Pinned beneath you,
my protests taste sharp in the air,
but we both know they’re only echoes—
the game we play,
the lie that feels truer than truth.

Cold steel kisses my skin,
a shiver racing where the blade trails—
so close,
so merciless,
that I tremble on the thin line
between terror and worship.

You carve your ownership in invisible ink,
threats whispered against my ear,
promises of what you could take,
what you might break.
I arch into the danger,
because fear has never felt so much like desire.

Every gasp, every struggle,
is a hymn you drag from my throat—
not to stop,
never to stop,
but to push me deeper into the dark.

And when you sheath the knife at last,
when you take what you’ve left me begging for,
I am split wide open,
a prayer answered in violence,
in trust,
in the exquisite cruelty
of being yours,
whether I consent or not.

Copyright © Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.