Category: Crimson Writ

Where my words give lie to the wolf under the skin.

good girl

There is something in that first meeting; the first time your eyes meet; the first time you hear her laugh; the first time you felt his fingers touch your hand; the first time he made your breath catch.

You know just how dangerous some firsts are. They set precedent.

It was in the way his gaze held yours when he fixed the button on your shirt.

The slightest tremble when his warm hands found your waist.

He could have stopped there. He could have let her slip away to home and safety.

But he didn’t.

He pinned you gently but firmly against the concrete pillar in the garage and leaned in close enough for you to feel his breath along the curve of your throat. Lips brushed your pulse and you felt it flutter, felt that moment where you had one last chance to flee.

He  shifted just far enough back so you thought you had an avenue of escape. But the pathway to freedom was just an illusion and the moment passed.

This time, when his hands found your lower back, slipping under your shirt, it was with intent. He drew you against him, until you could feel the strength and safety within his arms.

“Good girl.”

He freed one hand to open the door to the backseat of the car and then picked you up and placed you inside, joining a moment later. His hand found your throat and pinned you down onto the seat; his free hand undid the buttons of your shirt, starting with the one he had just fixed minutes before. 

Even in the dark interior of the car, you could see his eyes on you. He held your gaze and then slowly, deliberately lowered his lips to your bared collarbone. Your shoulder. The top of your breasts.

With his hand nestled intimately around your throat he could feel each breath, feel the pace of them increasing as he stripped away your defenses.

The hand that undid each button rested atop your pants, lightly, almost a tease.

“Say please, princess.”

You felt the word on your lips, but you didn’t want to say it. You didn’t want to give it to him.

But he took the word anyways, his hand slipping between pants and skin and you felt his strong fingers for the first time, curling with deft practice between your thighs and the hand around your throat tightened just enough that you felt your breath stolen and time stood still.

“…please.”

Was that your voice? Did you say that?

But you already knew the answer. And a moment later, when his fingers slid deep inside of you, nothing else mattered.  

savage beast

I knew it the first time I saw you.

Or, rather, the wolf inside of me did.

He knew exactly how you would look on all fours, caught between the tension of my fingers buried in the back of your hair and my cock driving you into the edge of the bed.

Wolves speak a language that is eloquently savage.

I listen to my wolf, but know we must defer to human customs: I cannot simply drag you into the next room and sink my teeth into your skin to mark you as mine.

So I ask most kindly.

And you say yes. Because there is nothing that makes you feel quite so alive as giving yourself over to a hungry predator.

Don’t worry, I tell you. It will only hurt for a moment.

But it is the wolf speaking, and he lies. He’s going to make the ache last for a very long time. He likes to play with his meal, drawing it out until you are lost between taunt pleasure and sheer hunger.

Wolves prefer their feasts to be seasoned by anticipation and surrender.

Nails bite into your breasts, leaving red marks you will find yourself touching the next day with a shiver.

Warm breath tickles the insides of your thighs, seductively gentle and hiding the teeth that will find your most tender places.

I am listening to your heartbeat now.

_We_, the wolf and I, are listening to your heartbeat now.

It moves to outpace my hunger, but it cannot. It is not possible. My hunger, our hunger, is faster than thought. It is need incarnate.

You are bruised by my touch, but not because I am ungentle. You cannot help but struggle against yourself, arching your hips to find that which I keep from you, twisting your wrists to escape and pull me closer.

But a wolf knows. It knows you are not ready yet.

Not till you have offered up everything. Not until there is nothing you are holding back. Until your very breath begs for release.

Now.

Promise me you’ll be a good girl.

And I’ll let you meet my wolf.

belly of the beast





(not) finite.


(you) misapprehend my hunger.


here. hold your hand to the night sky
to measure its depth
by reach
or
close your fingers
around the stars
and


tell me
  how many
  you can hold


tell me
  the distance between the darkness,
  your captured stars,
  and my
     hunger.


tell me
  you already had this dream
  that the sky
  is no darker
  than the belly
  of my beast.


tell me
  you understand that submission
  and salvation
  can both be found
  on your knees
	


	
	








	
	

		
Mandrake Root
	


	

		






It is said that darkness provides the cover needed to be our true selves.





There is truth in that. In the grace of dark cover, away from curious eyes, we are often granted the bravery necessary to acknowledge our more wicked sides.





But it is not enough.





Because it is only when you are seen as your most wicked self that it becomes something real. Something not just awknowledged, but embraced.





Listen.





You are most honest when held by a gaze that doesn’t judge. Under the eyes of someone who accepts all parts of you, you can unfurl, reaching towards truth and allow your walls to lower. It is there that you find fertile soil to let your hungers grow.





And I – I am large enough of self to provide the shade you need to be brave. I am confident enough to let the vines find purchase about my limbs.





And I am strong enough to help you nurture that garden that I might pluck the fruit from the vines, sink my teeth into plump curves, and savor your secret self.