Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 7

his mind fully there though the touch had the ability to send him somewhere else completely. Chase looked at the picture for a while before he looked at Ty. "If I wasn't then I wouldn't have waited for a year for my sub to wake up."
    There was a hint of challenge in Chase's eyes, as if he was sure Ty was going to argue. But Ty didn't. Why would he? "I'm glad you did." And the one who had waited for a whole year waited a little more, and Ty got fed with things that were not at all fat absorbed. And later that day, somewhere closer to midnight, Ty saw the lines and words and paintings tattooed on Chase's skin. In the dim light Ty made out what he could, read what he saw and planted each word into his brain as well as he could while those hands turned him into a living piece of art all over again. Hands that had broke him and then placed each missing piece back together. And his whole body was screaming but not out of pain this time, and he kept on reading, following the lines with his fingertips and silently whispering each word while he found new ones. On Chase's arms, on his shoulders. None on his chest or abs or back. Few delicate ones almost laced on his sides and Ty memorized each one. They became his prayers, his vows. Spoken from skin to his lips and then on to the lips of another. Secrets, promises. Wishes and truths and fears. The most hidden ones and the ones he had known for a long time but hadn't heard even in his own mind. Confessions of his own, and they too spoke of his heart.
    And no words had ever tasted as good as did the ones spoken back to him, because those words were the same as his own.
    THE END
    Author bio: Cay McKat. While writing whatever comes to mind and at times even managing to make it available for people who are interested in reading it, this Scandinavian idealist devours one book after another in the solitude of her own home. Between work and family she finds her way to a world emerging only in her own head, one that is off-limits to anyone else but her. That world is the one that at times gets filled with heart-shaped patterns and cotton candy or thunderstorms–depending on her current mood. She severely dislikes summer but even more she dislikes spring. Fall is when she feels most at peace and winter is the time of year she sheds her skin–one new layer after each closed circle. An anti-social people-person who is always up for a chat, but quite often loses the line of conversation due to lack of concentration. If that should happen, she apologizes in advance. :)
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PREDATORS
    by Clancy Nacht

    Tattooed Adam Levine naked but for his junk covered by two hands (It took two!)

    Dear Author,
    I'd love to hear the story about this man, and why he has so many tattoos. Are they from creating memories with his lover? Does he have a lover? I'd love to hear a bit about his story, and how he ended up posing for this picture. Who's hands are hiding the rest of him from view?
    (I'd love to see turtleshell bondage in this, but no pain, or a slave-master type relationship...maybe coworkers to friends to lovers or something like that?)
    Sincerely,
    Krystle

    genre: contemporary
    tags: BDSM ; shibari; rope bondage; tattoo; erotic tattooing; erotic suspension; orgasm denial; erotic marking
    content warnings: shibari/Japanese rope bondage
    word count: 3,768
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    PREDATORS
    by Clancy Nacht
    His name wasn't Feral. It couldn't be. That wasn't the sort of name that you gave to a child. That was a name someone earned. How he'd earned it, Levi could well imagine.
    Levi was a long way from his high rise, from his flat screen, from his douche nozzle friends and the Occupiers who seemed to think anyone gave a shit about them. Silly fools who still believed they lived in any kind of democracy. Perhaps Levi had sold his soul for his place in boardrooms and silk bedrooms, but while money couldn't buy happiness, it could buy a pretty good facsimile.
    Or so he'd thought.
    The streets grew darker, seemed slicker in this part of town, as if rain came down and stuck in the gutters. Oil slick. Sweaty. Grime so porous that it never let go.
    Levi watched skeletons of buildings, burned out hovels and boarded up future sites of something fabulous and expensive. But for now, the streets belonged to another kind of one percent. A lower percent that only seemed to exist at night.
    Levi didn't have to tell the driver where to go or where to stop. He never even told him to show up. The driver,