wired in

Posted in Crimson Writ, Poetry on November 13th, 2015 by D'jaevle

it is no terrible act
when you fit so well
in the cradle
of my fist

it is no terrible word
the one that starts
with me
and ends with you
(on your knees)

it is no terrible promise
rope, a bed, and you

it is no terrible price
we pay
to have it

but the hunger I harbor
for you
is terrible
and great
and smolders
like the acts, the words, the promises, and the price.


Posted in Crimson Writ on October 16th, 2015 by D'jaevle

Write the ending before the beginning.

Write like broken teeth in a closed fist.

Write until you are brittle with vulnerability.

Write to cut a hole in the world you can wiggle your fingers inside.

Write to make yourself laugh.

Write all the things you’re too scared to even think about because the thoughts would make you a monster.

Write until your finger bones grind into salt.

Write like you are fictional but the words are real.

not pumpkin-related

Posted in Poetry on October 9th, 2015 by D'jaevle

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
and neither did I take.

pricked by bramble and bush,
I rambled through
counting nicks with bloody glee.
Stepping over rot and splendor,
hidden temples of bugs,
no clearing found, no stream followed
just branches snapping like weak limbs
and I, crawling, walking reverent on dying leaves
a hospice for trees.

if this is decay
it is sweet.

bedtime stories (from a friend)

Posted in Crimson Writ on October 7th, 2015 by D'jaevle

The best stories are written by those you know.

About you.


I know where you keep your extra key. I let myself into your house and went upstairs to your study. I undressed and knelt. Then, I waited.

I was there, kneeling on crimson carpet, when you walked in. My body bared except for the red lace panties. You didn’t see me at first, but slowly, you turned, and our eyes met. I heard your breath catch and saw my downfall in your eyes.

“What are you doing here?” you asked.

“Waiting. For you.”

“Are you sure?” you question.

“Yes.” I am sure.

I blink and you are in front of me. You run your hand through my hair, and with a handful of hair, tilt my head back, exposing my neck. You wrap your other hand around my neck and squeeze. “I can feel your pulse.” you say, “It is racing.” I agree, “Yes.”

You release my neck and walk away. You go to your cabinet, the one where you keep your toys. You pull out a long length of rope and walk back to me. “Stand.” I stand. “Give me your hands.” I hold them out in front of me.

You grasp my hands and tie them together. You stretch my arms high above my head and push me back against the door. You run the rope up, over the door, back down, and tie it to the door knob on the other side. You command, “Spread your legs.” I spread my legs. “Very good.” you murmur.

You return to your cabinet and pull out a long piece of red silk. You stand in front of me. “Still sure?” you ask.

“Yes.” my response. You tie the silk around my eyes. I hear you walk away.

I hear rustling and then a soft tinkling sound. You pinch my nipple. Hard, just short of painful. I feel you bite my breast , then your teeth are on my nipple. Sucking, biting. Your hand moves to my other breast, and pinches my nipple. I groan. I feel wetness seep into my panties.

You pull back, and I feel you attach nipple clamps; the ones with the bells. You tug firmly on each one, and it’s almost too much.

“You know”, you say, “I had plans tonight.” I hear you walk away and begin to type on your keyboard. Music begins to play. It’s erotic, with a slow, hard beat. You type more, and then are quiet. I hear nothing but the music. Your silence stretches. It’s almost unbearable. I hear you turn in your chair. I feel your eyes on me. I feel exposed. I want to close my legs, cover my breasts. I start to squirm. “Stay still.” you order. I still, and I feel your hand on my stomach.

You slowly caress my stomach and let your hand fall to my waist. You let it rest there for a minute, then it moves down, then further down, and pushes my panties aside. Your fingers are in me. I am ready. I hear the sloppy sounds your hand makes as your fingers push in and out of me. I am so close to the edge. I thrust my hips forward. I’m begging you to touch me there. Just a touch, small circle, and I’ll be there. But you don’t.

You pull away. Silence.

I hear you sit down and resume typing. I’m almost undone. I want to beg you to finish. You stop typing and I can feel your eyes on me.

