Author: D'jaevle

signs

It's the little things, the ones she doesn't truly want to admit.

Her legs, perfectly smooth. Every time.

Skirts, whenever possible.

The amethyst chain around her wrist.

Her expression; the way she initially shies away from my touch.

Little things, subtle promises. A contrast in needs against the flash of anger in her eyes and the edge in her voice.

They tell me where she belongs.

Wicked.

Wicked.

It's the way I feel when my hands descend. When my fingers gather the strands of your hair, an intimate gesture born gentle, but with aspirations of cruelty. Twining it around my fingers, silken threads that weave themselves into a pattern of acquiescence, the act becomes a ritual, and the ritual a prayer upon my lips. I would make of it a vessel of verisimilitude, when in truth it is merely a means to an end, an illusion meant to be as distracting as it is disingenuous. It is the shadow play enacted along the wall when our limbs become entwined.

The secrets we enact under the cover of darkness will have a weight that makes a sin of our lives. I will direct you, breathe my words across your skin until you shiver. Part your thighs a bit further…yes, like that, show me….yes. Now relax your hand…just like that, let my own grip warm yours, drawing it down…to….just….there, the edge of your heat. You know what I am doing? I am guiding your fingertips where my tongue will soon follow, and you, you're already wet. No…no, don't close your thighs, I want to watch your fingers under mine. That's it…my hand with yours, following your fingers inside of you…slow…slow….now faster….yes, part your fingers, draw them along the sides….now down again, curl your fingers…Enough. Now it is my turn.

Will you be wicked today?

Beautiful Machine

For a moment, let’s put aside the ‘why’ of creation. Let’s ignore religion, forget about evolution, and focus on a single idea.

The human machine.

We like to see ourselves as more than a sum of our parts. That our thinking, that the source of our creativity, is somehow housed in a place external from the physical working parts of our body. And perhaps they are, perhaps there is a soul, an ephemeral fabric woven in the pattern of our personalities, an immortal tapestry that is the source of joy and muse to our genius. But regardless of whether we evolved into having souls, or our souls are what allowed us to evolve – the two are, for our lives, inseparable.

I want to focus on the machine itself.

Our brains, the connections it makes, the facts it’s learned, the practiced patterns of behavior burned into it’s synapses, the animal instincts that push us to procreate and create safe havens, the higher-level urges that aspire for greatness beyond basic necessities – these are what we are.

The simplest tasks, such as buying groceries, are the product of an intricate machine at work.

And that’s the beauty of it.

translation

My best writing, I believe, is born in desperation. It is a unique feeling, an intersection of desire and fear, and it compels me. A geas most often born of lust, it is not always sourced in such a manner.

Sometimes it is found in something altogether more humbling. 

For NE. 

—

I, too, put my hand to glass
thinking the process
simple
poured molten sand
(with flecks
of
gold)
into a mold made
by my clasped
hands

born
I mistook their scars
for faultlines
felt compelled
to test their fragility
with my own
to ensure their strength
under
my scrutiny
until
all
(save one)
were shattered

she was the smallest
but her wings were large
enough
to hide
her eyes
(where all
of the gold
had found
a home)

delicate negotiations

Bent over, ass raised, she was ready to be fucked.

I could feel her heat against the top of my thighs. Gripping her hips firmly, I pulled her close enough for my cock to slide up along the curve of her ass.

I wanted her to feel how hard I was, how my need to fuck her was enough to make the entire length of my cock throb in time to the pounding in my veins.

I wanted her to know how thoroughly fucked she was, and was going to be. 

Shoving her into the edge of the bed hard enough to bruise her hips, my cock slid down until the head of it nestled against the moist entrance of her pussy. I knew she could be wetter, that I was moving too fast for her body to lubricate as it should. I could slide one hand between her thighs and find her clit, make it easier for her.

But I didn't. 

I drove my cock inside, pinning her to the edge of the bed. Placing one hand on the center of her back to keep her in place, I drew myself half-way out, watching the length of me slip from her slick folds, and then I slammed even deeper inside of her on the second stroke.

This time, when I pulled back out of her, my cock was wet.

I gathered her hair into my right hand, wrapped it once, then twice, around my palm. With a firm grip, I drew her head back with my right hand while my left guided her ass back against my thighs and her pussy onto my cock. Watching her impale herself on me was almost too much.

"Shall I tell you how good you feel under me?" My voice was a ragged half-whisper. "Describe how wet you got the moment you knew I wasn't playing around?"

There was no answer, just her ragged breathing. She didn't want to be asked.

Which was fine. I wasn't seeking permission.