Category: Crimson Writ

Where my words give lie to the wolf under the skin.

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…

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?

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.

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.

BDSM – The Text Adventure Game

I’m a geek. I played (and loved) Adventure, Zork, Enchanter, and Leather Goddesses of Phobos. As should be clear, I worship the written form, particularly when it is interactive. Last week I came across some old games and I began to wonder how a BDSM text adventure game would play out.

Anyone who has played a text adventure game has attempted, at least once, to do one or all of the following commands to the first character of the opposite sex they find: kiss, fuck, lick, beat, hump, and bite. More often then not, the game returns either a humorous response (”Who do you think you are, Romeo?”) or a virtual slap on the hand (”This is a family game!”).

Well, what if it didn’t?

***

Bedroom
A large bedroom, your first impression is that it is quite…austere; the walls of the room are completely blank except for a finely-crafted knife adorning the northern wall. Against this wall, but centered in the room, is a wrought-iron Victorian bed; the bed itself rests on a deep crimson black oval rug. At the base of the bed is a large cedar toychest.

Portia is standing in the middle of the room.

> LOOK AT PORTIA

Portia
The first thing you notice about her is her long raven hair that stops just above the small of her back. It has been brushed back from her face, giving you a nice view of her eyes which are green and contrast sharply with her hair and pale skin (yet do not seem out of place). If she were standing directly in front of you, the top of her head would come up to your chin and while she isn’t a large woman, she has curves in all the right places.

She is currently dressed in a long black dress, because, well, black goes with everything.

> TELL PORTIA TO GET TO HER KNEES

Feeling quite the man, huh? You order her, in your deepest and most convincing voice, to get to her knees.

She doesn’t appear convinced. She gives you a look as if to say, ‘make me.’

> MAKE HER

Make her what? Lasagna?

> PLEAD WITH PORTIA

Uh-uh.

>ASK PORTIA NICELY

I don’t think you get it. Are you sure you’re playing the right game?

> BEG PORTIA

Ok, see, I’m going to do both of us a favor and ignore that one.

> PRESS PORTIA AGAINST THE WALL

She looks a little startled, but doesn’t resist. She feels warm and malleable against your chest. Portia is now pinned to the wall.

> KISS PORTIA

Kiss her how?

>KISS PORTIA SOFTLY

You lean in to kiss her, but she turns her head aside and you end up kissing her cheek.

> OPEN TOYCHEST

You can’t. You are holding Portia against the wall.

> LET PORTIA GO

You step back, giving Portia some room. She looks just slightly dazed but still manages to stare defiantly back at you.

> OPEN TOYCHEST

You open the cedar toychest and peer inside. The chest is vast and roomy and contains: a leather flogger, a paddle, a a blindfold, and a length of rope.

> GET FLOGGER FROM TOYCHEST

You reach into the toychest and take out the leather flogger. Hand-made, the handle is checkered black and crimson; there is a loop at the end that would fit very comfortably around your wrist. The flogger’s tails are deceptively soft to the touch but you have no doubt that they will leave quite a sting.

Portia is looking a bit nervous.

(To be continued…here)

Devilerance, for the Devil is Coming

What would you do if the devil came calling?

Would you let the cracked door be invitation enough – or would you be brave enough ask him in?

Would you greet him on your knees?

Knowing he holds the promise of both, would you offer him your salvation or your damnation? Would you confess the sins you plan to commit in his name? Would you admit you’d already offered yourself to him in increasingly prophetic and addictive dreams?

Would you bargain with him? A kiss for immortality. Would you ask him to brand you in bites and bruises?

Would you test yourself against his will?

What instrument would you be, what song you play for him? Would you tune yourself to his expert fingers?

How would you beg? With brazon desire or respectful silence and pleading eyes?

Would you make a prayer of yourself? Would you promise yourself in pieces, or beg to be consumed all at once?

Would you consider the cost?

Would you?

In my dreams…

In my dreams…

…I am the quiet darkness that steals over your skin, secret and swift. I am the cool touch of your pillow when you slip into bed…I am the cold water you can’t quite escape when turning on the shower – never quite expected, but an awakening in clarity. I am the danger of things you can’t quite admit…I am the comforting presence of someone who will listen before stilling you with a touch…

…and when I stir, my dreams bleed all over my waking moments, washing crimson and seeping into the hard-to-reach corners of my participatory life. Disentangling myself from them is like unraveling the very threads of experience. Do I exist outside the context of my illusions? I do not need an answer; my contentment survives existentialistic cravings…but does not survive the hungers of my demonic children of choice and their wolfbred howls announcing the next hunt, the next dream…

Finely Tuned Instrument

Lines are where it all begins and where all good (bad) things end. They delineate. They divide. They border, they bind, they define. Lines are blurred, stirred, concurred and perturbed by the right questions and wrong answers. Words paint lines in broad bold strokes that encircle, entice, intrude. Words resurrect you. Words nudge aside, limbo underneath, and soar over the lines in our lives.

I love a good word whore. The syntax of their needs is a language I speak in many tongues.

***

futile finger length concepts
Slip, supple, sap, spilling across the page
dripping sarcasm like lovers
feels like frosted torture against black veins
that spider across the white parchment
we call skin

mediocre maybe –
     but I take my lessons from the pen

lap the edge like honey,
     and take this line, from behind my innuendo

you can play it like a violin.
   or wrap it around your finger, lest you forget
you can wear it like jewelry,
   or weave it into a web for unsuspecting honesty
you can hang yourself from it,
   or you can wind it about your body like a cocoon

just don’t trip over it on your way out.

because this line

can hold you together