Author: D'jaevle

It rains, and I think of you.

Water, racing across the window, sculpts the shadows that fall across my desk; my fingers trace the changing landscape, following the dark lines, and I remember.

I remember the way the rain tasted on your skin. I remember how it trickled down your stomach, your breasts providing a cool alcove while I knelt, cheek pressed to your bare skin. I turned my head upwards to catch the drops of rain as they slid over your curves and onto my waiting lips.

I drank you in.

In my study, I can hear the rain, tapping at the glass of the window, and when I open it, just a crack, I can hear the soft roar of the creek outside as it comes to life. Normally a quiet, lazy, memory of a stream, the torrential downpour has awoken it.

I listen, and I remember.

I remember hearing your heartbeat as I stood, my head resting on your chest, and it sounded like the roaring creek outside, as if we were rushing towards concupiscence and that if we didn't let go, the moment would crash through us, leaving us tangled, the space between us lost.

But we didn't let go. We clung together, eager to drown in each other's heat, our desire turning to ferocious need, our legs and arms clasped tightly; you were no longer simply rain-wet, you were fever-drenched, and I felt you tremble and quake against me.

Eventually the rain passed. And, after I had kissed the rain from your lips, after your fingers had brushed my wet hair back away from my face so that you could see my eyes again, we let go, reluctantly, unsure, just a bit awkward, as we attempted to find our footing alone.

I remember.

But you are not here, now, and I have only the memory of rain, the shadow of rain, to remind me. 

I want to deify her.

I want to make her an icon of all that is worst in my needs. I want to worship her from between her thighs, an act of serenity and sorrow. I want to drink her in and bathe in the heat of her rapture.

And I want to watch her fall.

Because fallen goddesses are the most beautiful of creatures, with their brutally shorn innocence, their sweet regrets, and their silent tears.

When you can’t see the bottom, I make you believe you are walking on a bridge of glass.

But the truth is you are walking on faith alone.

It's funny how a darkened room filled with strangers can so quickly become the faded backdrop to a moment of such complete intimacy.

I counted the number of breaths it took between the meeting of our eyes and the first meager sampling of flesh. You pressed close, silver-fox eyes never leaving mine despite the inequities in height.

And then I watched the bright crimson of your lips part in surprise at the cool touch of something sharp and dangerous at the small of your back.

Your first mistake was coming so close. Your second was in trying to back away.

Four.

Four was the number of breaths it took to close the distance between us.

Three.

Three breaths for you to realize you were trapped between the point of a knife and my knowing smile.

Two.

The time it took for you to inch closer, motivated by the prickling tip of my knife. Your body settled nicely against me.

One.

One was all I gave you before I stole the rest away.

This weekend I attended Dark Odyssey's Winterfire, a weekend-long alternate lifestyles convention held at a local hotel in DC.

Attending the convention without a play partner (although I did have a comrade-in-crime, my good friend Tarkin), and not having any pre-arranged scenes, I was more voyeur than active participant.

I made it to several classes, picking up a few tips on rope bondage, flogging, and knife play. In particular, the bondage class was memorable, as the teacher (Shibari Warrior) had a very nice rapport with the victim he was tying up; he had her responding very nicely, illustrating to us just how enjoyable a knot in the right place can be.

I was able to meet up with Tess, although I didn't get nearly enough time with her; she bought a very nice black and red corset, and though I only caught her in it from across the room (she was occupied at the time), she looked…delectable.

And then there was the burlesque show, put on by Melody Sweet and the Rouge Coquette, which Tarkin and I attended with the ever lovely Mistress Dolphy, and her friends (Angelina, Lucy, and Shazz). French maid outfits, the can-can, and Melody Sweet dressed (and then undressed…) as an angel while singing a hauntingly beautiful song about falling. What more could a decadent sadist want?

But as much as I enjoyed the classes and burlesque show, what stands out most in my mind are the various scenes I saw taking place in the dungeon play areas.

My favorite may be a knife scene, found in a side room (a room where a man and a woman were being pierced with small colorful pins that turned their skin into art, and another girl's back was made into a living corset).

The knife scene: the girl was bound and laid out on the floor, leaving her vulnerable to the variety of knives being run along the more sensitive stretches of skin. Her top's use of edge and knife tip kept her writhing, her cries a mix of surprise, fear, and pleasure. A blade drawn across her throat, slowly; the piercing sharp tip of hand-daggers pressing into the palms of her hands; her feet untied, twisting and moving as cool steel traced lines up the inside of her thighs.

Oh, and did I forget to mention the bachelor party we attended? The one with the hot pole-dancing nurse, the one where a very pretty blonde was on his knees, arms bound in red ribbon, and giving head to the bride-to-be while she clung to the pole and the groom got spanked?

No? I'll have to save that story for another time.