“I want you to trace every place my fingers have been.”
“…with my hands, Master?” she asked.
“Yes.”
There have been few scenes as erotic as watching her press shaking hands along the inside her thighs, her breath ragged, her entire body trembling. I watched her replay where my touch had been. Breasts, hips, throat.
If I hadn’t traveled that path just moments earlier, I’d have been as envious as I was hungry.
scary, scary, bustle berry
walk the woods but do not tarry
you must go, go, go! and basket carry.
do not wait
or hesitate
but keep real close its familiar weight.
and if you spy his yellow eyes
feel his sharp, sharp teeth
or his smooth, smooth lies
do not look, do not believe
do not listen, he will deceive!
so walk quite fast, and hide your hair
he’s fond of red, like the cape you wear
and if he knows just what you bear
(the secrets in that basket there)
he will follow, follow, follow you most everywhere.
once lost (at the least, slightly misplaced)
red-kissed, moon-touched (her skin, of course) girl
(sometimes a woman)
(unexpected)
last seen in woods
playing
(wolves, bears, nary a scratch)
and painting
(light
on trees)