“Time to get rid of these.” you say. I can hear you come closer. I feel metal against my hip as you cut away my panties. You suck in your breath and say, “Much better.”

I can feel you, standing, inches from me. I try to lean into you. Try to show you what I want. I start to move my legs. You slap my leg. “Stay put” you command. I stop. I can feel your hand on my hip. You caress my ass, squeeze it, and then come back around to the front. You move your hand slowly down to cup my pussy. I am so wet. You move away.

Then I feel it, almost a delayed reaction. You have your crop. You slap my breasts, first one then the other. “I love the sound the bells make.” you say. I twitch, ringing the bells, as you slowly work your way down my torso, under my breasts, across my belly. Then you stop. I’m on fire. I need.

You use the crop and hit, hard, my thighs, and then you are there. You hit my clit, quickly, three times. “Please.” I beg. “Please, what? What do you want” is your response. “Please. I want to cum.” I say. Suddenly your mouth is there, sucking, licking, biting, and I’m lost in sensation. Sweet release. I can feel wetness running down my thigh. After an eternity, you step back.

I feel you untie the rope and quickly I am bent over your desk. You kick my legs apart. “Stay” you command. I wouldn’t move. I’m exactly where I want to be.

I feel soft leather trail over my back. Then, thwack. “I’m going to make you very, very, red.” You say. You flog me. You work your way down my back, over my butt and down my thighs. My skin is fire, sensitized.

You stop and I hear you unzip your pants and you are in me. You pound into me. Hard. Fast. Fuck. Oh fuck.

You stop. You take off my blindfold. “Get on your knees.” you order. I kneel. “Suck my dick.” I open my mouth. I lathe your penis with my tongue. I work my mouth up and down, sucking hard. I pause to lick your thigh, your testicle. Then your penis is in my mouth again. I cup your balls with my hand, caress them, squeeze them. You curse and pull me back to my feet.

You remove each nipple clamp. The pain is exquisite. I am lost in sensation.

You push me back to the desk, and push my torso down. My breasts are flat against your desk. You hold me down and push into me. You are relentless. You pound and pound until you climax. You slowly withdraw from me.

I cannot move. I am wrecked.

winning is (almost) everything

Posted in Crimson Writ on September 18th, 2015 by D'jaevle

“You like to win.”

“I do.”

“I have a game for you.” I say , looking down at you. “I’m going to start…here.” I lower my lips to the hollow of your neck, just under your chin, leaving a light kiss, “…and every time you make a sound…” my teeth graze your throat just hard enough to make you gasp, “…or move…” my fingertips brush along your palm, drawing lines down the inside of you arm, causing your own fingers to close around mine, “…yes, like that…each time, I’m going to move lower…” action follows words: another kiss is laid against your collarbone, and then another and another, following the neckline of your shirt, small hungry kisses laid out along your skin in a path from one shoulder to the next.

You are quiet, intent on the game; for my part, the luxury of your warm skin keeps me occupied and I am content to nuzzle your skin , a soft growl giving heat to my kisses as they traverse the temptation that is your neck.

Unexpectedly, I nip at your ear, making you jump, a concession to surprise as much as pleasure; I claim my reward regardless, hands drawing the bottom of your shirt up to leave your upper half exposed to my hungry gaze and hungrier mouth.

Descending, I sear my desire into your skin with half-parted lips along the promise of your breasts, taking my time to enjoy _every_ inch of skin, tongue running along the undercurve of each, feeling the subtle weight of yours breasts against my lips. When I finally find your nipple and draw it into the warmth of my mouth, I can feel your hips arch against my hands, which have settled upon your waist.

Another concession to me.

I want more.

With little concern to mercy, my breath trails across your stomach, and lower still.

“It’s…not fair!” you say, “The game only gets,” a pause, as your breath catches in response to my teeth along the sensitive skin along the inside of your thigh, “h-harder!”

I glance up at you with a wicked grin.

“I never said it was a fair game.”

two words

Posted in Crimson Writ on August 29th, 2015 by D'jaevle

A fistful of hair turns your kneeling body from penitent to supplicant.

