Blood, Sex, Crimson

“You like to win.”

“I do.”

“I have a game for you.” I say , looking down at you. “I’m going to start…here.” I lower my lips to the hollow of your neck, just under your chin, leaving a light kiss, “…and every time you make a sound…” my teeth graze your throat just hard enough to make you gasp, “…or move…” my fingertips brush along your palm, drawing lines down the inside of you arm, causing your own fingers to close around mine, “…yes, like that…each time, I’m going to move lower…” action follows words: another kiss is laid against your collarbone, and then another and another, following the neckline of your shirt, small hungry kisses laid out along your skin in a path from one shoulder to the next.

You are quiet, intent on the game; for my part, the luxury of your warm skin keeps me occupied and I am content to nuzzle your skin , a soft growl giving heat to my kisses as they traverse the temptation that is your neck.

Unexpectedly, I nip at your ear, making you jump, a concession to surprise as much as pleasure; I claim my reward regardless, hands drawing the bottom of your shirt up to leave your upper half exposed to my hungry gaze and hungrier mouth.

Descending, I sear my desire into your skin with half-parted lips along the promise of your breasts, taking my time to enjoy _every_ inch of skin, tongue running along the undercurve of each, feeling the subtle weight of yours breasts against my lips. When I finally find your nipple and draw it into the warmth of my mouth, I can feel your hips arch against my hands, which have settled upon your waist.

Another concession to me.

I want more.

With little concern to mercy, my breath trails across your stomach, and lower still.

“It’s…not fair!” you say, “The game only gets,” a pause, as your breath catches in response to my teeth along the sensitive skin along the inside of your thigh, “h-harder!”

I glance up at you with a wicked grin.

“I never said it was a fair game.”

A fistful of hair turns your kneeling body from penitent to supplicant.

My fingers tighten slowly, so you can feel just how much I enjoy positioning you, head drawn back, your throat exposed.

“Used and abused.”

Two words.

One course of action.

With your head tilted back, it wasn’t hard for me to lean over and speak softly. Blindfolded, my words were your only path towards something that would fill the ache I’d instilled in you: “You, here, kneeling. It makes me want to take you apart…one slap…one kiss…one fuck at a time.”

With my right hand tangled in your hair, my left drew a line along the curve of your naked breast. “This is mine.” I said, fingers finding your nipple, pinching it. Hard. Harder. Until I could feel your entire body tense with me and I had to grip your hair even tighter to keep you still.

Using my grip to guide you, I draw you gently, but firmly, to your feet and press you over the edge of my desk.

You may be blindfolded but my gaze is almost tangible as it travels down your back to your bare ass. You can almost taste the lines of hunger I’ve drawn so tightly between us and when my fingers press against you from behind, finding you wet and hot, the words that follow are almost inevitable: “This, too, is mine.”

I finally unwind my fingers from your hair, running them down your spine before letting them fall away. You feel me reach for something beside the desk.

“This is one of my favorites.” It is cool, the wood of the paddle as I lay it against your back. It’s small and the smooth surface is deceptively light against your skin – and yet, you know, you know, it promises a very particular and sharp reminder of just how exposed you are. That it will leave you marked.

And that you will love every moment of it even as you give way to the pain it brings.

The first time it kisses your skin, you know you were right: the pain driving you into the edge of the desk and the adrenaline that follows makes your pulse pound hard enough to drown out my next words, but it didn’t matter because the second time the paddle finds your skin words ceased to matter: there was just wood and skin and the sound of it, the sound of bared flesh being painted with an implement in my hand.

In the rhythm, a steady rain of blows against your skin, you lose yourself; the paddle kisses the top of your thighs, then higher, leaving a ladder of red marks along the curved offering of your ass.

And the worst part – the best part – is knowing I understand that each blow leaves you needing more.

More words against your bared throat.

More reminders left on your skin of how it felt to be bent over my desk.

More.

I don’t relent. I work your skin with patience edged with my own need. Knowing your insides tighten with each touch of the paddle. That your pussy is slick with need.

I pause, resting the paddle against your upper back to lean close, my words spoken with the soft determination that marks my own approaching desire. “Good girl,” and two fingers slip deep inside you from behind, pressing inward with firm but slow intent, filling you. Only to be drawn out just as slowly and driven in again.

Harder. Deeper

Again. And again. Until you are shuddering to climax against my desk.

