dialogue

Pinned hands, wrists held; it is an act described and completed a hundred, a thousand times.

Because it is metaphor in motion.

There are binds that tighten with every struggle; skeins that capture more completely; collars that choke more thoroughly.

When your struggle has become the process, when you have played on your hunger until it has become an ache so sharp you feel it cut against your pulse and the lines of your body tremble – then, our dialogue can begin.

…

Your cheek pressed against the cool surface of the desk, hotel stationery scattered, held in place by a hand at the nape of your neck and the heat of a body behind you, bared ass traced by a touch that knows the points of ingress.

…

Legs splayed, your hands buried in dark hair long enough to twine between your fingers. Perched atop the bathroom counter, the mirror in front of you reflecting a low-light painting of the act in progress; the other side of capture, the cruel-edged tongue that circles the edge but never lets you slip.

…

Hands bound at the small of your back, legs over shoulders, back against the ground. Eyes that never leave yours, control laced by tipping points; it is not a lessening of the hold, this undenied fucking. It is the promise of flesh, of fingers that bite into your hips, and teeth that mark your breasts. It is being lost in the dark, naked limbs, where punctuation is made against your lips, the biting kiss and the sweet fever of blood-tinged words.