

I’m only getting started.

Because I will not relent. I’ll capture each nipple between my teeth and watch you writhe when my hand slides between your thighs to fill you and take possession of your cunt.

My hand knows you well. Two fingers curled inward. They are a perfect fit and they open you in a way nothing else I have done could have. Because now I am inside you, I am part of you, and I am claiming from within, fingers engaged in the forceful drive to make you ache.

How much stimulus can you handle? Teeth, nipples. Fingers, cunt. Did you forget my other hand? I rest it on the small of your back and then let your curves draw it down to your ass for a nice firm grip that lets me guide you harder onto my fingers.

I feel you tense. Your breath is ragged. You clench.

I stop.

Not yet.

I leave my fingers buried deep inside of you and leave a path of small bites along your hips until my lips are close enough to join them.

Can you feel my breath against the inside of your thighs?

My own breath is harsh. You’re not the only one that is hungry.

I nuzzle closer, finally drawing my fingers out to more fully part your thighs, leaving you open and vulnerable. I start with a light taste, a lick, just along the outside. But it’s not enough. I go deeper, tongue starting at the edge of your ass and drawn all the way up to your clit.

You’re not just shivering now. You are shaking. Your thighs tremble in my hands as I taste again, long slow licks, like a wolf lapping at a bowl of milk.

You taste divine.

My lips settle at your clit, and my teeth graze the edges. You feel like you are walking a tightrope, caught between razor ends. You’re only option is to fall.

And when my fingers slip inside of you while my tongue finds that perfect rhythm along the edge of your clit that makes your body hum.

You do. You fall.

You can feel it, can’t you? My tongue, my fingers. My words pulsating inside you. And that edge you need to claim is yours. And you are cumming for me.

And. You. Are. Devoured..

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.