You have only a moment’s respite before I speak again.

“You’ve been abused.”

“Are you ready to be used?”

I am a predator.

I will never be completely at ease with the wolf I harbor. He has been free for too long, doing as he pleases with little to no restraint. The line between him being part of who I am and being who I am is often blurred.

And when I feel your breath catch, when I feel your pulse jump against my parted lips, my hands will slip around your waist to rest atop your thighs, gathering your skirt in deft fingers to draw it up over your legs, then higher still – until my fingertips find the bared flesh of your thighs and you find yourself settling back against me just to keep your balance.

“Tame? Not too tame, then.” Words spoken so softly they would be missed if they weren’t uttered gently near your ear. “There is heat, here.” My left hand resting atop the fabric of your panties, palm pressing down slowly. “Shall I be bold?”

And I am. My hand slips under the top, separating fabric and skin, and then you feel it nestle between your thighs.

It’s almost easy the way my hand finds your throat.

No. Not easy.

Easy is never the right word with us.

Easy implies without effort. Without intent. Without drive.

And the way we meet in the middle is hard.

My grip around your neck is firm, not gentle. My teeth are never kind. My gaze is never light upon your skin. It has weight.

No, easy is not the word.

Natural, perhaps, is.

Sometimes it starts slow, an unfurling of wings, this widening of hunger.

And sometimes it takes but a moment. Tinder to a fire.

Fingers tangled in lace, a tightening. I can feel the leather hugging your curves as I pull each loop methodically, keeping the tension as I work my way to the top before tying it off.

I like things contained; applying pressure to something contained implies violence, a moment when the vessel will no longer be enough to hold.

Wrists caught in my hands; the pulse along your neck, caught between my teeth.

You, in a corset.

When I grip your hips and pull you forward, I love the way you are brought as a whole, the corset capturing the middle while leaving your throat, thighs, and ass free.

I bring your leg up around my waist as I lean you back against the wall. Pressing between your thighs, my eyes on yours, I steal the red from your lips, kissing you slowly, forcefully, opening you.

But if I am need unwound, you are pliant, soft, and hunger itself. You kiss back and it becomes unclear who is devouring who – just what is caught.

It is dark.

You are on your knees.

And I am standing in front of you.

My warm hand brushes your cheek and before finding a grip in your hair at the nape of your neck, holding you in place while my free hand draws a delicate line down the length of your bared throat.

You are pulled to your feet. Settled into a strong chair, and tied in place.

…

Your hands are bound along the back side of the chair. And I have placed…her, on a chair at your back, facing away. She is close enough that you can feel her hair brush the back of your neck as she breathes.

I lower the lights even further until it’s too dark to see exactly what I am doing – just a dark silhouette moving.

You don’t struggle. Much.

My hands slide along the back of your bared legs. Your thighs part. Your leg rests on my shoulder and you feel my breath against your skin.

Can you hear me do the same to her? The sharp intake of breath when my lips leave a trail of small kisses along the inside of her thigh until they reach the center?

Does it make you shiver to know she’s so close? To know what is being done to her? So close you can feel her shudder, feel the growing heat of her skin?

Is it hard to sit still, tied as you are, and hear the steady rustle of clothing, the surprised gasp?

She presses back into the chair behind you as if trying to escape. Her hands are tied, the same as yours; her fingers find your own, entangling themselves in a grip too strong to break. A creak of the chair. A soft mewling of desperation. Fingers clench yours.

You feel her need like your own. Neither of you can hide from the growing darkness within the room. You do understand, don’t you? I am using her to get to you.

And I am using you, to make her mine.

Does this make it worse? Knowing what is in store for you? When you hear the long shuddering breath – when you feel it, do you connect this with the fact my face is now nestled intimately between her thighs? Reminding her that there is more than one gateway to heaven?

It does. It does make it worse. No need to say it aloud. Not yet. Just sit still and feel it.

You can feel the pulses of desire through the grip she has on you. It is tearing you apart to know just how fucking close I am.

Would it help if I told you she needs it? Don’t believe me? Listen to her ragged breathing.

Need, I say, softly, right next to your ear. I can taste it on her.

An evil thought – how hauntingly decadent you would look draped over her thighs, bent and exposed – your face pressed firmly to her breasts while I stood behind you both and brought to the surface the imperfect imaginings of a perfect lust.