Category: Crimson Writ

diamonds in the river
stardust on my hands

You.

I’m making this an invitation.

This desk? It’s a place of work. A place where writing is done.

It is a place of worship.

Sometimes the desk is covered in papers, books, letters. And sometimes the papers, books and letters are covered by you.

Don’t be shy; you belong there, amongst the words.

Of course, you will you need to be a book without a cover. Necessity demands you lay between the pages naked; how else will my pen discover the metaphors you’ve so cleverly hidden for me to find?

I will turn you so, that the lines of your body follow the lines of my prose. And if I stop for a snack, a small sampling of the better sex, it is only in service of my writing. You will be a-muse-ing, a breathing sculpture (don’t worry, I won’t call you Pygmalion; I have better names for you).

Today, it rains. But all I can think of is a wolf in the snow.

“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.