Author: D'jaevle

Invitation

Invited or led, you are here now. You will be a witness to my visions. But I require more than a voyeur, I need an exhibitionist. I need a participant.

Close your eyes. Place your hands on your thighs. Spread them slowly for me.

Does it scare you – just a bit? Even as you respond, that act of reaching out for something that tempts you, something right at the edge, can cut deep enough to leave a mark.

And you do respond. Without understanding or knowledge, you feel yourself pulled in, taken by the promise held in what you feel and hear. Each word you listen to is an admission for a hunger that grows increasingly dangerous.

Do you ever think of having your hands pinned over your head, the force of a body holding you still for a moment, forcing you to just be, to just exist in the warmth of lips on your neck, in the teeth biting skin, tasting you from the inside out, driving you to let go and grab onto that feeling harder then you ever have in your life, to ride in the waves of heat as they wash over you. Isn’t that what you want most of all? To have it taken from you? To be placed, held, guided. To give in. To give it up.

Control is a subtle thing.

You give it up when you admit you want more.

When you admit you cross lines.

When you believe.

Weapons of Choice

My collection of toys is eclectic. I don’t own any dildos. No vibrators, large or small, phallus or butterfly shaped.

In my official toy chest I have a flogger, a pair of leather cuffs, a leather collar, leather leash, and nipple clips.

I am also the proud owner of a lot of edged weapons.

I never want my toys to be the centerpiece when I play (unless, of course, that is the point of the session). I want the experience itself to be the focus. The slow seduction or the rough submission. Toys are props for me. I’m just as content pinning hands over head and holding them still in my grip, as I am in tying them down with rope. Sloping furniture made for experimenting with positions is nice, but my large leather reading chair is perfect for spreading open someone’s thighs, resting them on the plush arms, and laying them forth as a feast.

An evening of slow increasing pressure drawn forth in glances and subtle touches is just as effective as any toy I have yet had the pleasure to use.

Not to say I don’t love playing with toys – there are many I look forward to experimenting with. But to bastardize a well-worn sentiment – I want to own my toys, not have them own me.

—

[audio:Serenity_Nethers.mp3]
Serenity, Nethers

Lullaby

The last of my bedtime stories for a long time to come. I have an idea for future audio posts (in a slightly different vein).

I realized something today while listening to the recording below. I record these not for an audience, but for myself. My tone is overy affected. I do in fact eat the words, lingering over some, moving quickly past others.

I've asked NE – what is it that I sound like when I take her down?

Different from the posts, she responds. Some of them she finds quite sexy and…effective. Others she is less impressed with.

Ah, NE – so quickly to her knees she goes, but never fearful of telling me her truth.

—

[audio:Djaevle_BedtimeStory_6.mp3]
D'jaevle, A Fearsome Lullaby

Leavings

You promised not to leave. Linguistic salvation would have to be enough.

But it never is; true salvation is in the act. Your mute appeals were too quiet to ignore. I bound your hands and feet and left you to the whimpers of helpless sensation. I hinted at the purpose that may be yours.

Your missing pieces are not hidden.

I cut them in the shape of your broken parts.

Sanctuary

I was dreaming of blind butterfly kisses left against her skin, some bringing gasps of pleasure, others bringing utterances of pain. The alarm awoke me.

I laid in bed long enough to soak up the dream and then slid out of the sheets. Shower, hot water, classical music. The music lasted for five minutes before dying batteries left only the silence of my own thoughts.

My sanctuary.

I stepped out of the shower, large crimson towel in hand, time taken to dry. Hair brushed, light use of cologne. Chain slipped over my neck, ring onto my right hand.

Time to leave.

Gaze

Eyes, said to be the gateway of the soul. The difference between staring and gazing is…what? The barrier of soul being raised or lowered?

I’ve seen pretty eyes, sorrowful eyes, intent eyes – yet I do not believe that you see through them and into a person. They tell just as much when closed, as when open.

Let us take your eyes, for example.

Do they look away during a particularly intimate moment of the conversation? Do they flicker down and to the side when I mention how warm your skin is? Do they widen when my fingers find the pulse on your wrist? Do they go half-lidded when I whisper the details of my plans for you? Do they close entirely the first time my teeth find that spot along your inner thigh?

—

D’jaevle leans over and whispers softly, “If I were to fuck you, how would you want it?”

Madeleine hmmms. “I think I’d want you on top of me, so I could look into your eyes.”

D’jaevle looks down at you, “Could you hold my gaze while I slid into you?”

Madeleine says “It would be hard… but I think I could try.”

D’jaevle draws the hair from your face again, “The whole time I drove into you?”

Madeleine nods. “I think I’d like to try… I can imagine it would make me squirm.”

D’jaevle says “Yes, it would. Especially if you saw in my eyes what I think you would.”

Madeleine says “What do you think I would see?”

D’jaevle says “You sure you want to know?”

Madeleine nods.

D’jaevle says “I think you would see me taking everything away from you. Each time I slid inside, you would see me laying you open, driving into you just exactly where I’ve placed you.”

Madeleine says “Or I’d see anger. I often think you look angry when you’re above me that way. It makes me feel very small and helpless.”
Madeleine says “Which, of course, I kinda like. ;)”

D’jaevle smiles, “You might see anger.” He leans over, “And you might see something…else.”

Veils (or, why there is a password)

I am not in the habit of censoring myself – writing, for me, is about exposure. It is about finding truth (or changing it).

But this isn’t always just about me; while I may carve myself open for the world to see, it is not respectful to do so at the expense of others.

So the post I put up today (below) will be password protected. It is a small story, one I made a passing mention to here, and it is more of a tease than anything else. You’re not missing much. Still, if you’re really that curious, you can send me a request for the password.