Author: D'jaevle

Smalltalk

“…inflamed disc, it could make it worse if he has surgery, so he’s hoping the injections take…”

I’m coming to the realization that I have little patience for small talk.

“…feeling better, but have a lot to catch up on. And this project, with the multiple ICs involved, will be on my plate for at least the next three months…”

For a project manager, he’s a nice guy. I have to nudge him to stay on the right course sometimes, but he gets the job done.

But he sure likes to talk.

“…catalog, requested a rush-job. The car has a hundred and seventy thousand miles on it but its a Mazda from the eighties, was made to be turbo-charged…”

Why won’t he shut up? I tried turning away to check some e-mails, but he just kept talking to my back. I’ve got eight hours of work left to do and three hours to get it done in.

“…break him in easy, give him a project with the on-campus team that is just starting off so he can get in at ground level…”

I like people. Really. And I don’t condone murder on general principle. But if I shot him, would it really be such a crime?

I’m going to be one cranky old man when the time comes.

Reversals, part 2

The second half of her letter.

—

My hand continued its quiet journey into her sweater until I was rubbing her breast. Stroking and holding it, listening to her attempts to control her breathing as much as possible for me. I was careful to avoid her nipple. I waited until she was lulled into my rhythm of rubbing and then I grabbed her nipple hard. I enjoyed her cry and her body shaking as I held her. I rolled it around and pinched and held it until I knew I wanted more. I switched my hands shifted her so that I could begin with her other breast. I let her moans die first before I started again. I put my mouth close to her ear and when I started again, so gently, her small moans escaped her mouth. They were the only evidence of her protest. She knew what was coming this time and she was scared. I didn’t care. I wanted her reaction and I wanted to hold her breast tightly and roughly for as long as I needed.

I whispered in her ear, ‘You are mine, and you want this. Do not protest, pull away, or try to stop because it will hurt and I know you don’t that. Release your protest into me. Concentrate on my hand and your breathing and you will get what you want.’ I stopped speaking, continued playing with her breast, found her neck with my mouth. I kissed it, bit it. I sucked and pulled until I made her moan uncontrollably. My hand didn’t want her breast anymore, my teeth did. I laid her on the ground beside me and sucked and bit and tongued her breasts and nipples until they were raw and bruised.

I sat up and kept her in front of me. Her sweater was wide open now. I placed one hand between her breasts firmly, feeling her breath. The other hand danced lightly back and forth between her nipples. Her reaction at this point didn’t matter. I just liked the feel of them, so hot and hard. I didn’t resist my urge to lean down and kiss them gently, making sure to run my tongue across each one. I finally let her sit up.

When she was more steady, I spoke to her, ‘Take off all of your clothes. Yes, all of them. No, you won’t get cold, it is very warm in here just for you. Yes, someone might see you from the window. It is ok, I don’t mind.’

She undressed, uncertain. I warned her then. I was not going to be gentle. I wanted to feel her. I wanted her to feel me – but not without discomfort.

I laid her back down on her back. I whispered in her ear to keep her arms at her sides. I was lying on my side next to her and put my hand over the dark curly hair that covered everything I wanted to touch. Her legs were pressed so tightly together. I told her to separate her legs when she was ready. I told her my hand was ready and warm and would slip between her legs when she started moving. All she had to do is cross the line again. Let go again. Give all of herself to me. I pushed her down and my fingers pushed gently to get inside of her. I kissed her mouth and her sore nipples and her legs began to spread. She gave it up again. I did not disappoint her. I moved her legs apart and dug my fingers into her. Her heat and wetness were overwhelming. I spread her further and rubbed my fingers on her wet clit. Not beside it, but on top with the fat of my fingers. I had no desire to watch her cum before I did. Then I moved and pushed a finger inside…then two…then one again. She was so warm and wet.

I stopped. I gave her no recovery time. I made her stand help me up. It was my turn.

Morning Absolutions

The grey overcast sky leans heavily against the morning. You arrive early, before work, and you’re not quite sure why you’re at my front door.

You remember, the moment I open the door and lead you to the bedroom. Silence, to start, as you stand in front of the small windows, the silhouette of rain casting black beads against the wall. I slip off your coat and and slide one hand under your dress to catch on your panties, drawing them over hips to drop to your feet.

My fingers find your wrist and pull you to the bed. I lay back, guiding you to kneel over my waist. My eyes hold yours, unwavering. Fingers curl around the back of your thighs and I gather the dress up over your skin to your waist.

You know what I want. To taste. To make you shudder against me until I can claim you, one kiss at a time. You slide up my body, kneeling over my face, your eyes still on mine.

Lower. You feel the first touch of my tongue along your inner lips. I coax a gasp from you, the flat of my tongue starting just below your clit and down to the very edge of your ass.

Again. And again.

I tease.

Your thighs tense around my face, my hands find your cheeks, gripping your skin with warm palms. I guide you closer, my tongue now inside of you, tasting you, swallowing you whole as your hips rock forward, needing, incessant hunger pressing you down against me until you are fucking, rubbing. I can’t see you, but I feel your body swaying, your thighs clenching with each shudder and shift. You make love to my face until you come, hard, forced to throw one hand out against the wall for support.

Reversals, part 1

I once asked her to write a scene that placed her in a role other than that of the submissive.

Here, the first part of her letter.

—

How do you write about a scene?
(not the right question)

How do you write about a scene when you only know how to be submissive?
(Better!)

Try writing about your partner would do.
(Why? You are not him!)

Write about what you would like…
(Better!)

Try to write about how it would feel to receive someone doing the things that put you down…maybe not as hard as you get it now, but what put you down to start.
(Much better!)

