Author: D'jaevle

The closing of space is mutual, the decision to breach intimacy through controlled violence less so. Kindled necessity, sparked by the span of my fingers in measuring the distance between your throat and breasts, a reflection of the prophecy you inhaled before my hand ever found your skin. I am forced to read you from the inside, interpretation divested of meaning, a distillation of truth that suffers in comparison to your sins.

—

Innumerate, the paths you betrayed, a brutal sundering of limbs until a single road is laid stretched before you.

What dark visage did you imagine awaited you at its end?

I already know the face you hope to see. You would treat with the devil in the hope his lack of mercy is enough to make you bleed real tears. His are the true lies, the honest deceit, the silk beneath the amber, and he can cut deep, deep enough to exhume what nestles closest to your heart.

he will eviscerate you.

His fingers will never touch your entrails to see the unspooling of your life. He will not condone your hopes or give credence to your fears. He will not tell you of promised love or chances lost. All becomes irrelevant when your future belongs to him. He will rearrange your insides until they mirror his own vision of what you are to be.

It is bloody work, and once it is complete, he will lick his fingers clean.

You are dressed in a large men’s shirt – and nothing else.

My hands smooth the back of your shirt, molding it against your curves, moving down, down, to where shirt meets skin at the top of your thighs; fingertips curl at the edge, finding the sensitive skin just above your ass. Your eyes are hesitant, but the catch in your breathing is clear.

One hand on your chest, I press you back into the wall.

With my knee resting at the ‘v’ of your thighs, your body pinned to the wall, I slip the first shirt button free, and then the second. My knee presses upward, parting your shirt at the bottom. You balance yourself with a hand on my shoulder, hips instinctively tilting up against the pressure I am applying between your thighs.

A third button, then the fourth, fifth, and last. The shirt falls open; you shrug and it slips from your shoulders and off your arms, pooling at our feet.

You are bared.

My knee now moves against naked skin; my hands find the curves of your breasts, fingers spreading apart to capture skin. Palms draw down against the hard nubs of your nipples, fingernails marking your skin with faint lines.

Your hips arch away from the wall and into my knee; wet, you slide against me, trying to capture friction along with the direct pressure being fucked into the wall by my thigh.

You cling to my shoulders and thrust into the force of my movements, meeting the rhythmic heat of skin on skin. I lower my head, finding your nipples; heat, harsh burning heat, bathes each nipple as I take them in, rolling them between tongue and teeth. I pull back to explore the rest of your curves until I am lost against the physical evidence of our desires: my thigh slick from your desire, your breasts shiny from the path my tongue has taken.

I have loosened you from the inside, and you are open, wet, and hungry.

I bruise your lips with kisses, the kind of kisses that take, and take – biting the edge of your tongue, sucking your bottom lip, driving you to accept more. You raise one leg, wrapping it around my waist. Astride my thigh, you bear down, fuck-riding in desperation against my knee as it moves back and forth, the length of my skin capturing all of you, dragging against your clit with each thrust, again, and again, and again, until you cry out, burying your face against my shoulder.

Did I tell you how good that shirt looks on you? 

Words, written to Magdelana, muse, goddess, and dreamt bedfellow.

—

What a divine gift it would be to craft thresholds at will; carve doorways out of sky, arches out of stone. Words are the penknife of creation, scratching at the surface of reality.

She closed her work door, locked it. Went to her chair, stockings lowered, boots on, hair up.

In her own words:

“perhaps i forgot to mention that yesterday i spun my chair around and locked my boots on the full bookcase behind my desk – wide open in front of 10 foot open windows (my eyes were closed too) – heels digging into texts – awaiting your direction and my fingers doing the imagining – poor substitute but when you told me what to do – i did it – and concentrating on you – it all happened per your instructions“

Later, a picture, just for me.

It was appetizing. Sweet like her name, I craved more of her flesh. I wanted another picture. She wanted more words.

So I gave them to her.

—

Words are weighed in the strength of the consequences they inspire.

By this image, the posture as you look into the mirror and capture yourself for me, the black shoes you wear (and nothing else), your free hand behind your neck, touching hair.

The hard wood under your feet.

Words, I have many. They are always in my head, always at my fingertips. But they are not spared, they are rationed, dancing as they are at on the tip of my mind.

I wield them like a knife.

You want words?

Exposure, the act of revelation, the unraveling of intentions until you are spread open, a canvas of flesh upon which I can lay my desires, my basest needs. I look at you, my eyes on the photograph, and I mark the places my teeth will find, the space between ass and side, not quite hip, where my hands will find purchase against your skin.

Another. Same place. But this time fully facing the mirror.

A chair, your ass on the edge, thighs parted. You lean forward.

You are wet. You think of the knowledge that you will be used, cruelly, gently, entirely. You think of being at my front door. You wait for the word that will call you there.

And snap another picture.