Author: D'jaevle

Sting and Thump

There is a difference between a dagger and a knife.

Daggers, today, are generally kept as aesthetic showpieces. Knives are their functional cousins.

But that doesn't mean my daggers aren't sharp.

—

I pushed her face first into the bed, rested my left hand against her back and reached down with my right to grip the handle of one of my favorite sharp implements (a silver thrusting dagger –  extremely sharp tip, its edges less so). I placed the tip at the small of her back and took my time in running it along her skin.

Tracing the curve of her ass, I felt the fabric of her pantyhose stretch in a vain attempt to protect her skin. Just before reaching the top of her thigh, I dipped the tip down just far enough to catch on the threads and then cut upwards, slicing through the fabric with quiet precision.

I love sharp toys. I ran my finger along the bare skin exposed through the ragged hole I had just created and started again. This time it was her upper right thigh that felt the teasing bite of my dagger as it moved against her skin, cutting another hole in the fabric. I followed with another at the top of her ass, and then two more along mid-thigh and lower back.

Each time the cold metal found skin, leaving faint lines against her ass and back, I felt her tremble.  After a few minutes, I tired of the game and reached down to rip the rest of it open, leaving the top of her thighs, ass, and lower back exposed.

I was ready to begin.

It had been over a year since her last scene, her last beating. She knew her tolerance levels were low, so I began slowly. I started with my doe-skin flogger and warmed her up with a few quick lashes that left her skin a blushing pink. I spaced out each snap of the flogger until I could feel her tensing.

What's worse, I asked, the bite or the flogger or not knowing when it is going to land?

The anticipation, the moments before the next stroke, she said.

After a few minutes, when I felt she was ready for more, I took up a sturdy, heavier, flogger, one of her own toys, and let it kiss her the skin of her ass. She let out a yelp. The doe-skin flogger was almost gentle compared to this. I patiently waited for her to adjust and then let it taste her again, this time along the inside of her thighs. Another on her back, then her ass again.

The rhythmic sound of leather on skin became a litany to match her cries, cries that were increasing in volume as her skin turned from pink to red. I could already see small welts where particularly harsh strikes had landed. I rested my hand on her skin, tracing her new bruises with my fingertips. Her skin was warm where the blood had rushed to the surface.

I paused and leaned over her.

Too much, I asked? 

She told her she could handle the Thump but the Sting was too much.

That's alright, I said. You were kind enough to bring a paddle with you.

Twenty minutes later, after positioning her against the wall and working her over with both floggers and paddle, I knew she was reaching her limit for the evening. At my word, she got on all fours, raising her ass. I took the silver bullet vibrator she'd brought with her and slid it between the back of her thighs.

She had been wet from the moment I had bent her over the bed, but now she was soaking.  I placed the bullet next to her and told her to take it and hold it against her clit.

Standing behind her, I began lashing her skin again with the doe-skin flogger.

You want to come, I asked, don't you? Now is your chance. Take yourself over.

But she couldn't. Not from that position, on all fours. Not while I was re-awakening the raw nerves under the skin I had abused so badly just minutes before. It was simply too much to process while trying to push herself over the edge.

I almost took pity on her.

Almost.

Backroom Thinking

I’ve been having arguments with my inner voice.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been favoring background music over the white-noise generated by talk radio, audio books, and television. I’ve been giving myself room to think.

At least that’s what I thought I was doing. In truth, I wasn’t doing much thinking. Instead, I was attempting to open the door to my subconscious and trying to steer the boat from the back. But that back room is a dark and crowded place; in there, it is easier to catch smoke than it is to pin down a thought.

And trying to run things from back there is like walking through a pitch-black room where the furniture is constantly moving and invisible gnomes take turns alternatively kicking you in the shins and nibbling on your calves (in an uncomfortably arousing way). Running things from back there leads to frustration and confusion; and if you get stubborn enough not to back off, you’re more than likely going to blow a fuse.

All of which didn’t stop me from trying to do so.

Today, I finally resigned myself to closing that door (well, I did leave it cracked). So now, I am back in the front room. My voice, here, is much clearer. It lives only in the present (but can artfully consider both past and future). It is roomier in the front, and well-lit.

Literacy in Action (or, why I won’t open the fucking door)

At work, I sit about ten feet from one of the entrance doors. Access is conveniently provided by the mystical waving of a small plastic badge at a black box mounted on the wall beside the door. The premise is simple: wave badge, door opens. No badge, no access through this door.

When someone has difficulty getting in – say, they forget their badge, their badge isn't working, or they left their R2 droid unit at home – they will, more often then not, forgo the twenty second walk around to the front set of doors (where sits a receptionist whose actual job duties include providing entrance to visitors and badge-less employees), and in defiance as such silly principles as logic will attempt to gain entrance through *this* door anyways.

It starts with attempting to open the door through conventional means. This will go on for a good fifteen seconds as they jiggle the handle, rapidly twisting it up and down. The first nine seconds of jiggling are spent hoping that this will be the moment their mutant powers kick in, that their latent magical abilities will suddenly manifest themselves, or that they might experience a spiritual awakening along with the gift of miracle working. Inevitably, they are forced to confront the failure of their dreams and spend the next six seconds working the handle loudly in a subtle hint that someone on the inside should take pity on them and come open the door.

