Category: Captured – The Spoken Word

Let’s Play a Game

The manner of seduction can take many forms. I’ve used massages, poetry, indifference, deliberate intent, teasing, a smile.

But one of the most effective has been the game of truth or dare. This game, like domination, provides freedom to misbehave. The rules of the game are structured so that the choice is not yours. The key is to provide questions and dares to match the person’s secret desires. You can lead a person down the path of temptation, but only if it is one they already built in their fevered imaginations and unspoken thoughts.

Of course, if you aren’t intuitive enough to figure out the direction of their desires, you run the risk of an unenthusiastic response or an abrupt end to the game.

But if you are sharp, if you pay attention, you will provide them an excuse to indulge…and your cleverness in being so makes you the benefactor to such indulgences.

[audio:Djaevle_MoonlightGame.mp3]
D’jaevle, Moonlight Games

Bedtime Story

‘Twas the night before Christmas,
when all through the net,
not a blogger was stirring, for their quotas were met.
The words had been posted and read by the light of a screen,
In hopes that the devil soon would be seen.

The misbehaved were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of canes and whips danced in their heads;
And the website was stable, so I settled in for a spell.
I had something to share, a story to tell.
So girls, if you’re nice, you’d best stay away.
But if you have been naughty go ahead and hit play.

City of Sin

My city of sin is built. It is populated with souls whose servitude is drawn in shades of grey. It is a city whose gates are never closed. It is a city of trade.

Anything can be yours, but everything has a price.

Sometimes the price overt. A kissing booth promise for a quarter.
Sometimes the price is implied. Expensive gifts for the pleasure of your company.

I deal in both. I make it clear the cost, but the price is deceptive. I leave you unaware of just much I am taking until it is too late. I draw you in so tight that it is almost painless to let go (just another strip of pain when pain has become an intimate friend). I tell you the price and whisper the words along the insides of your wrists. I write the bargain struck in indelible marks scratched deeper then skin.

I want you to know how far it is you will go, because each step is another step towards me. When you can’t see the bottom, I make you believe you are walking on a bridge of glass. But the truth is you are walking on faith alone.

I want you to know how far it is you will go, because when we reach the end, I want it to be in full knowledge of the path you took. Each choice you make is another link in the chains around your wrists and throat. But I don’t have to present you with real choices, just the illusion of them. I drew this maze, painted the dead-ends to look like possibilities, one less attractive than the path I walk, and then made you believe it was your decision.

At some level you know all this. And yet you let me do it anyway. Because you want something as well, or this would not even be possible. You want me to slip the weight from your shoulders, the gauze from your eyes, the clothes from your skin. You want me to convince you that the price is worth paying, no matter how high. You want more then permission, you want direction.

I know this. I learn how much I can take and ask for just a bit more than that. I want it to hurt because then you will never forget.

I am not a nice man.

Crimson Handprints

I love spankings.

Let me start here, with your ass – there is something in the curves, the way it rounds out when you bend over. A woman bent over and presenting herself to be taken strikes on something primal – it is the position of an animal in heat. It makes me want to fuck with her. To pull her down. It makes me want to be animal enough to take her.

The first handprint left on her skin is crimson in color. It stands at odds with the pristine, unmarked skin around it.

Here is one sliver of my sadistic side, and here is how it works. My pleasure is not in how I am inflicting pain, but that she is accepting it. That she is thriving on it. There is a degree of enjoyment in my implements: hands, flogger, paddle. But the true measure of my sadism is how much I simply love feeling her squirm, hear her gasps of pain slide along that steady crescendo into pleasure and tranquility of self.

Speaking of tranquility…

A Thousand Kisses (in words)

I was recently reminded of these words; favorites of mine. I would suggest listening to the words before reading them (look to the bottom of the post for the audio version).

—

I am going to write you out in a thousand words. A word for each kiss. A kiss in each word.

The first will be soft, the sort of kiss that is intimate and deceptively gentle. The kind of kiss that leads into another, and another, until you are lost.

The next will be brazen, a kiss that dares to enjoy you; a kiss without inhibitions or lines; a kiss that reverberates within until your insides are molten and liquid quicksilver appetite. A kiss that quiets you. A broken conversation in bites and nips.

My kisses are solvent, seductive in series. My kisses are an aphrodisiac for life.

These are the imagined kisses born in daydreams and nighttime prayers. Extravagance of mind made real in a kiss.

Needful kisses meant to complete, meant to assure, meant to bestow peace of mind; a kiss as proof (but kisses can lie).

I write of hungry unresolved kisses that never end.

Here, now – a kiss that is a whisper along your skin that tickles and provokes; it divulges secrets. It discloses the truth amid the lies; it murmurs things you already know but fear to admit. It leads you down a path in golden chains.

I have memories of a kiss, the right kind of kiss, etched in a single moment and echoed in every recreation since.

A kiss to know, to perceive the truth in engagement. Understanding in the learning, belief in the patience.

I kiss where I want. My kisses are a crisis of ambition, a craving not quite satisfied in the act. Destiny in the progression, I lay them out against your skin like prophecy. I want you under me, covering your lips, nose, and eyes with kisses. I want you on top, each kiss stolen between the weaving and bucking of bodies in motion.

Forever in a kiss.

A kiss to catch you, a kiss to be caught.

This kiss is a song, sung between each heartbeat.

Salvation in a kiss; absolved and awakened. A purity of spirit, clarity in the presence of a kiss that has meaning, that provides context.

Fucking in a kiss, speaking a language subliminal and instinctive. A frenzied extension of limbs, a rolling of bodies and tongues, a shared feast of bared skin and borrowed sentiment.

