Encasement

She closed her work door, locked it. Went to her chair, stockings lowered, boots on, hair up.

In her own words:

“perhaps i forgot to mention that yesterday i spun my chair around and locked my boots on the full bookcase behind my desk – wide open in front of 10 foot open windows (my eyes were closed too) – heels digging into texts – awaiting your direction and my fingers doing the imagining – poor substitute but when you told me what to do – i did it – and concentrating on you – it all happened per your instructions“

Later, a picture, just for me.

It was appetizing. Sweet like her name, I craved more of her flesh. I wanted another picture. She wanted more words.

So I gave them to her.

—

Words are weighed in the strength of the consequences they inspire.

By this image, the posture as you look into the mirror and capture yourself for me, the black shoes you wear (and nothing else), your free hand behind your neck, touching hair.

The hard wood under your feet.

Words, I have many. They are always in my head, always at my fingertips. But they are not spared, they are rationed, dancing as they are at on the tip of my mind.

I wield them like a knife.

You want words?

Exposure, the act of revelation, the unraveling of intentions until you are spread open, a canvas of flesh upon which I can lay my desires, my basest needs. I look at you, my eyes on the photograph, and I mark the places my teeth will find, the space between ass and side, not quite hip, where my hands will find purchase against your skin.

Another. Same place. But this time fully facing the mirror.

A chair, your ass on the edge, thighs parted. You lean forward.

You are wet. You think of the knowledge that you will be used, cruelly, gently, entirely. You think of being at my front door. You wait for the word that will call you there.

And snap another picture.