faith

Vulnerability.

Insecurity.

I know these things.

I also know you.

I know the flutter of your heartbeat under my thumb when my hand is wrapped around your throat.

I know your scent when my lips brush the back of your thighs as you are bent over my desk.

I know the line of hunger with you; when my own desire wars with the space I place to stay in control. I know your surrender tests it. Your caught breath presses against it. And your bared skin, brightened red from my hand or blushing with need, almost always breaks it.

I have faith in you.

But if you are unsure. Have faith in me.

I need you to find your feet.

And then find your knees.

postcards from the edge

She wrote:

You paint with words.

The problem is relationships have the everyday stuff…who takes out the trash. Someone forgets to pick up the dry cleaning.

The dog needs walking. The kids are sick.

Nothing can be like what you paint all the time. It’s unrealistic.

—

You are absolutely correct; the world drawn by my words is ephemeral.

It can’t be sustained.

But it’s not meant to.

I write of moments. If life is a journey, these moments are the postcards.

They are our sharpest memories. The ones we remember best.

a poignant, yet marvelous death

Though a little frightened, she let him have his way, and the reckless, shameless sensuality shook her to her foundations, stripped her to the very last, and made a different woman of her. It was not really love. It was not voluptuousness. It was sensuality sharp and searing as fire, burning the soul to tinder.

Burning out the shames, the deepest, oldest shames, in the most secret places. It cost her an effort to let him have his way and his will of her. She had to be a passive, consenting thing, like a slave, a physical slave. Yet the passion licked round her, consuming, and when the sensual flame of it pressed through her bowels and breast, she really thought she was dying; yet a poignant, marvelous death.

D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover

aut viam inveniam aut faciam

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I shall either find a way or make one.

It took just under twenty years between decision and ink.

The words are a way of life for me: most everything is possible so long as you are willing to bear the cost.

I live a balanced life, and this is one reason for it. I almost always weigh the price of my actions against the reward.

Almost.

There are times where I act without thinking; when hunger overrides sense.

For a long time the metaphor of the wolf was merely a literary tact. But in the last five years I have come to have a better understanding of myself.

And this much is true: I harbor a wolf within my heart.

Rough handling.

This is what I remember.

You, pinned to the wall, hand at your throat, hand in your hair.

Neck, exposed. Pulse beneath my lips.

Bracing you against the wall; an unsnapping, hands at your shirt – over your head.

Bared skin. I almost regret the hunger that followed. I did not spare the moment to memorize the sight.

Your nipple, caught between my teeth. Feeling it harden. Throb.

You were a craving. I named your curves with bared teeth and unrelenting intent.

spring

It’s not that I feel more dangerous.

It’s that I feel more sure.

Perhaps it is because NE is becoming confident in her physical self again.

Perhaps it is because SB is remembering how to live with sharp edges.

Perhaps it is because I miss supplication; not as a demanding need, but as a missing piece. A lost glove found.

It is the difference between listening to music. And feeling it.

without rest, without fear

I find I go through life
with either
great patience
or great desperation

I sometimes wait.
content to watch the shadows
stretch and retreat
beneath my window

and sometimes
I am overwhelmed by a great need
to move.
or experience a hunger
like Cronus had for his children.

I do not see the sense of walking
when I can run towards the sun
or stand still
and let the world
come to me.

exhibition of rope

A length of rope.

It’s amazing what you can do with it.

“An exhibition, only.” I say, holding the rope in one hand.

I don’t think you believe me, but you offer your wrists; I draw them behind your back.

“It’s simple.” Once, twice, around each of your wrists individually and then again around both. Between them, create a loop, and…there. Nice and snug.

“Rope has many uses. It can be used to restrain.” And then it hits you – you’re bound. Just your wrists, but it’s enough to make you realize you can’t stop what follows. That with your wrists behind your back, you have little choice but to step back when I close the space between us.

One step, two – and you find yourself trapped between the study door. And me.

