“I love you, I love you, I love you so much; won’t you wear your leash?”

She looks at me like I’ve just stumbled into a patch of barbed-wire in winter; like she can see frost-and-rust covered needles about to start digging into my skin, searching out red hot blood to turn to a spray of steam. 

She looks at me like I’m some sort of predator designed to help her get into bed. Like executioner is a sacred sort of occupation.  

I lead her on; she knows where we’ll going, or rather, she knows exactly how we’ll end, but that’s the obvious part, right? Everybody knows how we’re going to end, how we’ll all end; with a shutter and a spurt. 

She looks at me like she’s going to wrap herself around my neck and drag me back down to earth. 

She looks up at me, because she’s so fucking pretty on her knees.
She looks up at me, because she’s so fucking beautiful with a mouthful of my needs.