I don’t know who shut off the volume, or when, but all I can hear is the static of the silence, as I watch this thing between us play out like a picture show before the invention of the talkie. Clara Bow’s heyday, here, before my eyes, and I play the helpless ingenue, though not quite as helpless as I enjoy making myself seem.
I don’t know who shut off the volume, but there are no subtitles to this picture. The only words are the ones half-remembered or half-imagined in some half-crazed, erotic stupor. Always half, but never full. Until your mouth is full of my blood. There is something raw and animalistic about the way your sharp little incisors, though so far evolved, can still find purchase in my naked flesh and make my blood spill forth.
We wax poetic at each other, so I quote Anais Nin at you, while you ravage my flesh, while you eat my insanity, while you plunder the hidden recesses of my failed psychosis. I am worthy to be called woman by you, and you needn’t show me why I need to call you man. Your fingers dance along my skin, leaving kisses that bruise the tender flesh, so white and clean, now dirtied by your bloody fingertips, your violent hands that make me wish and beg for more. My hips undulate, and then you cut me.
My head falls back and hits the hard ground as you sink your fingers into my new wound, it feels as if it’s huge and gaping, a sucking maw, letting your fingers slide in to all the dark and forbidden places, I feel as though your fingers might stroke bone, and I would burst in painful ecstasy of the, until now, unrealized pleasures of the flesh.
My breathing is ragged, and uncertain, but I rasp out an answer to your unheard question–I know it is the one you are searching for. My lips find purchase, even if I do not hear my answer. Yours. I am yours. My throat resists and I cough soundlessly, only intensifying the pain and my inability to catch full, unfettered breaths. The feel of your breath against my neck, in the sweetest of places, does taunt me. My mind gives way to dark fantasies of blood and sex and pain and violence, and I watch the light behind your eyes dance, even as my own eyes blur with unbidden tears.
Hearing desires too base to have to be spoken, you force hips betwixt thighs, even as I feign the fight. Your free hand bruises the yet unmastered flesh of my pelvic bone as you force your way in. Deeper into my soul than I have ever known, you break some wild part of me, and with a snap that can only mean I have fallen deeper into my own submissive head space, the volume comes rushing back with all the subtlety of a bullet train, roaring down the tracks. I hear it all now, but most of all, I hear my crying voice as you whisper of your love and adoration, even as you break me, even as you bleed me.
I don’t know who shut off the volume, but the pain, the pain brings it all back.