When this fails, they move on to the more direct tactic of knocking. At this point, someone on the inside either gets irritated enough to stop their work and open the door or the person gives up and goes around to the front desk. This can take anywhere from thirty seconds to several minutes.

I'm not heartless. After hours, when the receptionist is not around, I will often pause my work and let someone in. But the rest of the time I turn up the volume on my iPod and ignore the pounding on the doors.

A whole new level of idiocy began this week.

The little black box died. Someone attached a large note, covering the black box, that states in clear English: "Badge reader is broken. Please go through the front entrance." It is irritating, having to walk around to the front, mostly due to my habit of approaching the door, remembering that it is broken, and back-tracking around.

But I can read English. I know the door is broken. So I go around.

Apparently, literacy is a true issue in our country because a large number of individuals ignore the note and try to come in through the door anyways.

I'm tempted to put an even larger note on the door that says, "39% of DC residents are illiterate. If you're reading this, you're one of the educated 61% percent. Put your education to work and go to the front."

Oh, and because I am a nice guy, I'll add a quick, "Have a great day!" at the end.

With a smiley face.

Because I'm that nice.

Feeling Thorny

For Tess, who tagged me while I was away. Naughty girl! Leaving me homework for when I return.

So consider this dedicated to you.

— 

roses are red
but even red
fades
to pink
unless
you give it
a gentle slap
with the flat of your hand
or perhaps
something sharper
like
the bite of
a flogger
along the back
of your thighs
or perhaps
the sting of
a crop
kissing the small of your back
or maybe
even
the nice
solid weight
of a paddle
raising welts
on your ass

but
no.
you want
red roses

and those roses
would be all
black
and
blue

Nifty Fishing Hat

What can be said for the path not tread?

— 

Liz,

You may be following the path behind me, but what follows in your wake?

Nympho,

As much as I generally enjoy my life, and the devilry I engage in, my preference is for the words themselves and the needs and desires that drive them.

Still, how could I refuse? It may not be soul-bearing, but I'll pull back the curtain just a bit.

Melanie and Janie,

My love for the written word is a love for the spoken as well.

Lea, Santina, and Sangre,

I am not leaving; even should I stop writing here, I'll be around.

I continue to write. 

Kochanie,

Lovely Magdelena can never truly be caught; only held momentarily, a promise made of shadows, sweet and dark.

Huni,

Sometimes we are safest when all the lights are out.

Siobhan,

Actually, the picture is from a trip six years ago. But I do plan to go back.

Journey

There is a moment that I believe most of us share. A moment where we see someone, reflect on their appearance or behavior, and think, ‘I’ll never let myself look like that,’ or ‘I could never let myself do that.’.

Life has a way of mocking that kind of thinking. Inevitably, we end up acting just like that. Looking just like that.

I’m a strong individual (some might simply call me stubborn). I consider myself unique (don’t we all), but I’ve come to understand that placing myself on a particular path will undeniably lead to results similar to those experienced by everyone else who has walked the same path. I’ve always assumed that my nature will protect me from the changes inherent in certain lifestyles. And, to an extent, it has and will.

But it won’t eliminate the changes, merely mitigate them.

Which means, when I consider my life and the choices ahead of me, I need to consider the frank reality of what changes will accompany each path – and decide if the person I am at the end of that road is one I want to be.

—

Like last year, it is time for me to take a month off and give myself enough space to decide where I want to go next with this small dark corner of my world. Should I continue experimenting with audio posts? Should I try my hand at longer stories? Should I keep my posting schedule, or pull back? Stay with the topics I feel comfortable with, or expand into other areas? And, of course, just how much longer do I want to keep writing here?

I invite you to send me your thoughts and questions. If there is anything you are curious about, ask. If there is something in particular that you’ve enjoyed, now is the time to tell me. Place a comment here and I promise to answer each one when I return in May.

Answers

Answers, I have them all.

How to land that perfect job? Got that covered.
Troubled love life? Not a problem.
Is there a God? Get comfortable, this one could take a few minutes

Next time you’re at a bookstore, go to the self-help section. Count the number of books they have on making a new and improved self. So many answers, and most of them for 19.99 or less. And there has to be something to them, right?

The difficulty isn’t finding answers. Answers are cheap and plentiful. Truths comes in shades of grey, each nearly as valid as the last.

The tricky part is finding the right answers for you.

Our problem, as a society, is that we settle. We discover an answer on our own, read one in a book, or catch it on Oprah – and then we embrace it. If it’s a close enough fit for your life, it may even stay with you for a while.

Close enough, for me, isn’t good enough.

Because even if I find the right answer today, more likely than not, it won’t be the right answer for me next month or next year.

We evolve. Situations change. Self-discovery opens new possibilities. Answers, like life, must be malleable. Must be adaptable. For me, the only absolute is that there are none.