Author: D'jaevle

Twenty-Six Words

I’ve seen this scattered across several blogs but VS in particular has been putting up quite a number of deliciously edible bites of eroticism – all in 25 words of less. By writing just 25 words…you exist in the confines of a single moment, a single sensation – you become *aware*; it forces you to believe in how important every word is. And not just in which words, but where the words fall.

***

I taste you and you taste like yesterday’s tears and tommorow’s promises. Like true devotion. Devoted and devotional, I lick to ask but await no answer.

Too Much (What Prowls)

When is it too much? When do you draw the line?

What if you exist between the lines? What if you are defined by that which you are tempted with?

For a long time I have been at least partially defined by my crimson streaks. The swathe of red that carves a path through my nervous system when my interest is piqued. A velvet touch, this bloody desire parts the veil for me. And I see what it is we struggle for so long to bury, the layers we hide under civility and domestic direction – the wolf under the skin.

We all have a creature that prowls here, in the dark. Cats with twitching tails (if you’re quiet enough you can hear its *swishing* as it watches with yellow eyes, waiting); falcons with wings furled and eyes that catch everything; wolves that know when to go for the throat.

It is never *enough* for them. They cannot be satiated with a few choice morsels. It only excites their hunger, gives them strength, until it is with their eyes that you watch, their desire with which you hunt or are hunted, their joy with which you couple and conspire to achieve.

***

2.11.02

D’jaevle runs his fingers down your side, resting them on your hips as his lips part, tasting the curve of your ear, teeth grazing before tugging lightly.

Wynn takes in a breath… “I really should go… before I’m not able to anymore.” She grins.

D’jaevle lingers for just a moment, his lips warm against your skin, sharing heat, “And that is such a bad thing?”

Wynn bites her lip. “Sometimes…”

D’jaevle presses his palms slowly down the tops of your thighs, his mouth finding the hollow just under your jaw line, “When is temptation so bad?”

Wynn tilts her head back, her breathing ragged. “When it gets in the way of responsibility…”

D’jaevle curls his fingers, moving up slowly, feeling you shiver under his touch. Lips trace your throat, “Even when you can feel it along every inch of skin?”

Wynn nods slowly, her arms sliding around his waist. “When it clouds your mind… making you forget things you should be doing.” She shivers.

D’jaevle draws his hands along your stomach, slipping under fabric to find your skin, “Even when you can feel the heat burning from the inside?”

Wynn nods and groans, attempting to pull back from him…

Mentionables

“You’re not human.” A thinly arched line creased her brow. In regards to his state of, well being, she was most ambivalent. In regards to what he could do for her, however, she was anticipatory. She was made prescient, almost, in her wants; they drove her active mind into a state of hyperactive overdrive, trickling, tickling paths of electricity coursing through her thoughts, driving the crouching darkness before it. It was his fault, after all, always his fault; his words that drew the shreds of shadows into a whole, into a need, into a thing.

“Because it’s not human to want – to require – privacy?” Pained, but amused, his smile lasted just long enough to puntuate his words.

“It’s not about privacy.” Peevishness is a state of mind, one she was intent upon occupying for the duration of the conversation, “It’s about timing. Your lack of.”

Devil’s Gift

I am going to give you a gift. I am going to give you a single day to do exactly what you want. A day where come midnight, the last twenty-four hours will become nothing but a memory for you to savor.

A day without consequence. A day of complete freedom.

What will you do with that day?

Will you kiss every girl and guy you meet just to watch their reaction? Will you be completely, painfully, honest with everyone you care about? Will you give away the ending of the latest Harry Potter to your book club? Will you sleep with your best friend?

Will you hold up a bank? Will you buy a cherry red Ferrari on credit and drive to Vegas? Will you try every drug you’ve been curious about? Will you poison your neighbor’s noisy dog? Will you tell every bad boss you’ve ever had exactly why they shouldn’t be allowed to even manage a McDonald’s? Will you get that tattoo? Will you buy yourself a pony? Will you take a punch at a Hell’s Angel?

Will you sing for your friends like you do when you’re alone?

Will you forgive?

Will you bungee jump? Will you jump out of a plane? Will you *fly* a plane? Will you run naked through your neighborhood? Will you try exotic foods like octopus, squid, chocolate covered ants, or camel hump? Will you tell a stranger all of your secrets (every single one)? Will you steal the last slice of apple pie?

Will you make a small firepit in your backyard, using all of your bills as tinder, and roast some marshmallows? Will you eat a whole box of Godiva chocolates (except the cherry-centered ones)? Will you cross the street without looking? Will you call your old friend from college that you haven’t spoken to in ten years? Will you paint your house like a candy cane, red and white, red and white?

