Month: May 2006

Fill in the Blanks

Here is one half of a conversation I had with someone I consider to be deliciously adept at being the right kind of prey. This was…just under two and a half years ago.

The half missing? Mine. See if you can imagine what it is I am saying between each of her responses.

—

Mischief moans and presses herself against you. “Never mind.”

Mischief gasps involuntarily at the thought of being punished.

Mischief smiles mischievously, “And what if I said it was?”

Mischief groans, “In that case, I have a confession to make…”

Mischief inhales sharply, a growl escaping her lips.

Mischief says, between clenched teeth, “Harder. Bite harder.”

Mischief says, “Ohhh…” Mischief arches her back as she moans in pleasure.

Mischief squirms and purrs, “So have I.”

Mischief is breathing hard now, lost in the feel of your lips on her soft flesh.

Mischief groans, “Ye gods…what do you think?”

Mischief pants, “I’m dripping…the crotch of my panties is practically soaked. And that’s *not* hyperbole.”

Mischief leans over and moans softly in your ear, “How’s this for a voice breathless with anticipation and need?”

Mischief says, “Unh…” Mischief digs her nails into your back, whimpering with need.

Mischief just decides to dispense with the panties altogether, after which she slowly buries not two, but three fingers inside.

Mischief leans back on the couch, purring deeply with pleasure.

Mischief rests her hand on your head, entwining her fingers in your hair.

Mischief writhes back and forth, alternating between moaning and growling as she feels her clit become hard and swollen.

Mischief looks down at you. “Please…”

Mischief whimpers softly, “Oh…I want you to hear me moan for you…”

Mischief trembles, being driven almost crazy with the urge to climax.

Mischief whimpers, “Don’t stop…”

Mischief stares at you and whispers, the need in her voice apparent, “Call me? Please?”

Mischief growls. “Ohhhh…you…”

Mischief pants, her need making her rather dizzy. “Please…please call me…I need to cum.”

Mischief growls, “Now.”

Breathe.

Saturday night found me sitting in my hotel room (at a convention), drinking Coconut Rum and pineapple juice, and listening to an eclectic mix of party music. Resting my black and green leather flogger on my knees, I contemplated my next step. Finish the writing I had started earlier in the day? Wander into the hallway with the flogger and stir up trouble?

In a one-on-one situation, I have little trouble gaining ground with people. Group dynamics are trickier, particularly when I am in the role of the outsider. It can be a very thin line between ‘interesting fun guy’ and ‘creepy guy’.  The second label was one I didn’t want to even come close to inhabiting.

A disturbingly strong headache made the decision for me and I crashed early (only to be awoken briefly for a rather intriguing, and eye-opening phone call – a topic for another post). When I woke, I packed up my things and slipped out. I felt some regret in not having had the chance to speak to a couple of people I had intended to spend more time with, but I did manage to get some writing onto paper. Such as the poem below.

—

Four breaths
the distance between your
throat and breasts

Three to your stomache
two between your thighs
one to take you in

No breaths to find
the limit of you

Overdramatic

Someone made this comment the other day, after reading a bit of my writing:

“That sounds like a lot of overdramatic bullshit.”

Well.

Yes.

It is.

It’s a truism I’ve been accused of before. In fact, there are time I read my own writings and think, “Who could actually buy into all this?”

I do.

I actually believe in what I write. I believe, with hunger and intent, that I create those moments where reality conforms to the dark places I conjure with my words. Where the ruined cities and dark forests of my mind take on form. And knowledge supplants belief, for I have lived, over and over again, those moments. I have seen the manifestation of my hungers in the eyes of another.

My writing is an extension of my thoughts and desires – not the genesis of them. Do not be fooled by my overly-honed sense of the dramatic. That is simply an indulgence of mine, and not indicative of the solidity of the truth it harbors. The colorful dressing for a beautiful and horrible thing.

[audio:Djaevle_Life2.mp3]
D’jaevle, Life

Vibrance Isn’t Necessarily Sanity

What cost, awareness?

—

Madeleine says, “Mon maitre, you never bring sanity to my life.”

D’jaevle says, “I bring the best kind of sanity possible.”
D’jaevle says, “You’re never more alive then when my hand is on your throat.”

Madeleine says, “You bring more like the pleasant numbness of complete upheaval. Vibrance isn’t necessarily sanity.”

The Fine Art of Absence

Taking time apart does not always mean an end, it may be a new beginning. Sometimes space is a necessity.

Absence does make the heart (and other, more malleable organs) grow fonder.

***

We want what we can’t have and we take for granted that for which we already hold. It is why abrupt loss of someone in your daily life can quicken your need for them. For months, years, decades, you develop a sense of understood comfortability in the commonality of a life share. It is only the absence of their presence that makes you keen.

It is one reason I guard my time and privacy so closely, choosing when and with whom I spend my time with. Overexposure leads to a lack of mystery, a loosening of the coil around their hearts and mind. Even with those closest to me, such as NE, I quietly put specific space between us to achieve a certain affect. I may be less communicative, a touch colder, weeks before a scene. I cultivate her hunger and nervousness, bringing it to a fine edge.