Which direction do I go? Is this her first and my first, or no?
(Does it much matter?)

She entered the room. I was curled up on the couch reading. It was very warm and cozy…I had no desire to be uncomfortable. She looked good, just like I wanted; short skirt, long legs, and long brown hair. Her hair always drew me because of the contrast in color to mine. The colors would look so pretty intertwined today. She was quiet…she knew what I expected. We had discussed her attitude and presentation at great length. I enjoyed watching her stand and wait while her anticipation and desperation grew…

Caught in a moment of understanding, I told her to come to me. Kneel in front me, I told her. She did. I brought my feet out from under me on the couch, moved her back slightly, and knelt in front of her. Our proximity was very close and she breathed out when I leaned near her. I smiled. How sweet the sensation. I wanted more.

I used one of my hands to brush her hair from her face. Her eyes were downcast while I watched her intently. Her body language was so yielding. With my hand in her hair, I drew our faces close together, cheek to cheek, and held her there. My other hand gently stroked down her neck. It found the edge of her sweater loosely buttoned over her breasts. I felt her moan as I held her hair firmly and whispered for her to be quiet. It was distracting and she knew I needed to concentrate. I smiled to myself. Being quiet meant there was only one place for her to concentrate those feelings…inside. She had to internalize all of those feelings; it would only make her wetter when she did let it out. That in turn fed my hunger.

Freefalling

Tomorrow, I jump out of an airplane.

I’m of mixed feelings about this. On one hand, I know it will be exhilarating – those minutes of freefall are the closest I will ever come to knowing what flying feels like.

On the other hand, I’ve never jumped out of an airplane before. And I know, that while at this moment the idea of it doesn’t scare me, not even a little, when I’m standing in the airplane, ready to jump, I’ll feel that sliver of fear. I’ll hesitate.

Fear is the surface of instinct; tasting it is to savor our sense of self-preservation. A reminder that underneath it all, we all have a strong drive to live.

—

Postnote, 11/12/06: I did, indeed, jump out of an airplane; in all truth, I can say now that the idea of it was more intoxicating than the experience itself. For me, there was no adrenaline rush while free falling from twelve-thousand feet. There was no fear at the plane’s doorway.

But there were other unexpectedly remarkable moments that made it worth the trip: the opening of the plane door as we approached jumping altitude – looking out at the ground below and knowing I’d be heading downward the more direct route; tugging hard on the control lines to force the descent into a brief, but pulse-poundingly fast, downward spiral; viewing the world from a perspective that cannot be described without experiencing it yourself.

I Write

I write with purpose.

I write with terror in my veins and hunger in my gut.

I write with desperation. I write with need.

I write with candlelight and razors.

I write with music, but dream of silence.

I write to understand.

I write alone.

I write to not be alone.

I write to make it hurt more, but matter less.

I write for acceptance.

I write to believe. I write to define.

I write best when not thinking.

I write to read my own words.

I write for proof.

I write selfishly. I write to myself (but I write for others).

I write to be immortal.

I write to be sane.

The Danger of Being

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can hear the padded steps of a predator as it tests boundaries. It’s patient.

But not forever.

—

I hate being restless.

And I love it.

It makes me feel uneven. My edges become more ragged. They gain a savage sharpness that threatens to tear through my comfortable life. In this state, my judgment becomes impaired. I make rash decisions. I take chances I normally wouldn’t. It becomes a rising tide of need that is difficult to deny. It’s a feeling I know well. I strive to instill it in others.

It is so simple. Push them off balance and just when they are close to falling, offer a hand to steady them. Let them become accustomed to its weight. Once you remove your hand it will be felt as a loss.

And they will come back to you, seeking to feel its comfortable presence around their throat, a warm collar, a steady reminder of place.

It is from this place, the unceasing hunger, that I write today’s thought.

‘Crawl to me.’ She does, her eyes never leaving mine. Taking her time, back arching, she displays feline form in movement. The lines of her body curve and shift in her approach until her head is at my knee. I touch her cheek, bringing her head up. ‘Good pet.‘

Acolyte of the Written Word

I read my first real book at eleven or twelve. I’m defining ‘real book’ as a book longer than 300 pages. I’d done my share of reading adolescent literature, but up to that point books had existed primarily as a school-learning exercise. 300 pages was 200 more than I was used to reading.

My first book was a fantasy novel, the fifth in an on-going series. It wasn’t a terribly good book; against the blank canvas of my experience, however, it proved interesting enough. I finished it feeling over-full; I felt as if I was trying to digest an unusually large meal. I was stretching myself, testing unused muscles, and I spent the next day or two trying to figure out of it I liked the taste of it.

Apparently, I did. I was now a Reader.

The floodgates opened. I went back and started reading that series from beginning to end. It took me a while, but I was hooked and stubborn. My father was also a reader (it was one of his books that got me hooked) and we had a few bookshelves filled with a miscellany of sci-fi, fantasy, and spy novels. It took me about a year to go through those and then I started on my mother’s books (Perry Mason, Sherlock Holmes, and even a few Sidney Sheldon books).

I got a library card and went through the local library’s fantasy section in six months. I branched out.

When my parents surprised us kids with a road-trip to Disney World, I walked down the main boulevard with my nose in a book. I read at restaurants. I read at lunch at school. At college, I read while I walked between classes.

I still read. Not quite as much, but enough to garner comments from those who see me reading at my desk or while waiting in line. It’s not about escape for me; I like my life. Reading books is relaxing. They entertain me, engage my mind, expose me to new ideas – and grant me the knowledge necessary for world domination.

Alright, maybe not so much the last part. But it was through books that I became an acolyte of the written word.

I write because I read.