As though water, I flow towards your voice,

I kneel, I wait.

(“I want you to be absolutely quiet.”)

Your voice compels silence

while your hands urge me to scream –

the harder to obey,

the more I like it. The threat of you –

the way you fuck my skin,

stroke by stroke – brightens

each nerve ending, promises to bruise.

Willingness equals force, and the comfort there.

(“Can you do that for me?”)

My blood strains to touch you, rises

to your fingers, to give you what is yours,

again and again. “Yes” comes soundlessly,

strong as any question.

Shake me by the throat, I flood.