Salt in the Wound (Lyonesse)

by Sierra Simone

Some people had men woo them with jewelry, with roses and orchids and champagne. I had a man who sent me knives and parasitic flowers. I was smiling the rest of the day.

“I am all want with you, Isolde. You think that I don’t think about you all the time? That I don’t want your scent all over my bed? You think that I don’t wish I had you under my desk with that serious little mouth available for my relief every morning? That I don’t want your snug cunt whenever I goddamn feel like it? Yes, I want you, and I want you collared, and I want you mine. That should be enough to terrify you, because I would hold nothing back until I’d eaten your very soul. I would hold nothing back until it was written on your skin and scratched into your bones how much I crave you.”

It was like my soul needed to be fucked as much as my body did, and what that meant about me, about God, I didn’t know.

It was clean and gorgeous and awakening, like all the torment he gave me.