Hot Silver

The chain slides cold,

wrapped about wrists,

and tightens quick.

“But wild thing,”

she whispers low.

“Can’t you imagine?

The moon high? The hunt’s roar?”

Loud snarls echo

and teeth grind.

The pain courses,

white hot blood

drum beating loud.

Her curvaceous smile,

fangs piercing flesh,

parting to snap.

A hound whimpers,

stifled death after.

The moon sings.

The moon calls.

It seduces her,

and the hunt?

It begins anew.