Category: Crimson Writ

It was late. I was tired.

And hungry.

I found her on IM. In the time we’ve known each other, it was always as friends of a friend. We hadn’t shared more than fifty words between us.

But I knew.

We chatted; she had just stepped out of the shower and was drying her hair. I told her not to get dressed. When I found her, I wanted her in just a towel. She gave me directions to her house and told me to come straight in. She’d be in the bedroom at the back.

She listened well. I opened the bedroom door and found her in her bed in just a towel; well, towel and some sheets. I smiled, shook my head, and told her the sheets were cheating. She kicked them away.

I sat on the edge of her bed and asked her if she was nervous. Yes, she said, she was – was I?

In the initial moments of our IM conversation, I had been almost shaking, so intense was my hunger. The promise of tasting prey tender and rare. Once committed to action, however, I felt a familiar quiet settle over me. Knowing it would feed, the wolf of my hunger lowered himself patiently to the ground, alert but content to wait for the inevitable feast.

No – I wasn’t nervous. This part comes naturally.

Her dress.

She has the kind of curves that beg to be gripped, the kind of curves that conform fabric to skin. I rarely see her in skirt or dress, but she was wearing one that day. I wanted her in that dress. I wanted to stand behind her and quietly tug the edge of it up just far enough for my hand to disappear under the back of it. Let fingers find the small of her back, the first electric touch of naked skin while she shifts in front of me, trying not to betray the fact I have my hands on her. Each shiver, each shift of her hips detailing her reaction to my fingers as they slip under the edge of her panties, pressing lower until I find the smooth skin of her ass.

This brazen intimacy is an aphrodisiac. My hands on her naked skin make her nervous and wet. I know she likes to be watched. To be hungered for. To be taken. Until today, it’s not something she’s ever been truly brave enough to have. I was cruel enough to make it a gift she had choice but to accept.

I’d make her watch me push the fabric over her thighs, hips, waist. I wanted her to feel my teeth on her skin, her eyes watching me as I marked her. I wanted to have her in the dressing room. Bent over, dress up and over her ass while I fuck her hard and fast, driving her into the side of the small room, one hand entangled in the back of her hair while I take her with enough force to leave bruises on her thighs.

It is in the idly wrapping of her hair around my fingers, a slow tightening at the base of her neck until my grip tugs her head back. Her cheeks flush crimson, the slight catch in her breath is lost under my words.

I build my domain on moments like these. I steel belief with silhouettes of my darker self. I conjure with a word, my will wrapped like cords around my knuckles, a winding of tension and a hardening of desire until it becomes a weapon wielded in touch, a touch of fingers finding the steady thrum of a pulse just under the surface of her skin.

—

Vulnerable.

It is an art, a conjuration of intent that can carry the delicate fragility of open desire from one moment to the next. It is an art because we all want the freedom to let go, to forget. If there is irony in the act of binding someone tightly with leather and softly spoken words that they may then be set free, it is lost against a much larger truth.

We all want this. Master or slave; the bound and the binding; the masochist and the sadist. Each loses themselves in the other. In the act of serving them, they serve their own needs, they find release in the act. We become vessels of sensation, conduits towards freedom.

There are two kinds of hate.

The first hate is the kind that burns; yours insides are an hearth to your needs. The second hate is cold, a distancing out of a need to punish.

The first hate has something to prove through direct contact with the object of its disdain. The second has something to prove, but it is to yourself.

—

Both hates serve a purpose. If I can get you to hate me, if I can inspire that level of a connection with you, you have already given over to me what I need to have you.

I wrote this seven years ago, but spring is here; it brings a certain genesis, a hunger, in it’s wake.

—

I want debauchery.

I want raunchy, dirty, naked-ass sex.

I want nothing between us but our slick skin and an intent to become animals.

I want her on all fours, breasts moving as I fuck her from behind, her ass hitting my thighs. I’ll start with my hands on her hips, slamming her back against me until she’s panting. And then I’ll make her do it herself, impaling herself against me, driving her ass back hard enough to rock the bed. I want to hear her grunting with need while I grip her hair to pull her body taut, all curving lines and hard tension. I want to watch her sliding on and off of me, I want to see myself disappearing inside of her again and again and again. I want to lay against her back, press one hand between her thighs, a tight embrace of wet folds and nimble fingers strumming her clit while I bite the back of her neck.

I want her on top. I want her riding me hard, head thrown back, hands hanging at her sides. I want to watch her breasts bounce and hear her breathing come in ragged pants as she fucks herself, using me to drive herself to that edge. I want her to take it all, reaching to rip from the root of hunger every last moment of pleasure, until exhausted, she falls forward, hands over my heart, heaving for breath.

I want to pin her to my bed, her legs over my shoulders while I press home deep enough to make her sore. I want to be over her, on her, inside her. I want her to feel taken, to feel raped and pillaged. I want to roll her on her side, never leaving her, legs draped over legs, until I am rubbing against spots inside of her she’s surprised to find exist.

I want to taste flesh.