To me, possession is an act, not an agreement.
I possess with words. I own with lips, fingers, and the occasional length of rope.
It lasts only as long as the rope burns on her wrists, the welts on her ass, the act in her memory, and my words in her mind.
Ownership is a claim made over and over again.
Asking, requiring, or stating ownership is an empty gesture if it hasn’t already been written against your skin and etched into your consciousness.
No matter how good we are on our best days, we often judged by our worst.
Dwell here, my pet. Curl at my feet and I will feed you in sweets cut from ragged cloth that once adorned false prophets. You can taste the promise of their salvation in the creases of their garments.
I, too, will lead you astray. I will touch you possessively with a light hand and then beat you cruelly in my silence. My disciples are many, but they know it not. They will worship you in sympathetic stares and false compassion.
I will crumble your foundations of stone and stillness. I will hold you up just long enough for you to see how far you have to fall.
So dwell here, in absinthe abstinence, and wait for me.
Some of the most beautiful things are written in the pain born of desire.
You’re like a stained glass window. All the lines of your life have been etched across your soul with a knife so sharp you can only feel it in the passing.
That magical word, ‘anything’.
For me, the question and answer is not so much about intent, but knowing acquiescence.
The act of giving yourself over while understanding, at a fundamental animal level, just how deep you’ve let yourself be drawn into his world.
Its done in steps, sometimes subtle, sometimes not.
“What would you do for it?”
The answer is a binding twined tightly against you until your very breath catches.
After acquiescence comes the testing.
You are here.
You are braille, read in falling touches and flailing rushes and I know I if I am cut in half we can read our futures in the rings, but my bite is worse then my bark and I cannot be a tree so you should be a stone dropped in still waters so we can count the ripples, but you’re not a stone, you are gypsy and vagabond.
You are here.
But never for long.