Anatomy Lesson

I want you today.

Want you stretched tight, wrists bound to ankles in a reverse hogtie, want to watch it slowly set your hips to aching. I want to put a gag in your mouth so that you can't protest, can't safe, can't tell me, "No."

I hate it when you tell me, "No".

So here, in my head, you can't.

I want to straddle you, put extra pressure on your wrists and ankles and watch the way your eyes tighten with the pain of it.

And then I want to start to play with you.

I want to run my fingernails down your chest, extra pressure over your nipples, and watch the lines turn red. I want to take a knife to those same nipples and press the serrated edge to the tender flesh and watch your eyes grow wide.

I want to cut them off, cut out your piercings just for fun.

I feel a little mad today, a little sociopathic. I feel the darkness in my the back of my eyes swimming to the forefront, and it makes me want to touch you.

To hurt you.

To break you.

I want to flip you over, watch you strain to open your legs for me, and press a plug inside you. I want to turn it on and feel it buzz through your hip bones when I flip and straddle you again.

I want to run my knife down your chest again, want to watch the dark line of blood well up in its wake, and draw pretty patterns on your skin.

Or maybe I'll just write: "Slut." "Cunt." "Whore." "Bitch."

"Meat."

Words, words naming you, words identifying you. Words telling you your place in my world right now.

Right now, in my head, you're not my lover, not my sometimes-Dominant, not my friend or my partner.

You're meat, and I want to play butcher.

I want to drag the knife from the hollow of your throat straight down your sternum- past that spot you love to bruise on me!- and down your belly, over the abdominal muscles: the rectus abdominus, down the linea alba, to the pyramindalis. I want to stop just above your groin, just above that cute little cock that I know will be hard for me now.

I want to watch you whimper and squim, watch your fantasies of castration light up your eyes, warring with the fear of what you see in my eyes- the thought that this time, I just might not stop.

Even in my head, my hands are shaking now, shaking with eagerness, anticipation, the desire to do it.

To cut you open and expose the most intimate parts of you to light, to slice through skin and expose muscle to view, and to stroke it while you shudder like a fly-stung horse. To conduct an anatomy lesson on your body: here the hip flexor, here the serratus anterior, below it the tensor faciae latae, the adductor longus, the sartorius and gracilis.

I want to find the nerves and name them, stroke them with my fingertips: inside the groin the anterior branch of the obdurator nerve, which gives you sensory input from the medial thigh. The femoral nerve, hidden beneath the iliac fascia muscle and temptingly close to the femoral artery.

I want to cut you open, my love, and suck the blood off of my fingers.