Will you love without regret?

For one day, will you stop being afraid?

What will you do with the Devil’s Gift?

Revisionist

I can remember the day I became a revisionist; required reading for my High School’s AP reading class was Strunk and White’s Elements of Style and the one lesson I took home from it was that less can be more (not to say that the rest of the tiny book was any less useful, but this is the point that I took to heart). Later that same year I wrote a short story (“A Game of Chess”). Giving it a once over, I recalled Elements of Style and Strunked it. I cut out the first two pages, about another page and a half from the middle, and a little off the end.

Then I re-read it. It went from being a mediocre short story to being a viscously tight horror story.

I’m not obsessive about editing my writing. I always do a brief edit to spellcheck and I go through the motions of obeying grammar rules (not with any great enthusiasm, mind you – I figure I can always claim poetic liscense (who hands those things out anyways?)). But while I’ll tweak a few things here and there (I have a habit of leaving out entire words that I thought I had written down), I won’t sit on my writing for days to get it perfect.

On the other hand, I feel absolutely no guilt at all about going through my writing later and re-editing it until it barely resembles its original form. I love writing – but I’m not so attached to my words that I won’t erase them on a whim or pervert its meaning into twisted new forms.

Knowing Beauty

Tips on being a Dom, #27: Knowing Beauty

Sexy and beautiful women know they are sexy and beautiful.

***

My first successes as a Dom were born of instinct, a bit of experience, and blind luck. Instinct in the form of selfish desire and a need to exert control to get what I wanted, experience in the form of learning from each successive attempt, and blind luck in finding women who were willing to go along with my pretensions while I figured it all out.

What experience taught me was what worked and what did not; I had enough common sense to keep doing what was working and to stop trying what didn’t. A fine strategy that worked for a while, but really, I was just pretending to know what I was doing. In time, what was an act became reality. For me, learning any skill follows a similar process – you keep practicing, going through the motions of what works, trying to do something and then one day you’re no longer trying – you are doing it.

One of the distinctions that define that line between me pretending to be and actually being, Dominant, is when I not only knew how someone would react, but also understand why they would.

One thing I’ve learned? Women know when they are sexy and beautiful.

The other evening I was having drinks with NE, her husband Bear, and his brother. Bear’s brother was discussing how his wife was trying to lose weight (she’s quite thin in my opinion) and how she often remarked that she wasn’t that beautiful.

“She may say that, but she knows.” I put out the clove I was smoking and finished off my sour. “Sexy and beautiful women know they are sexy and beautiful.”

Bear shook his head, looking at NE. I followed his glance and smiled, “Her too.” NE knows she is sexy even though she may often look for assurance of the fact.

I couldn’t get Bear to agree with this; NE would often say she wasn’t feeling particularly pretty, or that this person or that person was much more beautiful than her. Bear was under the impression that if he didn’t reassure her, she wouldn’t have any idea just how pretty she is. After a good twenty minute discussion, we interrupted her conversation with Bear’s brother to ask. Under my gaze and the helpful affects of four glasses of wine, she was completely honest. She did know she was beautiful.

The truth is simple. Women who do not think they are sexy or beautiful are not going to remind themselves of this fact by frequently asking about it.

Women who do know they are pretty will often act otherwise because they may be looking for reassurance of the fact during a bad-hair/I have nothing to wear that fits me/I cried all night and have red-eyes, moment. Or they may just want to hear from someone they care about that they appreciate and recognize them. They are not asking out of ignorance of the truth. Because at their core, they know, they know, they have it. In fact, it is the knowing that is partially responsible for making them so alluring. It is this knowledge that makes them move a certain way, flirt a certain way, make love a certain way.

I have been careful here to not give many details on what I consider sexy and beautiful. This is intentional. There is no easy definition for either. Beauty is not inherently found in wafer thinness or platinum hair; sexy is not restricted to exotic looks or long legs. It is found in the eyes, and the words, in the curves and the attitude. It is in how innocent they really are, how devilish they can be. It is in a flash of skin, a smile, a dance, and a willingness to be brave. To some extent we cannot escape society’s definition of beauty, but that is just one part, one element of a whole – an element that isn’t even that important when lined up against everything else.

Incidentally, this knowledge has led to another of my quirks. I don’t make idle compliments. When I remark on how nice someone looks in a particular outfit it is because they really look fucking stunning. When I mention how silky someone’s hair is it is because I am imagining how nice it would feel tangled in my fingers. When I tell someone that I think they’re fairly clever it is because I think they may be just clever enough to keep up with me. I never give a compliment I don’t believe in with absolute conviction.

