There’s a kind of perfection in the strain on the body when its tied to the bedposts, fucked mercilessly until wrists are raw and breaths are ragged. There’s a stinging bliss in the red lines licked across pale skin by a thin strip of leather. You’d untied one ankle so I could wrap my leg around your hips — I could feel you come inside me as your teeth closed on my shoulder, as your nails clawed into my skin. Growling like some animal, you spent yourself on me, in me, listening to me wail, caught on one high note like the force of your orgasm would make me shatter glass with my cries.
Afterward, you took me down and cradled me like I was some trapped, feral animal, petting my skin and whispering to me as I lay shaking in your arms, eyes wide and wondering what next.
We drew blood. We laughed. We hurt. I loved you for it.
And now there’s some new thing, small and fragile like I could never be — these hips are wide and these legs are strong and these hands, these arms held you with a strength that dared to try and rival yours. There’s something small and fragile like I thought you never wanted, the way you spoke to me — we wrestled and bit and screamed and lay tangled for hours, and where will you find that, now?
I woke up in a bed that smelled nothing like you, this morning, with neckties still draped over the bedposts.