Category: Crimson Writ

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

betwixt

bewitched
by your smile, of course
found first
in your eyes

‘you’re hiding a devil’
said I,
‘somewhere between your smile and your words’

no words now, nor smile

just a grin.

‘Come find it’, it said.

the consequences of rhetorical questions

I had to relearn how to lace my fingers through her hair. A grip that was authoritative before painful.

I kept her trapped against the desk. “Do you remember your place?”

“H-here, master.”

Fingers brushed her nipple, caught it, tightening. Her back arched into a gasp.

“It is a yes or no question, NE.”

“Yes! Yes.”

I leaned in, “Can you feel the heat of my hand?”

“Yes.”

“Do you miss how it feels?”

“Y-yes.”

“Where do you belong?”

“Here, master.”

I roughly pulled her head to the side, my fingers biting into the inside of her thigh.”Yes or no. Where do you belong?”

Her breathing was labored, uneven. A second passed, then two. My fingers tightened in her hair “Where do you belong?”

“Yes, master.”

I smiled against her throat.

awoken

There is a right way to awaken.

Eyes closed, slumber’s reach still tugging at your edges. The slow awareness of your own body.

A subtlety of place, of fingers brushing hair from your eyes so that it settles on the pillow around you.

And then warmth of hands on your hips, felt through your shift. Fingers gathering the fabric along your hips, drawing it up from your calves, the bottom of your thighs.

A shiver, because the morning is cool and the air on bare skin is more then just the kiss of the world around you; it is a window of exposure, a moment of possibility. But the fingers pause with the shift mid-thigh.

Kiss, left at your pulse, a kiss that savors your own heat as a point of ingress. Nuzzling, nudging your head lightly to the side, teeth nip at your skin just sharp enough to make you gasp. And as your lips part, they are met, a kiss stolen in a most delightfully deceitful way.

because she asked

if you think you are as fragile as glass
remember this:

I’m not afraid of your sharp edges.
in fact –
each time you break, I will place your pieces in my pocket

and when all that is left
is sand
I will gather you in my hand and gently send you across the world

until you are a desert, and I a cool wind
and we can sleep beneath the stars

faith

Vulnerability.

Insecurity.

I know these things.

I also know you.

I know the flutter of your heartbeat under my thumb when my hand is wrapped around your throat.

I know your scent when my lips brush the back of your thighs as you are bent over my desk.

I know the line of hunger with you; when my own desire wars with the space I place to stay in control. I know your surrender tests it. Your caught breath presses against it. And your bared skin, brightened red from my hand or blushing with need, almost always breaks it.

I have faith in you.

But if you are unsure. Have faith in me.

I need you to find your feet.

And then find your knees.

postcards from the edge

She wrote:

You paint with words.

The problem is relationships have the everyday stuff…who takes out the trash. Someone forgets to pick up the dry cleaning.

The dog needs walking. The kids are sick.

Nothing can be like what you paint all the time. It’s unrealistic.

—

You are absolutely correct; the world drawn by my words is ephemeral.

It can’t be sustained.

But it’s not meant to.

I write of moments. If life is a journey, these moments are the postcards.

They are our sharpest memories. The ones we remember best.

a poignant, yet marvelous death

Though a little frightened, she let him have his way, and the reckless, shameless sensuality shook her to her foundations, stripped her to the very last, and made a different woman of her. It was not really love. It was not voluptuousness. It was sensuality sharp and searing as fire, burning the soul to tinder.

Burning out the shames, the deepest, oldest shames, in the most secret places. It cost her an effort to let him have his way and his will of her. She had to be a passive, consenting thing, like a slave, a physical slave. Yet the passion licked round her, consuming, and when the sensual flame of it pressed through her bowels and breast, she really thought she was dying; yet a poignant, marvelous death.

D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover

Rough handling.

This is what I remember.

You, pinned to the wall, hand at your throat, hand in your hair.

Neck, exposed. Pulse beneath my lips.

Bracing you against the wall; an unsnapping, hands at your shirt – over your head.

Bared skin. I almost regret the hunger that followed. I did not spare the moment to memorize the sight.

Your nipple, caught between my teeth. Feeling it harden. Throb.

You were a craving. I named your curves with bared teeth and unrelenting intent.

spring

It’s not that I feel more dangerous.

It’s that I feel more sure.

Perhaps it is because NE is becoming confident in her physical self again.

Perhaps it is because SB is remembering how to live with sharp edges.

Perhaps it is because I miss supplication; not as a demanding need, but as a missing piece. A lost glove found.

It is the difference between listening to music. And feeling it.