Author: D'jaevle

the other side of the blade

It has been a while since I shared one of these conversations. 

I met Keysha at a weekend-long convention I attended; between events at the convention, I spent my time in my hotel room, door open, reading a book and listening to the world outside.

A few weeks after the convention, I corresponded with Keysha. We both had plans to attend the convention again the next year, but it never happened.

—

Keysha wishes muchly that you'd simply dragged me into your room at Con. I'd wanted to pester you, but every time I saw you alone, you were reading.

D'jaevle smiles. I was keeping myself entertained; several people did come by to pester me. But you were mostly otherwise occupied. Besides, how much trouble do you think you'd have let yourself get into?

Keysha pages: Actually, a lot of the time I was bouncing around, looking for things to do.. and I tend to not interrupt people who are reading, I value my time with books. But… *whimpers* Enough trouble to get both of us hungry for more? At the right touch, I'd have done anything…"

D’jaevle touches your cheek, but his fingers are not gentle, "Anything? Because I can tell you that if you had responded right…so easy to slip your shirt over your head, to give a naked canvas to play with. For fingers to linger on your shoulders, slipping around the front from behind."

Keysha whimpers from more shivers. "Being touched can be the greatest seduction, when it's done right. And if someone takes that time, I'm very seducible. Anything."

D’jaevle brushes your lips with fingertips, "You know well enough now, my patience. Unfolding, the slow heat. Finding each sensitive part. I thought of it – of what you would look like under my fingers. Of how your whimpers would sound."

Keysha curses missed opportunity, and tugs your jeans lower, caressing the revealed skin with her lips and fingers. "This gives us… who knows how much added time, to tease one another before we meet, then?

D’jaevle takes another deep breath as you move. "Enough." He takes a slow breath, "Anything. Anything, hands finding your bare breasts. Anything, fingers parting to capture nipples. Anything, walking that edge, seeing how far you'll let the line take you, there in a room."

Keysha wraps both of her legs around one of yours and whimpers, pressing her face against your stomach to muffle it. "Such cruel thoughts you fill my mind with.. and yes.. anything. I would happily be led down that line, as far as it would take me."

D’jaevle pages: Cruelty is a double-edged knife, and soon I must sleep.

Keysha would far rather have you at night than sleep.

D’jaevle smiles. Are you offering yourself in the place of sleep?

Keysha blushes. "If you'd want me"

D’jaevle chuckles, "Oh, I do. But to replace sleep…you'd have to offer yourself. Your skin. Your heat. What do you fear?"

Keysha pages: to me, there are two types of fear,.. but one is better expressed as dread. I don't /dread/, talking to you on the phone,.. I fear it.. which is a much more delicious sensation, one I can savor and enjoy, and succumb to if I were to go through with it. It would be the delight of being drawn into talking, and of teasing, since I'm the most nervous on the phone, out of any form of interaction. It's the knot in the pit of my stomach, that feeling of danger, without it being present, and then, giving in and letting go…. that's what I mean. It's enough to make my whole body ache with wanting,.. enough to make me stifle whimpers just from reading and thinking of what you suggest doing to me.. it's fearing that I would give in to all of it, if I could, and wanting to. It's wanting to be helpless under your control.

D’jaevle pages: Tell me what you want.

Keysha pages: I want to feel the heat of your kisses, and your hands, roughly parting my legs as I lie beneath you. I want the sensation of your teeth against my nipple, biting hard enough to make me gasp as you enter me, after driving each other nearly to the brink of madness with desire. And I want to feel us give each other shuddering pleasure until we collapse, spent and exhausted, finally able to rest, too tired to move apart. I want to feel my heart racing just at the thought of you, feel my breath quicken at the sight of you, my legs tremble at the sound of your voice.

D’jaevle smiles. Yes. And now – now, what is it you want me to make you do?

Keysha pages: other than beg for release?

D’jaevle pages: Yes.

Keysha doesn't know what her options are, which makes it hard.

D’jaevle smiles. Take off your shorts.

Keysha does so… but only after closing the blinds.

D’jaevle pages: 'Panties.'

Keysha blushes… and does.

D’jaevle pages: “Part your thighs. Press your palm down along the inside, against the heat. Drag your fingers up against yourself. Then again. Again. Until you are wet.'

Keysha shivers and whimpers, doing as you ask, eyes closed for a minute.

D’jaevle pages: 'It won't take much. You're already right there. Fingers moving, think of my eyes on you.’

Keysha is…very wet, with an aching pain between her legs, needing to be filled, joined.

D’jaevle pages: ‘I want to hear you whimper. When I tell you how I am going to nudge against you, just barely inside, just at the edge, back and forth.'

Keysha buries her face against the bed, hiding. "Oh god, that's cruelty. It's like holding water before a person dying of  thirst, and keeping it just out of reach."

