Month: January 2008

a poem, like a cage

But I am patient, and I understand something fundamental about the dichotomy of your role. It's not me your fighting. It's the coiled desire you keep so tightly in check, the sliver of need I've awoken.

It is surrendering to your desire you fight against.

And my firm grip, my gaze as it watches you, my words that detail the way I will lay you out as a feast, the knowledge I will follow through, despite your own fears – these are just the first steps.

— 

'Don't Feed the Words' said the sign.

[audio:Djaevle_Signs.mp3]
D'jaevle, Signs

Obeisance

Such a naughty girl.

Capture comes in many forms, but today it is found in the length of rope wound tightly around your wrists and stretched in a single twined path to the headboard. Placed on your knees, you are obeisance in form, a naked statue paying homage in reverse.

For I am behind you.

I know your hips well, and I should, for they have held you in this position many times before. Kneeling, I draw you back far enough for the rope to tighten around your wrists, forcing your ass close enough to feel the hard length of my growing need through the coarse fabric of my jeans.

Enough; you know your place now, your upper half securely bound, and the lower free for me to use.

I pull away, leaning over your back, my breath tickling your skin as I leave small bites along the length of your spine, teeth drawing across your bared skin, bestowing the small cruelties where flesh meets hunger. At the curve of your ass, I pause, and a more intimate touch is applied.

Nuzzling, I lick lower, pressing downward until I can taste you. Fingers replace my tongue: two, slipped quickly inside, curled upwards to read you from within, a steady pressure that fucks with intent, slipping in and out of you again and again until I feel you clenching greedily against my invading hand. My other hand finds your clit and is less gentle, capturing it between two knuckles, rolling it slowly side to side, tightening again and again, never quite touching it directly, just teasing, a cruel dance played out between the space of my fingers.

Now when I grip your hips, I'm not testing the strength of the rope, but the limits of your hunger. I slide into you, a single fucking thrust that drives you forward only to have you dragged back again when my fingers slide into the back of your hair and tug. I want you taunt, caught between the rope and my cock.

Now the real games can begin in earnest.

licorice

sometimes
                 you
                     just
                           want to
                                       fuck

 

 sheen of sweat on fevered skin
          slick
                 rubbing
                          of
                             entwined limbs

 

 bodies sliding
          groaning, grinding
                 frenzied breathing
                         bodies heaving
                               until
                                    the
                                        tension
                                                   breaks

aventure d’un soir

There were four e-mails, the last including the name of her hotel and the room number.

I glanced at the time. Ten o'clock. I had to be up early for work the next morning. I could think of several excellent reasons for not driving into DC this late at night.

None of them were enough to overcome my curiosity.

I dressed. At the door, I paused, went downstairs, and pocketed two leather cuffs and a metal hitch. Once in the car, it took me an hour to find the hotel and another twenty minutes to find parking.

There was no answer to my first knock; I stood in the hallway, idly planning my driving route home. She came to the door on the second knock, dressed in a bathrobe. The dark hotel room obscured the details of her face, but her short hair was slightly mussed; she had fallen asleep while waiting.

I followed her inside.

Details. She was from Memphis, in town for a convention, her second this year. She was a reader. She had a perfectly round ass; she jumped, as if startled, everytime I gave it a slap. When my hands slid the bathrobe from her shoulders, she repeated over and over again, "I can't believe I am doing this. I can't believe I am doing this."

I left three and a half hours later.

It wasn't until I got home that I realized I did not know her name.

my wicked life

There is a darkness in me, born with pride and held tight in my fist, a bruise-purple marble worn smooth against the hard corners surrounding the best of my intentions. This darkness has little weight – I discarded guilt long ago, trading it in equal measures for an infamy that lives only in my heart.

I swallow it whole – no, better! I imbibe it, a salve for a self-inflicted illness, a silver cool easing of the many-mouthed wound that bleed tears of joy within my ever dissolving resolve. It is a rainstorm in miniature, trickling tiny angels into the darkness at the very bottom of me; I could weep for them, for I can hear their hymns of sorrow when I sleep at night.

Do not offer forgiveness, I deserve none. My transgressions are many, my iniquities greater still.

And my indiscretions? They can be counted in the brightly colored letters blazoned in deep red for all to read.