My fingers tighten slowly, so you can feel just how much I enjoy positioning you, head drawn back, your throat exposed.

“Used and abused.”

Two words.

One course of action.

With your head tilted back, it wasn’t hard for me to lean over and speak softly. Blindfolded, my words were your only path towards something that would fill the ache I’d instilled in you: “You, here, kneeling. It makes me want to take you apart…one slap…one kiss…one fuck at a time.”

With my right hand tangled in your hair, my left drew a line along the curve of your naked breast. “This is mine.” I said, fingers finding your nipple, pinching it. Hard. Harder. Until I could feel your entire body tense with me and I had to grip your hair even tighter to keep you still.

Using my grip to guide you, I draw you gently, but firmly, to your feet and press you over the edge of my desk.

You may be blindfolded but my gaze is almost tangible as it travels down your back to your bare ass. You can almost taste the lines of hunger I’ve drawn so tightly between us and when my fingers press against you from behind, finding you wet and hot, the words that follow are almost inevitable: “This, too, is mine.”

I finally unwind my fingers from your hair, running them down your spine before letting them fall away. You feel me reach for something beside the desk.

“This is one of my favorites.” It is cool, the wood of the paddle as I lay it against your back. It’s small and the smooth surface is deceptively light against your skin – and yet, you know, you know, it promises a very particular and sharp reminder of just how exposed you are. That it will leave you marked.

And that you will love every moment of it even as you give way to the pain it brings.

The first time it kisses your skin, you know you were right: the pain driving you into the edge of the desk and the adrenaline that follows makes your pulse pound hard enough to drown out my next words, but it didn’t matter because the second time the paddle finds your skin words ceased to matter: there was just wood and skin and the sound of it, the sound of bared flesh being painted with an implement in my hand.

In the rhythm, a steady rain of blows against your skin, you lose yourself; the paddle kisses the top of your thighs, then higher, leaving a ladder of red marks along the curved offering of your ass.

And the worst part – the best part – is knowing I understand that each blow leaves you needing more.

More words against your bared throat.

More reminders left on your skin of how it felt to be bent over my desk.


I don’t relent. I work your skin with patience edged with my own need. Knowing your insides tighten with each touch of the paddle. That your pussy is slick with need.

I pause, resting the paddle against your upper back to lean close, my words spoken with the soft determination that marks my own approaching desire. “Good girl,” and two fingers slip deep inside you from behind, pressing inward with firm but slow intent, filling you. Only to be drawn out just as slowly and driven in again.

Harder. Deeper

Again. And again. Until you are shuddering to climax against my desk.

You have only a moment’s respite before I speak again.

“You’ve been abused.”

“Are you ready to be used?”


Posted in Crimson Writ, Poetry on June 6th, 2015 by D'jaevle

the creak
under my feet
when you kneel

the ellipse
of your hips

a gathering
of your hair
between my fingers

razor-thin boundaries

Posted in Crimson Writ on May 25th, 2015 by D'jaevle

I am a predator.

I will never be completely at ease with the wolf I harbor. He has been free for too long, doing as he pleases with little to no restraint. The line between him being part of who I am and being who I am is often blurred.


Posted in Crimson Writ on May 21st, 2015 by D'jaevle

And when I feel your breath catch, when I feel your pulse jump against my parted lips, my hands will slip around your waist to rest atop your thighs, gathering your skirt in deft fingers to draw it up over your legs, then higher still – until my fingertips find the bared flesh of your thighs and you find yourself settling back against me just to keep your balance.

“Tame? Not too tame, then.” Words spoken so softly they would be missed if they weren’t uttered gently near your ear. “There is heat, here.” My left hand resting atop the fabric of your panties, palm pressing down slowly. “Shall I be bold?”

And I am. My hand slips under the top, separating fabric and skin, and then you feel it nestle between your thighs.

learning curve

Posted in Autobiographical on May 12th, 2015 by D'jaevle

In my early twenties I didn’t know what I was doing.

In my early thirties I had something to prove.


Now I know exactly what I am doing.

And I have nothing to prove.

This makes me very, very dangerous.