Category: Crimson Writ

My day was quiet; books read to the sound of rain and snow, writing to the soft strains of Tchaikovsky and Mozart.

But my thoughts were not always on the words in front of me.

There are times that the lines of desire drew my mind’s eye to possibilities.

And there, I found you.

A room lit only by the light reflected off snow and skin; hips, found under a thin veil of clothing.

I think of you utterly still.

A flash of teeth in the dark.

The top of shoulders, of spine; fingers parted, pressing against your stomach as a litany of kisses is pressed into your skin.

This is patience in need,

Because I don’t expect you to be still forever.

Today, I have a taste for the beautiful and frail; the iron within the rose; the drop of blood when pricked by the artful thorn. No rose is so defenseless.

I would collect the petals in my hands only to say I held them, once.

Pinned hands, wrists held; it is an act described and completed a hundred, a thousand times.

Because it is metaphor in motion.

There are binds that tighten with every struggle; skeins that capture more completely; collars that choke more thoroughly.

When your struggle has become the process, when you have played on your hunger until it has become an ache so sharp you feel it cut against your pulse and the lines of your body tremble – then, our dialogue can begin.

…

Your cheek pressed against the cool surface of the desk, hotel stationery scattered, held in place by a hand at the nape of your neck and the heat of a body behind you, bared ass traced by a touch that knows the points of ingress.

…

Legs splayed, your hands buried in dark hair long enough to twine between your fingers. Perched atop the bathroom counter, the mirror in front of you reflecting a low-light painting of the act in progress; the other side of capture, the cruel-edged tongue that circles the edge but never lets you slip.

…

Hands bound at the small of your back, legs over shoulders, back against the ground. Eyes that never leave yours, control laced by tipping points; it is not a lessening of the hold, this undenied fucking. It is the promise of flesh, of fingers that bite into your hips, and teeth that mark your breasts. It is being lost in the dark, naked limbs, where punctuation is made against your lips, the biting kiss and the sweet fever of blood-tinged words.

The bruises left against the skin wrapped from the front of her thighs to the warm curve between her legs; they were shaded purple, a dark inkwell trail that marked the passage of teeth and fingernails.

I remember heat, and fingers dragging cloth over skin, each inch a hard won victory as fingernails dug into my back and shoulder. Her nails were sharp, but my teeth teeth were sharper, and while her cries drove me deeper, my own came as low-buried growls made against the bared flesh I was feasting on.

I laid two knives beside her hip as she rested on her stomach. Drawing back the hair from her neck, I ran my fingertip along her skin, an invisible line that curved past her shoulder blade and down the right side of her body.

I traced the line again. And again.

This would be the first.

With the sharp edge of the first knife, I drew a fine line of white that stretched several inches from her neck to her shoulder. The last inch drew tiny beeds of blood. I placed the knife at the top of the line and leaned into the edge so that the tip pressed into the groove of the first impression. I took my time, letting the weight of the knife do the work until tiny drops of crimson dotted the length of the line.

It was a start.

I wish I had not broken you into so many pieces. I keep finding parts of you in the strangest of places.

Slivers of you embedded under my fingertips. Long capricious coils of hair left upon my pillow. Drops of blood that stained my wrists and rusty freckles left in the passage of sanguine lips.

she was heat bound by curves

her weight
as she straddled me
played a cruel trick
of balance

naked thighs pressed
along my own
– poised –
almost elegant
except for the healthy
(fucking)
expression: closed eyes,
a smile between parted lips,
all sharp teeth and pink tongue

your breasts,
I thought

let me taste them.

and then
she lowered hips
and I stopped thinking
altogether.