There’s a monster tattooed on her thigh and black lace covering her hips. A heavy mask is fixed to her face, stripping her of all identity. It turns each breath into a rasp, a hiss, a sharp sound in the other wise silent room.
I circle the bed, like a predator getting ready to strike. Her shoulders are tense, arms raised; in defense, defiance, an attempt at acting strong. But that’s all it is. An act. Silver circles her wrists but it’s less about binding her and more about marking her.
Mine, mine, mine. She needs to be told that. I need to tell her that. This game we play is twisted, dangerous, but it’s the only thing that keeps us sane. Our addiction…
Check out the image of Ryynagade, one of my favorite Gothic models. If you are looking for a photographer to capture all your unique Gothic qualities. I service from Norman up to Edmond.