Not a Good Man

I am not a good man

I would choose the apple over paradise.

I am careful right onto the point of taking you to the ground.

I do not ask.

I do not persuade.

I act.

A good man would not want to see you suffer.

I crave your agony, even in pleasure.

A good man would not want to see you at your most vulnerable.

I am driven to see your throat exposed and your ass in the air.

A good man would not want to see you plead.

I live for the words that tremble on the precipice of your lips.

I am not good man.

But I make an excellent wolf.

what sharp teeth

You.

Yes, you.

The one pretending to be shy.

Come here.

No. Closer.

What? I’m not going to bite.

Mmmm.

I lied.

I will bite.

But that’s the least of the things for you to fear.

But you need not be _too_ afraid. You will enjoy every last one of them.

How can I tell?

I haven’t even touched you and you are already trembling.

…

No. I’m not going to tell anyone.

No. I am not afraid of the secrets you hide.

Yes. I am going to eat you.

…

But before I eat you, I need you…primed.

Mmmm. What am I doing?

I’m finding your pulse. Setting teeth to wrist and lips to throat. I am nipping at your skin until the blood rises with your heat and you feel fevered.

I want you well warmed.

No.

I want you burning.

Scald my hands. Make it hurt. I expose you layer by layer, until your bared skin sears my flesh. Your vulnerability is a poison I drink eagerly.

We will both die the little death tonight.

Ahhhhh.

Are you shivering?

I have stolen all your heat. I have marked you as my own.

But I am not done.

My hand, on yours…yes, I want it there. Nestled between your thighs. I can feel your fingers move under my own.

I don’t need to tell you what to do.

You can’t stop yourself.

Wicked girl.

Wicked, beautiful, sinful, girl.

I cannot wait for desert.

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.