Category: Crimson Writ

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

without rest, without fear

I find I go through life
with either
great patience
or great desperation

I sometimes wait.
content to watch the shadows
stretch and retreat
beneath my window

and sometimes
I am overwhelmed by a great need
to move.
or experience a hunger
like Cronus had for his children.

I do not see the sense of walking
when I can run towards the sun
or stand still
and let the world
come to me.

exhibition of rope

A length of rope.

It’s amazing what you can do with it.

“An exhibition, only.” I say, holding the rope in one hand.

I don’t think you believe me, but you offer your wrists; I draw them behind your back.

“It’s simple.” Once, twice, around each of your wrists individually and then again around both. Between them, create a loop, and…there. Nice and snug.

“Rope has many uses. It can be used to restrain.” And then it hits you – you’re bound. Just your wrists, but it’s enough to make you realize you can’t stop what follows. That with your wrists behind your back, you have little choice but to step back when I close the space between us.

One step, two – and you find yourself trapped between the study door. And me.

No hesitation, no pause, just my hands on your hips, under your shirt. You don’t move as my hands slide up your back, fingers pressed to your bare spine. Pressure, fingers moving in with practiced – but not perfected – technique. It takes a moment before you realize what I’ve done and by then it’s too late. Hands move to the front, drawing your bra off, and then out from under your shirt.

And now you decide to move, stepping away from the wall, wrists twisting against the rope, testing its strength.

But the rope holds. And your step forward only presses you against my knee, which had risen slightly to nestle against the apex of your thighs. I meet your eyes and wordlessly grip the bottom of your shirt, drawing it up over your breasts. My eyes flicker down, taking you in – and then my head follows my gaze.

Warm breath tickling the top of your breasts, followed by the heat of lips against the curve of your breasts. There is deliberation, time taken to feel their weight.

Lips part. Teeth graze a nipple. I can feel it harden against my tongue and I draw it in, testing how much pressure you can handle in the way your back arches. There is a low hum of need now, felt under my hands as they reach around your waist to grip your bound wrists.

When I finally draw back, meeting your eyes again, there is no disguising the hunger in my gaze.

I take a deep, slow breath, then another, to steady myself.

I untie your wrists.

Draw your shirt over your head.

And then rebind your wrists in front of you.

This is done quickly and with purpose, giving you little time to think, to object.

I grip the end of the rope that binds you. It only took a couple feet to capture your wrists. There is plenty left and I tug you forward, drawing you away from the wall. “Rope can also be used to direct.”

To direct. And to claim. I collect the slack in the rope, forcing you forward one step at a time. Until you are facing the edge of my desk.

There are certain things I know. About you. And I knew that if I give you time to think, you’ll have something smart to say.

Instead, I take the end of the rope and draw it over the desk, near the center, keeping it loose until I can bring it all the way around. A twist, a tie, and…yes. Now I can tighten it.

I glance over at you – wrists bound, rope leading to the desk. I pull, tightening the rope. Your thighs hit the edge of your desk, your bare chest pressing into the cool surface and your wrists over your head.

With the rope now taut, I tie it off under the desk and then step out of sight. Behind you.

This is what means to be truly bound. You test the rope again, twisting. There is some small give to it but not enough for freedom.

Hands slip around to the front of your jeans unsnapping – and then fingers hook and tug, catching your panties on the way down.

You can feel the heat of my hands on your skin.

It is just…too tempting. And you are too caught.

Hands guide you to lean up against the desk, drawing your hips back – a move that presses your ass outward, making of it a tempting target.

First, a light tease – fingers caressing the curve of each cheek, taking time to enjoy the simple lines, and just as you begin to relax, a *slap* as hand meets skin. Awakening nerve endings, reminding you of just how exposed you are. Moments pass and then another, on the other cheek, bringing the prettiest flush of red to the surface.

It is the intake of breath, the rhythm of slapping, the discordance of hands on naked skin that pulls you in. The hand becomes more than just an instrument leaving red patterns across your cheeks, it becomes a burning brand.