I am the same way with apologies – I hate making apologies just for the sake of making one. It renders the words and sentiment behind them, meaningless, which is a capital crime in my book. Apologies should be given when they are meant.

But that’s another topic entirely.

Soft Edges, Hard Truths

The soft edges,
patience-thin,
played against
but too much give
to be felt

Over time, these soft edges have become more numerous. The amount of time I will allow myself to spend in circular arguments. My willingness to engage when it will make other tasks more difficult. It’s not about fear, but about consistency and patience. I become less willing to participate in benign but meaningless activity – and in doing so, I have directed my life to follow a set of rules…and if they are my rules (not guidelines, not character-drive foundations, but rules), so much the worse. Rules of convenience. It’s about the path of least resistance, a path lined on both sides by soft edges.

There is something to be said
for the growing of teeth
sharp enough
to pierce skin

I like my edges hard, sharp. I like to dance between them knowing that a single slip will draw blood. Sometimes I will press myself or my partner against these edges just to watch us bleed. I trace my scars to remember those times, because the memories living there are vivid; their scent is strong enough to be tasted even now – the impressions left important in their contrast against the black and white memories left over from everything else. They weren’t bad times, although there were days I hurt so much I wanted to find a cave dark enough to curl up in and forget; they weren’t good times, although there were nights of promises and flesh that I never wanted to end; they were real times, real in the way your first crush is real, real in the way your nightmares prove stronger than awakening, real in the way you want things so badly your need makes you foolish.

My favorite memories are fever-blurred,
as if I imagined them,
but I know
the
truth

Is that what it means to mature? To replace my hard edges with softer ones? Compromise myself into a form of life submission?

I need to find new edges – I am only willing to have this many soft edges (and this? The point where they impede my ability to feel.)

Head Full of Stories

Do you ever write stories in your head? Like when you’re rehearsing a difficult conversation you need to have. You forget your lover’s singing recital because you were busy flirting with the redhead at Starbucks and you spend several minutes picturing yourself explaining yourself to your lover – what you will say, how expressive your face will look, the gestures you will make to emphasize how large the men were who knocked you out and left you for dead.

And then there are the martyr stories you tell yourself when you feel like you’ve been unfairly blamed. You get angry. You get depressed. You tell yourself why it wasn’t your fault. You justify your mistakes in your head by pointing out where things could have been saved if only someone else had stopped it. You remove yourself from the process in an attempt to nurse the budding anger towards everyone else who brought you to this place of guilt.

All these almost-real stories, lingering in your head.

Missives and Memories

(Letter Dated 9-12-03)

NE,

Having just finished reading your letter on the thoughts that passed so hungry and sweet through your mind that day on the floor, I am left considering foremost – is this the lady that protests a lack of imagination?

My second thought – if only my handwriting were so light, clear, and delicious. I am forced to let the voice of my words stand for themselves and know they are strong enough to push through the pale shadow of the printer page.

Third and consequent thoughts are along lines more suited to the content of your thoughts as you laid in the quiet sweetness of between-sleep.

I do owe you a story…and I think someday I will write you a more complete one, but for now I would rather give you this, a simple yet tempting scene as it lives in my head:

Unsuspecting, yet not surprised, my hands would rest lightly upon your shoulders as you look out over my porch. Sensing the subtle heat of my body behind you, you paused only to tilt your head slightly and lean back against me.

Although safe, there is a part that knows the danger in letting yourself fold so completely into me. And yet the delicious thrill of my hands guiding you up against the banister is too deep to resist.

And so your body ends up pressed gently against the cool wood of the banister, your eyes on the gray sky, silently aware of the cool wind against your skin and the pressing of fingers as they slip down along the edge of your skirt. Fingers that don’t pause, fingers that don’t stop at the edge, but slip up underneath to press against the sensitive hidden skin along the back of your thighs.

Left in this extremely vulnerable position, you feel yourself part your thighs unwittingly, just a bit, just enough. And now my hands are against your ass, fingers pointed down as I lean in, feeling your skin as you remain trapped gracefully against the wood in front of you.

Though gentle, my touch is sure and without room to question. You are left only to feel my hands as they trace the slow curves of your ass, thighs, and the back of your knees. My hands are warm against your skin and they move between your parted thighs like a whisper, remaining there along the soft inner skin, fingers spread to draw shivers as it moves. Light for a moment, then heavy against your skin, feeling just a bit moisture as it slips down your thigh…and then my hands move back, smoothing your skirt, as if nothing had happened. But I remain there, behind you, your head resting against my chest.

Your Master.