No hesitation, no pause, just my hands on your hips, under your shirt. You don’t move as my hands slide up your back, fingers pressed to your bare spine. Pressure, fingers moving in with practiced – but not perfected – technique. It takes a moment before you realize what I’ve done and by then it’s too late. Hands move to the front, drawing your bra off, and then out from under your shirt.

And now you decide to move, stepping away from the wall, wrists twisting against the rope, testing its strength.

But the rope holds. And your step forward only presses you against my knee, which had risen slightly to nestle against the apex of your thighs. I meet your eyes and wordlessly grip the bottom of your shirt, drawing it up over your breasts. My eyes flicker down, taking you in – and then my head follows my gaze.

Warm breath tickling the top of your breasts, followed by the heat of lips against the curve of your breasts. There is deliberation, time taken to feel their weight.

Lips part. Teeth graze a nipple. I can feel it harden against my tongue and I draw it in, testing how much pressure you can handle in the way your back arches. There is a low hum of need now, felt under my hands as they reach around your waist to grip your bound wrists.

When I finally draw back, meeting your eyes again, there is no disguising the hunger in my gaze.

I take a deep, slow breath, then another, to steady myself.

I untie your wrists.

Draw your shirt over your head.

And then rebind your wrists in front of you.

This is done quickly and with purpose, giving you little time to think, to object.

I grip the end of the rope that binds you. It only took a couple feet to capture your wrists. There is plenty left and I tug you forward, drawing you away from the wall. “Rope can also be used to direct.”

To direct. And to claim. I collect the slack in the rope, forcing you forward one step at a time. Until you are facing the edge of my desk.

There are certain things I know. About you. And I knew that if I give you time to think, you’ll have something smart to say.

Instead, I take the end of the rope and draw it over the desk, near the center, keeping it loose until I can bring it all the way around. A twist, a tie, and…yes. Now I can tighten it.

I glance over at you – wrists bound, rope leading to the desk. I pull, tightening the rope. Your thighs hit the edge of your desk, your bare chest pressing into the cool surface and your wrists over your head.

With the rope now taut, I tie it off under the desk and then step out of sight. Behind you.

This is what means to be truly bound. You test the rope again, twisting. There is some small give to it but not enough for freedom.

Hands slip around to the front of your jeans unsnapping – and then fingers hook and tug, catching your panties on the way down.

You can feel the heat of my hands on your skin.

It is just…too tempting. And you are too caught.

Hands guide you to lean up against the desk, drawing your hips back – a move that presses your ass outward, making of it a tempting target.

First, a light tease – fingers caressing the curve of each cheek, taking time to enjoy the simple lines, and just as you begin to relax, a *slap* as hand meets skin. Awakening nerve endings, reminding you of just how exposed you are. Moments pass and then another, on the other cheek, bringing the prettiest flush of red to the surface.

It is the intake of breath, the rhythm of slapping, the discordance of hands on naked skin that pulls you in. The hand becomes more than just an instrument leaving red patterns across your cheeks, it becomes a burning brand.

For a moment there is a calm, a moment of silence while your skin, sensitive to everything, is left alone. Then the gentle touch of fingers – almost surprising, as they trace lightly over your skin. One finger starts at the small of your back, tracing a line slowly along the edge between your cheeks, dipping inward. It reaches the apex of your thighs – and doesn’t
stop.

There is a light slow brush of two fingers against you, teasing outer lips as they slip to the hard throbbing nub a bit further up. Agonizing in its deliberate slowness, in the obvious pleasure in holding you there – and then the calm is over, for even as those fingers part to run along either side of your clit, the other hand awakens your ass again to the pleasures of skin meeting skin with an impact sharp enough to make you cry out.

But that’s not enough.

I need.

My left hand buries itself in the back of your hair and I drag you back until you feel me, hard, throbbing, and pressed against the curve of your ass.

north star

It is our nature to enlarge, reaching out to touch on every conceivable experience while expanding our consciousness to envelop the world we live in.

But sometimes it pays to be small. To pull in, becoming a condensed ball of concentrated self capable of intense drive in a singular direction.