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.

statues and statutes

I started writing for this blog thirteen years ago. I was twenty-nine. I’m now forty-two.

That is time enough to evolve as a person.

To become a better writer.

To become a better person.

To become a better wolf.

Only two of those things actually happened.

I started writing here as a means to encourage my creativity. I can write alone, but I cannot write in a vacuum. I need a muse, a spark. An audience, even if it is an audience of one.

That hasn’t changed.

The kink community has certainly progressed since I started this blog. Fetlife is now a staple, now as much a dating site for kink as a community for exploration. Fifty Shades came out, main-streaming rope and floggers. Instagram, twitter, and Fetlife writings have generally replaced blogs as a resource.

In those thirteen years I have bought a motorcycle and gained three tattoos.

I now favor depth over breadth of experience. I still want to take things (people) apart, but I have less patience for doing so with those not sharp enough to understand the subtleties that give it rich flavor.

I am pickier. More patient.

(most of the time)

But there is still the wolf of me.

the good neighbor

I live in a townhouse and share a wall with my neighbors; my neighbors and I are friendly, if not particularly social.

Most of the time I am a good neighbor. I’m relatively quiet. I mind my own business. I don’t leave messes. I play the pirate for neighborhood kids before heading out to Renn Faire. I move mis-delivered mail to the right mailbox.

Most of the time I am a good neighbor.

But sometimes…

Sometimes the sound of my hand on bare flesh is loud enough to carry through the walls. And if that wasn’t loud enough – the yelps, the moans, the ‘oh fucks’ definitely are.

Sometimes a friend of mine will leave in a disheveled state. Half-dressed, dazed, sleepily satiated or on edge from the tease.

Sometimes I don’t wait for the front door to close before I have them pinned to the wall just inside, my hand buried under their skirts and between their thighs.

Sometimes I have them bent over the wooden railing of my deck outside, spanked and beaten. Or I slide to one knee and slip their leg over my shoulder as I devour them amongst the leaves falling from the trees overhead.

It’s not easy to see onto my deck from the upper floors of my neighbor’s windows.

Not easy. But possible.

Most of the time I am a good neighbor.

But sometimes.

Sometimes I’m really not.

mastery (revised)

Too late. My hands are already around your neck. I can feel your breath catch under my fingers, your heartbeat against my palms.

For you, my hand is steady and my literal and metaphorical knives are sharp.

For you, I will cut quickly, so that the nerve endings remain intact. I want you to feel what is under your skin, under the protective lining of your beliefs.

You are not sublimated or subsumed. You are measured, manipulated, and made.

You are a sin to indulge in, a moment to be experienced, an implement of intent. You are a skill underused, but often practiced. You are my craft in form, my faith derived, my art form, my belief, my self.

You are my mastery.