Lowercase

I will make a canvas of your skin
In blacks and blues
In swirled greens and yellows
In words pressed deep into flesh

My marks will bind us
Deep as the soul
This possession of all that you are

Belies the truth
Your total possession of me
Looking up

Tears
Eyes pleading for one more flick of the lash
The key to your ownership
Words drip like heroin
“Thank you, Sir”

Taunt of Morpheus – miss

Bare metal against skin
Sharp indentation as chain bites into hands
The soft cold feel, silk across eyes
The feel of fingers, moving in slow circles
The flat of a blade, following the same path
Hand settling in, the feel of thumb against throat
The pressure, hinting but never quite cutting off breathe
A line of fire, the wet meets cold air
The slow press of him
His weight pinning
Slowly entering the place of rightful worship
Blaze of heat throbbing inside
Teeth scraping and biting
Grinding in, marking her as owned

This lingering taste of her
Slides away as he slips free from sleeps shackles