In a desert, the dry heat necessitates minimal clothing: a robe, to meet modesty’s needs.

The person behind is less interested in modesty.

You close your eyes when his hands find their way to your hips beneath the robe. His touch is remarkably cool despite the heat, and where his fingers trail your flank, following the lines of your body to the back of your thighs, the shivers that follow are not from the cooling desert air.

He is patient. His touch is slow, running the up the length of your spine to slip the robe from your shoulders; his breath is warm, almost hot against the back of your neck; hands firmly grip your waist to pull you back into his arms before finding the front of your thighs, fingers spread as they slip between, moving up to the apex – brushing against your own heat ever so lightly – before drifting to your stomach, your breasts, palms pressing against your nipples.

Teeth graze your throat, then lips, burning, as if to replace the setting sun.

Bared skin is too strong a temptation. He turns you to face him, fingers winding their way through your hair, lips at the hollow of your throat. Shoulder. Chest. Soft, light, kisses.

Lips find your own, parted, hungry. Lower again, his hair brushing your skin as he traces your breast, lost in the inviting warmth of your skin, the promise it holds. He catches your nipple between his lips, gently tugging and he is on his knees, following a path lower.

You lean against the marble column to your left, needing the support as he finds your hips with his mouth. He is hungry, but patient, small light bites to the delta between hips and thighs, an intimate valley he dares without hesitation, his hand guiding your leg over his shoulder as he buries his face deeply between your thighs.

Just as the sun slips completely behind the horizon, leaving only darkness. The sound of your breathing. And him.

You are right. For me, thinking too much of you is dangerous.

It always has been.

I suspect it always will be.

I love to tease: threading ideas, promised edges sharp enough to draw blood.

For me, it’s like a cat sharpening her claws.

Or a wolf sharpening his teeth.

There is a depth to the hunger I have for you.

Or to be more honest…there _isn’t_ a depth. Because that implies I know the distance we have to fall. And what makes you so dangerous is that I don’t think there is a bottom.

You’re the other part of the blade.

With others, I want to tear them apart.

With you, I want to tear you apart. And then I want to put you back together and do it again.

And again.

And again.

And that scares me.

Because there is no plateau to the kind of hunger I harbor with you. There is just falling.

And I want that. I want you sitting on the edge of my desk in a skirt and nothing underneath. I want to bite my way up the inside of your leg. Not sharp bites. But wolf ones, the kind that are half way between nibble and flesh tearing. I want to take my time. Until I can feel you shivering.

I know that shiver. I know the way it starts inside of you, rising until you can’t stop it.

It’s like a dinner bell for me.

time is measured observation
I mark mine by your breath
unbidden or coaxed
in ease or labored
promised or stolen

I count them all.

I want it simple.

A place.

A word.

And you.

I miss the purity of meaning. The lack of pretense. 

My hand curled around your throat wasn’t a step towards something. It wasn’t a reminder.

It was just my hand at your throat feeling you breath. Swallow.  Offer.

I miss the clarity of the moment. No mysteries to unwind, no conceits to shrug away.

You were here because it’s where you wanted to be.

And I took you in because I not-so-secretly loved your need for surrender.

I still do.

NE: You sure you got me?
Me: Got you?
NE: Got my back, and all my other fragile parts?
Me: I only need your throat. The rest follows.

it is no terrible act
when you fit so well
in the cradle
of my fist

it is no terrible word
the one that starts
with me
and ends with you
(on your knees)

it is no terrible promise
rope, a bed, and you
bared
wet
mine.

it is no terrible price
we pay
to have it

but the hunger I harbor
for you
is terrible
and great
and smolders
like the acts, the words, the promises, and the price.

Write the ending before the beginning.

Write like broken teeth in a closed fist.

Write until you are brittle with vulnerability.

Write to cut a hole in the world you can wiggle your fingers inside.

Write to make yourself laugh.

Write all the things you’re too scared to even think about because the thoughts would make you a monster.

Write until your finger bones grind into salt.

Write like you are fictional but the words are real.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
and neither did I take.

pricked by bramble and bush,
I rambled through
counting nicks with bloody glee.
Stepping over rot and splendor,
hidden temples of bugs,
no clearing found, no stream followed
just branches snapping like weak limbs
and I, crawling, walking reverent on dying leaves
a hospice for trees.

if this is decay
it is sweet.

The best stories are written by those you know.

About you.

____________________________________

I know where you keep your extra key. I let myself into your house and went upstairs to your study. I undressed and knelt. Then, I waited.

