When I hear a whimper on the end of a phone line.

When I see a flash of pale skin, right above the knee, underneath a skirt.

The way hair curls from the nape of a neck, or the way her breasts move when she laughs, or the way he lightly but firmly grips the handle of a door.

I think of knives.

It's one of the unsafest sexes around, this taste for blood and blades. Maybe that's why I like it. In a world where latex is sexy and sex to breed is taboo, I like the things that are raw and feral. There's always this little whisper in me that says "push a little harder, a little deeper".

If you bare your belly to me, I will be wet and hungry.

I had a dream last night, you see. I had met a girl in a bar, and she had told me she liked rough play (and, well, in a dream, I don't have to ask consent). I pulled her outside and kissed her roughly, her back pressed against the cold brick of the bar. I told her to follow me, and we ducked into an alleyway, where I told her to get on her knees and suck my clit, one hand in her hair, one hand on my blade that I held to her throat to keep her "inspired".

I awoke with a hand in my panties.

Sometimes, this desire just slips out. In a sexy phone call, I'll press a blade against the throat of the man as I force my strap on into his throat. I slice a crossdresser's fishnets from hir legs. I feel clumsy afterwards, apologetic- I've let my fierce lust escape its cage, so sorry, won't happen again.

But my eyes flash like the sharpest edge. I will never forgive my body for not giving me claws. I want to draw blood when I cum. I want to drink screams like the sweetest honey. It soothes my soul, quiets the beast within.

One day... I will have a lover who will welcome me beneath her skin.

One day.