Possession in a kiss; a claim made against your breasts, belly, and thighs. Kisses that are hot enough to brand your skin. Kisses that are reminders of your place.

Orchestration of nerve endings that begins and ends with a kiss.

Perhaps a kiss between the lines, if you know what I mean.

A mistaken kiss, taken unwittingly and all the sweeter for it.

This kiss tells a story. Denial and determination. There is love here, yes, and plenty of lust as well. A bit of pathos, and the theme is easy to taste. It has a clear beginning, a slow middle, and a surprise twist at the end where the kiss is revealed to be not just a kiss, but a poetic statement on state of human indulgence brought to a climax in the visage of an orgy, raw and decadently described. The story ends abruptly, leaving you wanting more.

Underneath and below, kisses that exist in the lines drawn from the small of your back, across curves that begin and end in a parting.

A kiss between friends, is a friendly kiss (isn’t it?)

Some kisses are silent, and some cry out. Some are breathless and some are nothing but air, a kiss felt more in the presence than in the touch.

A kiss by the car, a kiss against the door, and a kiss atop the bed. On the couch, a kiss, and once more on the floor.

Silver kisses painted on your thighs.

Candy kisses melting on your tongue.

A kiss goodnight, a kiss to awake. A kiss to say goodbye, another to say hello. A kiss of remembrance, a kiss to forget. One to break a vow, another to make a promise. A kiss to betray and another to forgive.

There are kisses in rain and trails of kisses. There are packs of kisses, litters of kisses, gaggles of kisses.

A kiss that starts at your wrist; a play of moistened lips that cool the skin and find the pulse. The smooth skin of your arm a pathway to your elbow, elegantly bent so that the next is nestled along the inside. To the shoulder, a kiss more teeth then lips, little burning reminders left on the way to your neck. The throat is a sculpture of ingress, a place of worship and potential, a way within. A kiss is dangerous here, it knows you well. Delicate in its tease, deliberate in its patience. Small, moist, and searing against the curve between shoulder and neck; expansive and distracting along the side; soft as the lure when felt just below your ear.

A fancy kiss, crafted choreography in form – a kiss with intentions. A simple kiss, a kiss with a statement.

Kisses that taste of tears.

Dreamt kisses, feathery light kisses that slip away in wisps of consciousness.

Scared kisses, tentative and fearful. Vulnerability in trembling anticipation. Culpability in the acceptance. A delicate negotiation of faith.

An affectionate kiss. A familiar kiss.

A naughty kiss.

Angry kisses; frenzied frustration both nakedly unapologetic and perverse in its course; a clash in tongues and wit; opposing manner explained in a long hard fuck against the wall.

I kiss you with my fingers, wet from us.

Kisses that question; kisses that ask again and again, always the same question, always wanting the same answer, but louder, louder, LOUDER.

A kiss that isn’t a kiss. A kiss that is parted lips and torturously sweet in tongues and teeth but is found not on your lips or your skin. This kiss is felt inside. This kiss opens you.

This kiss tests your resolve. This kiss is enough to bring you to your knees.

This kiss is an invitation.

—

[audio:Djaevle_AThousandKisses_All.mp3]
D'jaevle, A Thousand Kisses

Counting Candles

Thirty. A threshold of sorts.

When I was fourteen I used to look at the years between me and twenty and they were forever. I had all the time in the world. It is said that time speeds up as you get older. Is it because there is less wonder in the world for the experienced? Less things to hold onto, to peg as memorable?

I know there there is greatness beyond thirty; I have seen it. And I aim to find it.

Now, close your eyes and listen.

[audio:Djaevle_ScarletWords.mp3]
D’jaevle, Scarlet Words

Devil’s Task (SDS)

Being evil takes work. It is the devil of me that prescribes my thoughts today.

Forbidding something is the fastest way to ensure that it be done: tell a child that *this* room is off-limits; place a sign over the big red button saying ‘Do Not Touch’; tell your submissive that she absolutely, positively, must not think about how it would feel to be chained (yes, chained) to the bed with smaller silver chains connecting the more sensitive parts of her body.

We are fascinated with that which we should not have. Having grown up Catholic, I am particularly taken with the idea of sin. Because my entire perspective on life has always been relatively separatistic, I managed to avoid the ‘Catholic guilt’ syndrome that has afflicted so many of my fellow disaffected brethren; my interests in sin are more academic rather than spiritually driven.

To me, there is a very distinct division between what is wrong and what is sinful. And between what is right and what is virtuous. I think that the wrong found in both sin and virtue is not in their state of being, but in their excess. Too much lust and your life is consumed by that single desire; too much envy and you are eaten alive from within. Too much self-sacrifice, and there is little left for you to exist for. Too much zeal and you lose your sense of self.

With this in mind, I am going to show that living a sinful life has its rewards. This is a view I am not entirely alone on; society now associates so many enjoyable, yet relatively mundane, aspects of life as sinful: that double-chocolate german cake was sinfully delicious.

My checklist in this endeavor will be the seven deadly sins. Their origins aren’t strictly biblical, but in the late 6th century, Pope Gregory the Great revised the Greek theologian Evagrius’s list of eight into the current seven we have today. If a Pope has prescribed them as particularly menacing, that is good enough for me.

Keeping in mind that my goal is not to enjoy each sin to extreme excess (which is not particularly healthy), but to sample each interpreted sin in a manner that is both memorable and personal. And fucking insidious as possible; I want it in my blood.

Care to be evil with me?

[audio:Djaevle_Shown.mp3]
D’jaevle, Shown