I was there, kneeling on crimson carpet, when you walked in. My body bared except for the red lace panties. You didn’t see me at first, but slowly, you turned, and our eyes met. I heard your breath catch and saw my downfall in your eyes.

“What are you doing here?” you asked.

“Waiting. For you.”

“Are you sure?” you question.

“Yes.” I am sure.

I blink and you are in front of me. You run your hand through my hair, and with a handful of hair, tilt my head back, exposing my neck. You wrap your other hand around my neck and squeeze. “I can feel your pulse.” you say, “It is racing.” I agree, “Yes.”

You release my neck and walk away. You go to your cabinet, the one where you keep your toys. You pull out a long length of rope and walk back to me. “Stand.” I stand. “Give me your hands.” I hold them out in front of me.

You grasp my hands and tie them together. You stretch my arms high above my head and push me back against the door. You run the rope up, over the door, back down, and tie it to the door knob on the other side. You command, “Spread your legs.” I spread my legs. “Very good.” you murmur.

You return to your cabinet and pull out a long piece of red silk. You stand in front of me. “Still sure?” you ask.

“Yes.” my response. You tie the silk around my eyes. I hear you walk away.

I hear rustling and then a soft tinkling sound. You pinch my nipple. Hard, just short of painful. I feel you bite my breast , then your teeth are on my nipple. Sucking, biting. Your hand moves to my other breast, and pinches my nipple. I groan. I feel wetness seep into my panties.

You pull back, and I feel you attach nipple clamps; the ones with the bells. You tug firmly on each one, and it’s almost too much.

“You know”, you say, “I had plans tonight.” I hear you walk away and begin to type on your keyboard. Music begins to play. It’s erotic, with a slow, hard beat. You type more, and then are quiet. I hear nothing but the music. Your silence stretches. It’s almost unbearable. I hear you turn in your chair. I feel your eyes on me. I feel exposed. I want to close my legs, cover my breasts. I start to squirm. “Stay still.” you order. I still, and I feel your hand on my stomach.

You slowly caress my stomach and let your hand fall to my waist. You let it rest there for a minute, then it moves down, then further down, and pushes my panties aside. Your fingers are in me. I am ready. I hear the sloppy sounds your hand makes as your fingers push in and out of me. I am so close to the edge. I thrust my hips forward. I’m begging you to touch me there. Just a touch, small circle, and I’ll be there. But you don’t.

You pull away. Silence.

I hear you sit down and resume typing. I’m almost undone. I want to beg you to finish. You stop typing and I can feel your eyes on me.

“Time to get rid of these.” you say. I can hear you come closer. I feel metal against my hip as you cut away my panties. You suck in your breath and say, “Much better.”

I can feel you, standing, inches from me. I try to lean into you. Try to show you what I want. I start to move my legs. You slap my leg. “Stay put” you command. I stop. I can feel your hand on my hip. You caress my ass, squeeze it, and then come back around to the front. You move your hand slowly down to cup my pussy. I am so wet. You move away.

Then I feel it, almost a delayed reaction. You have your crop. You slap my breasts, first one then the other. “I love the sound the bells make.” you say. I twitch, ringing the bells, as you slowly work your way down my torso, under my breasts, across my belly. Then you stop. I’m on fire. I need.

You use the crop and hit, hard, my thighs, and then you are there. You hit my clit, quickly, three times. “Please.” I beg. “Please, what? What do you want” is your response. “Please. I want to cum.” I say. Suddenly your mouth is there, sucking, licking, biting, and I’m lost in sensation. Sweet release. I can feel wetness running down my thigh. After an eternity, you step back.

I feel you untie the rope and quickly I am bent over your desk. You kick my legs apart. “Stay” you command. I wouldn’t move. I’m exactly where I want to be.

I feel soft leather trail over my back. Then, thwack. “I’m going to make you very, very, red.” You say. You flog me. You work your way down my back, over my butt and down my thighs. My skin is fire, sensitized.

You stop and I hear you unzip your pants and you are in me. You pound into me. Hard. Fast. Fuck. Oh fuck.

You stop. You take off my blindfold. “Get on your knees.” you order. I kneel. “Suck my dick.” I open my mouth. I lathe your penis with my tongue. I work my mouth up and down, sucking hard. I pause to lick your thigh, your testicle. Then your penis is in my mouth again. I cup your balls with my hand, caress them, squeeze them. You curse and pull me back to my feet.

You remove each nipple clamp. The pain is exquisite. I am lost in sensation.

You push me back to the desk, and push my torso down. My breasts are flat against your desk. You hold me down and push into me. You are relentless. You pound and pound until you climax. You slowly withdraw from me.

I cannot move. I am wrecked.