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.

bold

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.

Easy.

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

It’s almost easy the way my hand finds your throat.

No. Not easy.

Easy is never the right word with us.

Easy implies without effort. Without intent. Without drive.

And the way we meet in the middle is hard.

My grip around your neck is firm, not gentle. My teeth are never kind. My gaze is never light upon your skin. It has weight.

No, easy is not the word.

Natural, perhaps, is.

tightening

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

Sometimes it starts slow, an unfurling of wings, this widening of hunger.

And sometimes it takes but a moment. Tinder to a fire.

Fingers tangled in lace, a tightening. I can feel the leather hugging your curves as I pull each loop methodically, keeping the tension as I work my way to the top before tying it off.

I like things contained; applying pressure to something contained implies violence, a moment when the vessel will no longer be enough to hold.

Wrists caught in my hands; the pulse along your neck, caught between my teeth.

You, in a corset.

When I grip your hips and pull you forward, I love the way you are brought as a whole, the corset capturing the middle while leaving your throat, thighs, and ass free.

I bring your leg up around my waist as I lean you back against the wall. Pressing between your thighs, my eyes on yours, I steal the red from your lips, kissing you slowly, forcefully, opening you.

But if I am need unwound, you are pliant, soft, and hunger itself. You kiss back and it becomes unclear who is devouring who – just what is caught.

sunset

Posted in Poetry on April 18th, 2015 by D'jaevle

you are the kind of affliction
slow to heal
and
uncommonly
beautiful

a sunset
all reds and orange
perpetually disappearing

(and almost always worth getting up to see
at 4 in the morning
when the rest of the world
is smartly sleeping)

close friends

Posted in Crimson Writ on April 8th, 2015 by D'jaevle

It is dark.

You are on your knees.

And I am standing in front of you.

My warm hand brushes your cheek and before finding a grip in your hair at the nape of your neck, holding you in place while my free hand draws a delicate line down the length of your bared throat.

You are pulled to your feet. Settled into a strong chair, and tied in place.

Your hands are bound along the back side of the chair. And I have placed…her, on a chair at your back, facing away. She is close enough that you can feel her hair brush the back of your neck as she breathes.

I lower the lights even further until it’s too dark to see exactly what I am doing – just a dark silhouette moving.

You don’t struggle. Much.

My hands slide along the back of your bared legs. Your thighs part. Your leg rests on my shoulder and you feel my breath against your skin.

Can you hear me do the same to her? The sharp intake of breath when my lips leave a trail of small kisses along the inside of her thigh until they reach the center?

Does it make you shiver to know she’s so close? To know what is being done to her? So close you can feel her shudder, feel the growing heat of her skin?

Is it hard to sit still, tied as you are, and hear the steady rustle of clothing, the surprised gasp?

She presses back into the chair behind you as if trying to escape. Her hands are tied, the same as yours; her fingers find your own, entangling themselves in a grip too strong to break. A creak of the chair. A soft mewling of desperation. Fingers clench yours.

You feel her need like your own. Neither of you can hide from the growing darkness within the room. You do understand, don’t you? I am using her to get to you.

And I am using you, to make her mine.

Does this make it worse? Knowing what is in store for you? When you hear the long shuddering breath – when you feel it, do you connect this with the fact my face is now nestled intimately between her thighs? Reminding her that there is more than one gateway to heaven?

It does. It does make it worse. No need to say it aloud. Not yet. Just sit still and feel it.

You can feel the pulses of desire through the grip she has on you. It is tearing you apart to know just how fucking close I am.

Would it help if I told you she needs it? Don’t believe me? Listen to her ragged breathing.

Need, I say, softly, right next to your ear. I can taste it on her.

An evil thought – how hauntingly decadent you would look draped over her thighs, bent and exposed – your face pressed firmly to her breasts while I stood behind you both and brought to the surface the imperfect imaginings of a perfect lust.

of feasting

Posted in Crimson Writ on February 12th, 2015 by D'jaevle

There is something to the taste of bared skin.

The back of your neck is smooth, a cool expanse quickly warmed by passing lips.

Hunger is a cusp, a ledge over unsettled waters.

A deft unsnapping, unzipping, and unclothing of hips as jeans pool at your feet. One hand at your throat, a warm grip tilting your head back against my shoulder while my other presses into your hip and your ass nestles back into me.

“You make me hunger,” I say, words left against your exposed throat. My fingers rest atop the edge of your undergarments, hooking to draw them down an inch. “I am going to open you.” Another couple inches, fingertips brushing the skin between hip and thigh. “And then I am going to devour you.” An inch more, fabric now mid-thigh; impatient, I drag it the rest of the way off.

I can feel you shiver as my knee parts the back of your legs.

“And I’m going to do it right here.” I press you forward, onto all fours in front of me, the sight of your bared curves making me more than just hungry.

It makes me ravenous.

I slide to my own knees, both hands now resting on your hips. I lean closer, breath tickling the small of your back; I leave a kiss there, at the base of your spine, and then take my time in tracing the curve of your buttocks downward to your parted thighs.

The first taste is slow. I feel you lower your chest to the ground, opening yourself further as I nuzzle, tongue gently pressed against your slick heat. Gently, that is, at first. But I demand more, pressing closer, burying myself against you with intent until you find yourself moving against my face.

Abruptly, I straighten to kneel behind you, firm grip dragging you back until I am inside you, driving deep, your ass hitting my thighs. I pull back to drive deeper, again, and again.

The growl you hear is more wolf than man.

betwixt

Posted in Poetry on December 4th, 2014 by D'jaevle

bewitched
by your smile, of course
found first
in your eyes

‘you’re hiding a devil’
said I,
‘somewhere between your smile and your words’

no words now, nor smile

just a grin.

‘Come find it’, it said.

winter excuses

Posted in Poetry on November 28th, 2014 by D'jaevle

the problem with winter
isn’t a problem at all

cold invites behavior unbecoming
in summer days

the consequences of rhetorical questions

Posted in Autobiographical, Crimson Writ on November 24th, 2014 by D'jaevle

I had to relearn how to lace my fingers through her hair. A grip that was authoritative before painful.

I kept her trapped against the desk. “Do you remember your place?”

“H-here, master.”

Fingers brushed her nipple, caught it, tightening. Her back arched into a gasp.

“It is a yes or no question, NE.”

“Yes! Yes.”

I leaned in, “Can you feel the heat of my hand?”

“Yes.”

“Do you miss how it feels?”

“Y-yes.”

“Where do you belong?”

“Here, master.”

I roughly pulled her head to the side, my fingers biting into the inside of her thigh.”Yes or no. Where do you belong?”

Her breathing was labored, uneven. A second passed, then two. My fingers tightened in her hair “Where do you belong?”

“Yes, master.”

I smiled against her throat.