For a moment there is a calm, a moment of silence while your skin, sensitive to everything, is left alone. Then the gentle touch of fingers – almost surprising, as they trace lightly over your skin. One finger starts at the small of your back, tracing a line slowly along the edge between your cheeks, dipping inward. It reaches the apex of your thighs – and doesn’t
stop.

There is a light slow brush of two fingers against you, teasing outer lips as they slip to the hard throbbing nub a bit further up. Agonizing in its deliberate slowness, in the obvious pleasure in holding you there – and then the calm is over, for even as those fingers part to run along either side of your clit, the other hand awakens your ass again to the pleasures of skin meeting skin with an impact sharp enough to make you cry out.

But that’s not enough.

I need.

My left hand buries itself in the back of your hair and I drag you back until you feel me, hard, throbbing, and pressed against the curve of your ass.

in the direction of your pulse

There is a pattern to your breath, a morse code in your pulse.

Hands on rounded hips, lips part, a slyph shared in a kiss.

I pass her to you, a safe harbor for our burgeoning language; we learn, creation through motion – a thigh turned, an arm raised.

There is a genesis, a light.

This is how I tell you that I left the groceries on the counter but hid the chocolates.

This is how I tell you that I watched you water the roses and thought, ‘What color do roses blush?’

This is how I tell you that I did not feed the cat and she will likely follow you like an overly attached child, bumping your leg. She will not perish – she is quite fat – but she will act as if death is no far thing.

This is how I tell you what I know best. That the language of our bodies is the language of our lives. And that words – beautiful, amazing words – are poor substitutes for a hungry cat or a blushing flower.

sign language

My hand, a birdcage.

Inside, a wren.

I let her craft all of my best poetry.

(you know what they say: wren writing, wren done, wren laughing at a pun)

That first part is not true.

My hand isn’t really a birdcage: it’s a cave. Cozy, dark, closely fit to wren feathered wings.

She likes it there.

But it means I can never open my hand.

Not once.

perfection

I believe in perfect moments; a dinner with the right kind of smile; an unexpected laugh; a kiss that is more crimson than red.

But people? People aren’t perfect; and even if they are, they won’t stay that way. We evolve. The best we can hope for is to find someone who evolves in a manner we find interesting and compatible.

ella

yellow-pearled eyes, curled like a dark dandelion puff.
she sleeps
all the time
except when chasing her stuffed monkey
dropping it in my study
(she wouldn’t dare scare up a rat).

wants a place of warmth to rest (blanket, lap, expensive cashmere coat, my face)

hardly worth the trouble

except…

she always purrs when I touch her
doesn’t mind my cloves
sits quietly when I write
naps to the sound of rain with me
hardly ever makes a fuss

silly thing.

carpenter for hire

There is a low order to hunger. It starts deep, a primal scent that is often lost to the momentum of life.

But sometimes. Sometimes, memory meets possibility and hunger grows claws. It bites cross-wise into the grooved pattern of life, slivers of habitual excuses falling away like wood shavings.

It carves itself in monstrous form, a colossus straddling the paths of desire and prudence.

And it refuses to be diminished, to be made to fit.

bruised knuckles and broken toys

a lion’s lost roar
a child’s forgotten sense of play
a surcease of dreams to cultivate,
and a laurel bed on which to lay

a lullaby, these words, to sleep and forget
that a lifetime of almosts is one of regret

the longer I live
the more that I find
the things I need most
are the dreams left behind

I don’t wish for peace or comfort.
complacent – too close to death
I crave the place I have to face
my desire to count each breath

not callous, not simple, not shallow or clothed
but bared and complex, deep and exposed

not careful, not quiet, not restrained or delayed
but reckless and furied, freed and remade

not counting the rings in the circles I’ve walked
but remembering the falls and the danger I’ve stalked

you can promise the solace of a path well traveled and tested
and I’ll show you my scars where the best have been bested

tell me what’s safe, what’s right and what’s true
and I’ll tell you my way is not the right way for you.

now tell me you’re listening
and I’ll tell you this:
a life that’s worth living
is too easily missed