D’jaevle pages: ‘I told you cruelty was double-edged.’

accidental sadist

I'm not afraid of dentists.

I get my teeth cleaned every six months without a shred of trepidation.

And I certainly don't expect a dentist to be gentle; their tools of cleaning are a small mirror and a sharp stainless steel spike. On the other hand, I also don't expect them to treat my gums like a pin cushion.

I'm not being entirely fair – it's not a dentist who actually cleans my teeth. He only comes in afterwards to check for cavities, monitor the state of my teeth, and chat about the local weather. I like my dentist.

The actual teeth cleaning is done by a dental hygienist; there is almost always a new one there each time I visit – I've never had the same one more then twice.

In my head, I imagine them as roving gypsies, nomads, moving from place to place, never lingering too long in one town. In truth, I have no idea. I'm sure many dentists have a stable group of hygienists.

Just not mine. 

Most of them are good people. But the one I had yesterday was pure evil – and not the deliciously kinky kind. I should have known something was up when she began the procedure sitting down (unlike every single other hygienist I'd ever had before). Working from this position, she couldn't access various parts of my mouth without extensive facial contortions that left me wondering whether nose cartilage is meant to be that malleable.

And that was simply the beginning.

She attacked my gums with a vengeance, spending more time scraping my gums than my teeth. It got to the point that each time she would clean up the excess blood with a gauze or the suction tool, the only thought I had was, 'She's hiding the evidence.'

The worst part is that she can't be considered a sadist. She wasn't intentionally inflicting pain.

She was simply being careless.

rose garden

be my rosary
            a decade of regrets
                      in a passing touch
 
 
your curves and cleft,
                 chalice
                      and font
                      
 
be my sanctuary,

       your bowed body
                   my
                  altar
 
 
and let the sound
              of your cries
                         give voice to my prayers

  
 

grandfather

Last night, my grandfather passed away.

The man was made of iron. He joined the Navy when he was young and had the tattoos to prove it.

I never once heard him raise his voice, although he could cuss like a sailor.

He built the house he lived in most of his life.

He loved walking for miles for the sheer joy of it.

He taught me about deep-sea fishing.

He was a devout husband, a stern father, and a loving grandparent.

I have never seen him do a single petty or hateful thing; he was, quite possibly, the most decent human being I have ever met. 

Salut, Bumpy.

“Wine, madam, is God’s next best gift to man.”

“I have enjoyed great health at a great age because everyday since I can remember I have consumed a bottle of wine except when I have not felt well. Then I have consumed two bottles.” – Bishop of Seville

I enjoy wine.

I am not a wine expert – I favor ports, or mixed drinks – but over time I’ve grown to appreciate the possibilities. My first exposure to wine started in college with boxed wine and Boone’s. In my post-college years, my tastes expanded to embrace the wines favored by NE and other friends (White Zinfandel and Rieslings).

Last Saturday, to celebrate NE and Bear’s birthday, I had dinner at Ruth’s Chris with several friends. The food, as always, was excellent. But what made the evening memorable was the attention we received from the restaurant’s sommelier. He made a point to stop by often, suggesting wines that would complement our food and then bringing us samples for us to try.

In particular, his selections for our desserts were spot on and went a long way in convincing me that the right wine can transform a meal. In the spirit of epicureanism, I’ve included his suggestions below (with a brief description and suggested dessert).

Ferrari-Carano Eldorado Noir
Unique dessert wine, made from black Muscat grapes.
Chocolate Sin Cake

Lilly Pilly Noble Blend
Sweet dessert wine.
Crème brûlée

Castello del Poggio Moscato D’Asti
A sweet white wine style which falls somewhere between spritzy and sparkling.
Any sweet dessert.

playing god

I couldn’t convince my brother to upgrade the SQL database on his server which in turn would allow me to upgrade my blog to the newer versions of WordPress, so I finally caved and moved my blog to a commercial server.

I’m sure I’ll be playing around with WordPress themes for the next week or so until I find one I am comfortable with.

One step at a time.

She stood at the top of the stairs, blindfolded and naked.

With a single tug on the leash, she took a shaky step forward. Her left foot came to an uneasy rest on the step below. Her right foot followed a moment later.

I signaled again and she advanced down to the next step, moving with the unsteady grace of the blind; her hands were at her sides, but at each step they would reach the slightest bit forward, fingers grasping and flinching at the unseen. Step by step, I took her down the stairs, my touch on the leather strap her sole source of guidance.

And in her descent, I found beauty.

In her trust, implicit as it was: there were no hedged moments of hesitancy as I led her down the stairs.

In her vulnerability. Divested completely of conceit, her thoughts were unguarded; I watched them play out in the sway of her body and the brisk pacing of each breath.

And in my connection to her, a pattern of direction and response played out along the length of leather from my hand to the collar around her neck.

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.