Author: D'jaevle

I am coming to believe I am not a Dominant as others perceive that role to be.

I find myself a different breed of animal.

I dominate, but do not demand.

I require, but do not insist.

I take without fear, but always with thought.

I am polite, but cruel.

I am the occasional gentleman, but always the rake.

I want to possess a person, but I am not possessive.

I am a predator, but I am as addicted to the hunt as I am to the kill.

I am more philosopher magician than warrior king.

I write of sacrifice – yours and mine.

—

Brute force of will is not my instrument of choice. To demand or insist is to imply a loss of control. My answer to a request unanswered is in the silence of rebuke or in the sharp cry of pain and pleasure born of an ass burnished bright red.

I enjoy overpowering, whether it be the physical act of holding someone down or the agile cleverness necessary to draw someone under. I am unafraid to strip someone bare, but I always do so with purpose. I enjoy the irony when I place you on all fours and whisper to you what a bitch you are for me (because I do it out of respect for the needs we both share).

I get jealous. But more often I just get better at what I do. Jealousy, for me, is born of not knowing. If I know how much of you belongs to me when you are on your knees, what cause is there to fear you with someone else? Better earned trust and ownership than the sickness of envy.

Any relationship is a partnership of needs. How these needs are met defines the relationship. And equality is not found in an equal division of needs, but in how well each meets, enjoys, and accepts the needs of the other.

Some may think this the very definition of domination. But quite a few see domination as a state of being played much closer to the surface than you may see here. The beauty is that there is no one truth, no single path to follow.

NE says I have a thing for walls because I have a habit of pushing her up against them.

It’s not just walls; I use doors, windows, whatever is available.

Why?

I like to trap her. It makes it easier to pin her hands over her head. I can press my knee between her thighs and part them. And it’s not just for me – when I slide to my knees and drape one of her legs over my shoulder, it gives her something to brace against while I nuzzle her stomache and bury my face between her thighs.

What is mystery?

There are the secrets we wrap about ourselves, knowing the lure a mystery can have on the untamed soul. We offer tidbits, slices of ourselves, cut to a size that tantalizes and teases but never quite satisfies. These are mysteries we wear, masks we’ve crafted with purpose.

The mysteries I want to speak about are the mysteries we inhabit. The ones internal to us. The parts of ourselves we have yet to grow into. The spring in which our muse dwells.

It is the promise of an unwritten future, the joy inherent in myriad paths unfolding before us.

Lost mystery engenders the little death. To have no mysteries left within us is to forget ourselves.

Stagnation starts here, the shifting waters of ourselves not calmed or stilled, but untouched. We distract ourselves to hide this little death. We throw ourselves into work. We watch more TV. We devote ourselves to a single person without reservation, needing to believe their mystery will be enough for two.

Finding mystery again is so simple we see through it, past it, a transparent mirror to the self you want to see. You pause to enjoy a bit of music and think, See? I am enjoying life. You read a bit of prose that makes you smile and think, Here, this is it, a new idea. I am still learning, moving forward. You see a new play, you write a sonnet, you envision perfection in a scene and bring it to life, each time thinking, I am alive, I am alive!

But you are seeing only what you want to see. Because you never hold on to these moments; they have become so familiar to you that you let them slip from your grasp, content to accept them at face value. You are too full to understand that you will always enjoy that music, that the ideas you read were ones you accepted into yourself long ago, that the sonnet you wrote is merely the reshaping of words you’ve written a thousand times.

Finding mystery again is to unknow. Is to unacknowledge, to unbelieve. To unburden yourself. It is not about disavowing a lifetime of joys and wisdom, but about giving yourself permission to let go. It is the act of release, allowing yourself to make space for something new. It is to create room inside you for growth.

It is inviting mystery back into your life.

The first time NE told me she wasn’t in the mood, I gave her a look and smiled. It was still early in our relationship and she had yet to fully grasp what she was getting into. Within minutes I had her leaning back on the steps of the dorm, her breathing erratic and her eyes half-closed.

It has got to the point that she won’t even say those words anymore. To say them is to practically ensure the opposite of her intentions is going to occur.

So how does this work, this ability to awaken the hunger with a look, a touch, or a whisper?

By understanding the power of awareness.

We all have hunger. What I do is bring that hunger to the surface, reminding you of how good it feels.

This kind of hunger is life-affirming. We want to be in heat – but our conscious mind presses these feelings away. It is hard to live in a state of constant arousal; eventually our hunger becomes a need, that need becomes an edge, and that edge becomes sharp enough to cut.

Telling me you’re not in the mood? When I know you that well?

Silly rabbit.

—

I am going to be scarce over the next couple weeks, so my posts will be sporadic (next week I am heading to the beach and the following week I’ll be in Vegas for a conference).

Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone.

“Take off your panties.” There was only the slightest pause before she stood up, slid them down her thighs, and let them fall to the floor. I turned back to the computer, selecting a few more songs for the playlist. A moment later, I turned to her again.

“Stand up.”

“Now draw your skirt up over your hips.”

No pause this time. I watched skin appear from under the blue of her skirt and then ran my fingertips over her hips, tracing the curve of her ass down to the back of her thighs. “Bend over.” I followed the curve back up again, fingers spreading to caress the small of her back. Leaning over, I brushed my lips across her lower back, tasting the softness of her skin. Lips parted and traveled lower, following the heat of her skin along the edge of her ass, teeth grazing.

I turned her over and pressed her back on the leather ottoman. My knee nudged her thighs open and I rested my knee against her pelvis with just enough pressure to keep her pinned. She looked up at me and said, “That…was for you.”

I paused, looking down into her eyes, “Was it?” I lowered myself, my fingers drawing her thighs further apart, fingernails biting into her skin. My mouth found her throat, small burning kisses laid across her neck. “Are these for you or me?”

She arched up, “M-me.” My hands found her breasts, fingertips pressing down on her nipples through her shirt, “And this?” A gasp, her eyes closing, “You, you!”

Dragging my fingers down, I drew the v-neck of her shirt and the edge of her bra away, exposing her breast to my gaze and touch. Resting my head against her chest, I took my time in exploring the contours, my slow teasing licks a sharp contrast to the harsh pressing focus of my fingers as they slid between her legs.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I circled her nipple until I felt it harden against my lips. Now teeth, now the hard tug, just once, to let her know I was there. She took in a deep breath, her body shivering slightly underneath me.

Each time my hand found her throat, tilting her head back, each time my lips found another stretch of skin to taste, each time my breath touched her thighs, the question was there.

“…for you or me?”

The answer, of course, was simple.