Category: Crimson Writ

Because your flesh is mine, you are never that far.

I remember your baby-steps when I led you, blind, to the bedroom.

If only you could have seen yourself; serene, obscene, your chest against the ground, ass raised. You were open, my kind of open, my kind of vulnerable, open enough to reveal your obeisance, your slick evidence of place.

If only you could see through my eyes; the pride in how you took it without question, without resistance. Unwound, unbound, but held tightly, your small cries were real, gut real, and I smiled at every one.

Your tears, when they came, were beautiful.

Because you didn’t turn away from them.

The best way to make a woman feel beautiful is to touch her.

It can be gentle or rough; it can be unhurried or frenzied; it can be lingering or fleeting.

But it must always be with deliberation.

Because a woman knows.

The first time your hands find her, she knows. She knows if you are indulging in the heat rising from her arched hips; knows how aware you are of her soft skin and permissive nature. She knows when your hands are brusque but not ungracious. She knows when your kisses covet and when your touches become carnivorous.

When you uncover the secrets that make her yours, but continue to believe in the mystery of her body, she knows.

When the line between the small of her back and her thighs becomes a chord in the learning, an ellipse at the end of your fingertips, she knows.

And when you use her, wringing pleasure in indelicate cries from her parted lips, she knows you know too.

First window on the left, ground level.

It was open, just half an inch, and I could hear the sounds of the evening news. The blue glow of the television flickered through the curtains.

I slid the window open the rest of the way and entered into the room feet first.

The bed was just a few feet away; she lay facing the other direction, blankets pulled up under her chin. I approached the bed and leaned over her quiet form; my hand slid over her mouth as my weight settled fully against her.

Startled, she tried to turn towards me. I tightened my grip to keep her still.

“Don’t make a sound.” I used my free hand to draw out a blindfold from the pocket of my leather jacket, sliding it over her face. “Stay still,” I let her turn her blind face up to meet mine, removed my hand, and then pressed the ball gag between her lips, snapping it close behind her head, “or I will hurt you.” From the same pocket, I drew out leather cuffs and a snap hook, drawing her wrists up over her head and attaching them together.

It had taken less then a minute. She was now bound, blind, and gagged – but this didn’t keep her from struggling the moment she felt me lean back. I pressed my knee against the top of her thighs as my hand found the snap hook that bound her wrists. I pulled it back over her head and pinned her to the bed until her stopped trying to escape.

I kicked the blankets off her body; she had on only a pair of white panties and a black bra. My hands ripped her panties down over her thighs, and I pushed her legs apart with my own. She was wet. Soaking wet.

Lowering my head, I buried my hand in the back of her short dirty-blonde hair, mouth right next to her ear, “Yes, this is happening. Yes, you are about to be used. Fucked. Abused.” My fingers drove inside her, hard, and I felt her torso twist as she moaned against the gag. “Yes, this is real.”

An hour. That’s how long she was under me, trapped. On her back, legs over my shoulders; on all fours, driven into the bed until she begged through the rubber ball for release. I was not gentle. Her skin was marked red where my fingernails cautioned her into silence. Her hips were bruised where I drove her into the positions I wanted, ignoring her cries of pain or discomfort. She came while I was buried in her ass, my fingers between her thighs.

When I was finished, I kept her face-first in the bed, releasing her wrists and removing blindfold and gag.

“Don’t move. Not an inch. If you do, I will come back and the pain you’ve felt so far will be sweetness itself compared to what I will do.”

I climbed back out through the window, shutting it behind me.

—

In the car, on the way home, I received a text from her, two words.

They made me smile.

You shouldn't.

You really shouldn't.

But you are.

You're thinking of how delicious it would feel.  How utterly sweet the agony of surrender, the process of devolution into panting and slick skin.

But the fucking isn't sweet. It's coarse, crude, and dirty. Half-dressed bodies, muffled screams, and hard surfaces. Fingers scrabbling for purchase, an attempt to find balance where there is none. The serene obscenity of animal hunger.

It is you, doing what you shouldn't.