Bloody Hands

I wanted your fingers bloody. I knew that all along. I dreamt of it. Watched your hands and noticed the way they move. Precise. Attentive. Formidable. I wanted those hands, at once careful and reckless. I yearned to be at their mercy.

You wanted me vulnerable. And knew how to have me like this. Tied to a chair. Chest bare. My pale flesh against your black leathers. My soft skin. Your heavy boots.

I wanted you gentle and I wanted you fierce. Like this. Your legs on either side of mine so you could hold me, contain me. Breathe in, you told me. Voice steady. And then you pushed the first needle in.

I relinquished.

This is the moment I crave. The pain short and sharp. My mind empty. My body reduced to flesh. My breath pulling itself in. Eyes closed. The world distilled. A slow exhale. A moment of calm.

I watched your steady hand. The intimacy between you and your work. Watched your face hold concentration. And desire. I let you hold my fragile skin and say again, breath in. I let you have me like this, over and over.

You left me there then. Lit a cigar and sat back to admire what you had accomplished. The smoke curling around your face. You took your time, slow exhales as you studied me. Eyes on my flesh, where you had left me exposed, needles buried beneath my skin.

Then the sound of your boots heavy on the tiled...