Author: D'jaevle

In words, or voice, in person or in my mind, circumstances matter little; understanding means everything. It needs only last a second, less, but the impression it leaves behind is a grail that quenches no thirst. It holds memories, and memories of memories. A single autumn drop from it turns my tongue to gold.

—

When I create images in my mind, it is as if I am bringing a razor blade to bear on the silhouette of my thoughts.

By candlelight, I take you. I give you to the bed, a naked offering on flesh-colored sheets. Your eyes are closed when I first touch you, a laying of hands that find the back of your thighs. Curled fingers draw your weight slowly back, pulling you onto your knees but leaving your head against the cool surface of the bed.

You have become a supplicant.

Have you ever been explored? There is vulnerability in the acceptance and intimacy in the act. Small scars are kissed, lines are traced. There are no blemishes, just defining details on the carnal canvas being painted in the seduction of my senses. Did you think I was here for you? No, even this worship of your body is for myself. I will consume you, my hands will know you well enough to take you in my dreams. Your scent will adhere to my hunger and you will not escape me a second time.

I kiss the small of your back. Your arching body is a sculpture in motion. Lower, each kiss, lower, until I can feel your heat against my face.

I part lips.

“I just called to give you something to write about. I’m naked.”

I smiled, “Are you now? Where is Bear?”

“Next to me, rubbing my ass.”

“Tell him to rub a little lower, and then I’ll have something to write about.”

She laughed.

abandon: to give (oneself) over unrestrainedly

There are many kinds of release.

Release through pleasure. Release through pain. Release through submission. Release through submersion.

When I’m with you, I want more.

I want abandonment.

You know this place. It starts with a single kind touch. Soaking in the slow deliberation of hands that know your body well, your limbs are suffused with languid warmth. You become heavy with desire, the kind of weight that is light itself. You become a slave to sensation. You become potential.

It’s just the beginning. I’ve fed you on soft kisses and forgiving touches. I’ve left love bites on your breasts, tasted the curve of your neck, nuzzled the apex of your thighs like a familiar pet. You have become deliciously plump and vulnerable.

You are a feast and I’ve become hungry.

I awaken you in the cold lines of fire cut into your skin. The heat of my mouth is no longer gentle; it burns a path along your stomach, searing flesh and branding my name into the curves of your body. Unforgiving teeth now mark your breasts. Fingernails bite into your thighs. You will not be left unmarked.

I describe your fate to you. Under me, I grip your wrists and draw your hands over your head. My lips draw close enough for my voice to echo against your own thoughts. I draw you out in words and make poetry of your needs. I listen to the stories told by your rapid heartbeat and heavy breathing and know just how the stories end.

Inside of you, the sharp creases of pain have become a quiet ache in need of fulfillment. Unraveled by as-yet unrequited lust, you abandon yourself to my needs. You become a vessel in need of completion, craving what comes next.

Cruelty is that I make you wait for it.

She names herself trouble, but she hadn’t begun to comprehend the true meaning of the word. Because she’s known me for so long, she thinks I am safe. Oh, she has her moments of doubt, moments where I make her pause. But she doesn’t truly believe I am a danger.

She thinks I’m safe because I’ve mastered the art of dancing between the lines, playing in that grey area of morality and truth, always close to the edge but never quite crossing it. Never quite putting the delicate balance of day-to-day life in danger. My touch leaves those connections trembling, shivering – yet still intact.

But she hasn’t seen my ruthless side. The part of me that ignores the boundaries. When I unchain my hunger, let it grip me, those boundaries become insubstantial, malleable. I envision them as criss-crossing threads, connecting needs and fears. They form constellations for me, a symbolic map of consciousness that lay my war plans bare.

With intent, I run my fingers across their edges, testing the tension of each thread. Some are sharp, tight. Others are slick and elastic. With the heat of a wolf on a hunt, they bend.

With my hunger, I shift lines. I move stars.

Concrete images are what she needs.

I see her on all fours, laid out on the bed with her arms under her head and her ass raised. Her hips beg to be gripped. Her hair lays scattered across her back, waiting to be gathered into my grip. She speaks of being driven hard, and I think of taking her in such an undeniable way that she is literally pounded into the bed. Hard. Deep. Relentless.

She has her audience, because my eyes never closed while I take her.

She asks me, should I be afraid?

If the image won’t go away because it flickers through your mind whenever you close your eyes. If you find yourself wondering just how it would feel. If your desire to truly experience what it means to be bad in a way that feels so damn good finally outweighs your fear of upsetting the balance.

If you want to be taken like that.

Then yes, you should be afraid.