Category: Crimson Writ

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

my favorite myth

you are Andromeda on a cliff
blindfolded, bound
sacramental sacrifice
for the sins of another

you are Persephone caught
harbinger of winter
pomegranate slut
reluctant companion

you are Ophelia drowned
tragedy and beauty
just below the surface

you are Galatea, goddess kissed
carved for my pleasure
(and hungers, too)

I am something else.

I am the rope that binds you to the rock.

I am the seeds you that led to your downfall

I am the water you surrendered to

and I am the chisel that cut until you were free

alone. with a wolf.

Captured.

You know.

It doesn’t have to be with rope wound around your wrists.

Or hands pinning your hips.

Or a gaze that holds you in place.

It could be with a word.

Or an idea.

It could be this.

You, with your eyes closed, listening to me.

It could be the way my words find their way inside of you. The way they describe the shape of a hunger you are too embarrassed to admit.

You could be captured right now.

Your pulse may be moving a bit faster.

Your skin may be warmer.

Your breath may catch.

It’s perfectly natural to feel that way.

It’s how prey react when caught.

It’s how humans react when they feel danger.

It’s how _you_ react when your base needs are laid bare.

I see you.

I see the parts you are trying to hide.

I see the silhouette of your desire in the tilt of your head.

I see the hungers you can’t admit in the shying of your eyes.

I see you. And I know you.

I know the you that has been down the path through dark woods. You’ve pricked your fingers on the rosebush thorns and tasting blood, swore to avoid those paths again.

And yet they call to you.

And yet the scars on your fingers make you smile.

And yet.

Here you are.

In the dark woods again.

Alone.

No, not alone.

With a wolf.

With me.

And you are captured.

autumn hunts make for winter feasts

I told you to come here and you asked why.

I have elegant answers.

And brutal ones.

But my chosen answer is simple, and it is a question of its own.

Which of the inner voices you hear is the loudest?

Your brash and fearless, finding-trouble in the cookie-jar voice?

Your cautious, should-I-maybe-better-not voice?

Your shy, curious, unsure-yet-precocious voice?

Or mine?

It is not mine.

My voice is never loud.

It never shouts. It does not demand. It won’t insist.

It doesn’t have to.

Because my voice is the voice of your unexpressed desires. It is the language of hungers too powerful to admit because voicing them only makes them stronger.

My voice describes the delicate cruelty of  fingernails tracing intimate curves. My voice makes you feel teeth catching nipples with deft intent and hungry succulence. My voice makes you see yourself at my feet, my hand tangled in your hair to focus your gaze upwards.

My voice is a current, a fast-moving river that outraces your patience.

It has found fertile ground in your repressed hunger. It’s roots go deep, finding a home in the subliminal and divine of your unspoken self. It’s vines are strong and they wrap around your limbs like armor. Bound, you are stronger than you’ve ever been. Freer then you let yourself dream to be.

My voice is a doorway. 

A cliff.

And it wants you to fall.

Not a Good Man

I am not a good man

I would choose the apple over paradise.

I am careful right onto the point of taking you to the ground.

I do not ask.

I do not persuade.

I act.

A good man would not want to see you suffer.

I crave your agony, even in pleasure.

A good man would not want to see you at your most vulnerable.

I am driven to see your throat exposed and your ass in the air.

A good man would not want to see you plead.

I live for the words that tremble on the precipice of your lips.

I am not good man.

But I make an excellent wolf.

what sharp teeth

You.

Yes, you.

The one pretending to be shy.

Come here.

No. Closer.

What? I’m not going to bite.

Mmmm.

I lied.

I will bite.

But that’s the least of the things for you to fear.

But you need not be _too_ afraid. You will enjoy every last one of them.

How can I tell?

I haven’t even touched you and you are already trembling.

…

No. I’m not going to tell anyone.

No. I am not afraid of the secrets you hide.

Yes. I am going to eat you.

…

But before I eat you, I need you…primed.

Mmmm. What am I doing?

I’m finding your pulse. Setting teeth to wrist and lips to throat. I am nipping at your skin until the blood rises with your heat and you feel fevered.

I want you well warmed.

No.

I want you burning.

Scald my hands. Make it hurt. I expose you layer by layer, until your bared skin sears my flesh. Your vulnerability is a poison I drink eagerly.

We will both die the little death tonight.

Ahhhhh.

Are you shivering?

I have stolen all your heat. I have marked you as my own.

But I am not done.

My hand, on yours…yes, I want it there. Nestled between your thighs. I can feel your fingers move under my own.

I don’t need to tell you what to do.

You can’t stop yourself.

Wicked girl.

Wicked, beautiful, sinful, girl.

I cannot wait for desert.

crimson snow

Let us talk of cold winter days.

Untouched snow in the woods.

Bitter snapping wind.

And you in white.

—-

How long can you stand here in the snow, barefoot and with only your thin white nightgown for warmth?

Let us see.

I love the reveal.

Your smooth skin exposed inch by inch as my hand slides the hem of your gown up over your leg and thigh.

The warmth – striking contrast to the bite of cold – and the shivers that mark the path of my hand.

My hand looks perfect against your pale skin, nestled at your hip where my fingers have gathered your nightgown.

I’m gentle. Patient and deliberate in my violation of your space. But now that my hand is against your hip, now that your thighs are parted and I can see the hint of something at the apex of your thighs, my thumb presses inward, fingers tightening until I hear you gasp.

Can I make you forget the cold?

Two fingers should do it. Curled deep inside of you, my free hand at your lower back to brace you and keep you standing as I beckon you closer in the most intimate way possible.