Refraction.

Clovette XXIV

Our eccentricities align:
We eclipse one another,
The mask of beguilement
Slipping away,
Her clothes scattered
Across the bedroom floor,
Lechery unendingly wild.
The filth I whisper,
How soft is her body,
How sharp are her cries -
She needn't speak;
We are one and the same,
It is her perfume in my lungs,
In my veins,
My fingers ensnared in her hair.
Unspeakable things, how I long
To divulge -
The temptation swells,
And I wish to brag, to detail
All that we did,
All that we've done,
The gruesome and masochistic,
The delightful and sadistic;
Blood, the blade,
That licentious metallic taste.
A vibrant palette of blue
To purple,
Purple to black,
Bruises surface -
Our masterpiece,
Only to ever be seen
By our own eyes.
Our own eyes,
And those that we choose
To flaunt it to;
The voyeurs
To our exhibition.
They may think there is
Nothing left
To discover, but they
Have not seen her yet -
They cannot yet know
Such beauty;
They have not heard
Her ecstatic cries,
Nor felt
Her supple flesh
Up against their own,
The way it is
Always warm to the touch.
Those onlookers cannot
Understand the power
That comes
From taking a fistful of her hair -
Those raven locks smell so sweet,
A bridle to their mistress,
And how wonderful she is.
To have her in such a way
Is beyond an ordinary experience;
It is more akin to holding
Some sacred instrument, or a goddess
By the throat -
To have her,
A megalomaniac would finally
Be content.
She is everything: the goddess,
The blade, the masterpiece;
Always the luminary,
Never intentionally.
Somehow she considers me to be
Much the same -
Her soul mirrors the grandeur
Of her transcendent body,
And yet she still smiles
When she looks upon me,
Even now, gazing up from beneath
Me, warm eyes turned molten,
Flecked with gold.
They follow a droplet of her blood
As it glides from my lips -
How elegantly she moves closer,
So graciously does she take it back...
Nobody has ever looked upon me
With such love,
With utter acceptance
Of the primitive thing that dwells within.
It is almost fortunate,
Perhaps miraculous,
The way in which our tastes align;
How she eases the beast out from within me,
Eager to be the prey.
She whimpers, quivering -
The beast falters each time,
But her explanation spurs him onward:
For the first time, she feels safe
To be vulnerable;
To play the game she's been longing
To play.
It cannot be a coincidence
That we should meet, that we should love
Like this;
Either it is nature in the purest form,
Or something well beyond
The understanding of mortal minds.
Those sanguine lips savour
My skin,
Paying tender homage,
Placing gentle kisses atop my scars,
Almost fervently.
It is time to go again, it seems -
Pain is pleasure,
But bloodstains do not show
Upon these black sheets.
The voyeurs wait
With bated breath,
Silver glinting
Beneath candlelight.
She gasps,
Their greedy eyes widen;
They wish they could have her,
They wish I would have them.
Perhaps, if tonight
Wasn't ours-
But my thoughts linger on her;
Her thighs tremble,
Ensnaring my hips,
Wrapped around me as if
For dear life.
Fingernails sinking into my back,
She beckons the monster forward.
Such sensual noises she makes,
And how her eyes beseech me;
They linger upon this body
As though she cannot look away.
I know what she wants,
And can hesitate no longer,
Thirsting for that ichor
To wet these longing lips;
This time it is the voyeurs who gasp,
It is her eyes that widen.
Amongst the filth, the lechery,
She murmurs that she loves me,
Then screams it.
She loves me, she loves me,
Despite all that I am.
Somehow, she loves me,
And now every beat of my heart
Is for her.
It is her blood within my veins.