Fear

You are well acquainted with my fascination with edges, both real and metaphorical. My mind is occupied today with something that skates on the surface of every edge.

—

Fear.

It entrances me. Between what I want and what I can have is a gap, a sliver of space, black and sharp. If I could exist forever, it would be there. Time does not slow. It stops.

Breathing patterns my desires, my fingers gripping, careful – careful, not too tightly, yet, just a handhold, a place to place. I craft each unbalanced step atop unbalanced step, weaving my wants in and out of the spaces between. One whisper to topple it all. Delicate, half-starved, never pleading, quite beguiling, I push.

What is on the other side is never quite as exciting as what it takes to get there. This journey is the fear of not getting what I want.

Fear of danger? A different, but no less intoxicating fear.

This I draw with tight circles; it is in the presence, a cult of personality enforced by unrelenting form, hands and will driving you back against the wall. Leaving you uncertain despite an unshaken trust in me. I make you falter. I make you shake. I make you fear.

But I never make you doubt.

Rituals

Each night, before I go to sleep, I open the windows in my bedroom, pless play on the MP3-player connected to the speakers on either side of my bed, and then slide between sheets that are soft and cool against my skin. There are times I will light a candle and fall asleep to the flickering shadows it casts on the walls of my room.

Rituals. We all have them. Morning coffee with the newspaper. Solitary masturbation in the shower before you sleep. Sopranos on Sunday night. The cigarette before you head through across the bridge on your way home from work. They comfort us, these acts, these devotions to every day living. We endeavor to turn them into moments of zen, a place of peace. Sanity amidst the confusion of our lives. They darken the line between what is routine and what is deliberate intent.

Recently, I purchased a tradional Japanese tea set. Cast-iron green metal tea-pot with the symbol for ‘memory’ etched into it, a pale wooden lacquered tray, two small tea cups with leaf holders to sit upon, and a couple hundred dollars in expensive tea: English Morning, Irish Morning, Golden Monkey Oolong, Meadow Mint.

That night I made some tea and sipped it while watching TV. Rituals are best when they are about the simple pleasures in life. Cloves. A glass of port. An hour of good reading. Being on your knees, answering only when spoken to, addressing someone as Master. Practiced ease in giving in to that touch on your throat.

What are the rituals in your life?

—

It starts with a look – a question in your eyes that asks:
Shall we dance?

The touch of my will, like silk steel, gives my answer:
I’ll take the lead.

Undressed.

I am perverse.

I have no shame in saying this; I embrace it. I revel in it. I seek to understand it.

One aspect of my perversity is my desire to touch the human animal within those I play with. To distill for a few minutes that electric liquid exilir comprised of two parts raunch, two parts rigid instinctual need, and one part laughter.

This is my nectar.

—

When I am in a particularly good mood, I find myself mentally undressing those women I have the potential to be attracted to.

I’m not picturing perfect bodies – I can stare at a plastic Barbie doll if that was my desire. What I think about are the imperfections – the differences that makes them unique, that shift them from being an abstraction and into being a potential reality.

I want to hear the story of their desire in the pattern of their breathing. I want to feel the rhythm of their lust in the undulation of their hips.

I live for that moment when they stop being a lady. When they cross over to me – racing, stumbling, wide-eyed or blindly seeking. When they give into impulse.

When they become mine.

“Going to make this difficult?”

Someone once asked me what ‘kind of man’ I was. A leg man? A breast man?

No.

Finally, she suggested I was a brain man. For some reason, despite being more accurate than the first two guesses, I found this incredibly amusing.

Yes, I love a woman’s mind. More than that, I crave the contour of her soul, the cracks in the casement of her life.

I crave, want, desire, a woman’s mind. But when I look at a woman’s body, there are three places my gaze goes. Her eyes. Her throat. And her ass.

***

D’jaevle throws you onto the bed, face down.

Madeleine grins and scrambles up to all fours in a futile attempt to escape, her hair tousled around her face.

D’jaevle slowly arches a brow, as if to say “Going to make this difficult?” He shakes his head and steps up to the edge, eyes watching you intently.

Not really having time to make it difficult, Madeleine decides not to, and snuggles back down the way you threw her in the first place.

D’jaevle’s hands rip your pants over your waist roughly, yanking them off. His fingers snag your panties with them, leaving your bottom half, naked, exposed, and facing him.

Madeleine is suddenly cold, and wishes she’d run when she had the chance. On the other hand… “Spank me hard,” she murmurs, with a flutter of eyelashes.

D’jaevle nudges your thighs open with his knee, his hands doing his speaking for him. He doesn’t give you what you want, content for the moment to run a finger down the edge of your ass, between each cheek, a delicate trace along your back.

Madeleine shudders and pouts, glancing at you over her shoulder. Even after a moment, she’s already saturated with arousal.

D’jaevle finishes the trace with his fingers brushing your heat from behind. He drags his wet fingers back over your ass, and then leans down to lick your skin clean, his hands on your hips, holding you still.

Madeleine tenses in anticipation of the bite she thinks is going to follow that lick.

D’jaevle does indeed nip your skin, but it’s along the small of your back as his hand comes down *hard* on your ass, causing your whole body to shake under the intense impact of his hand meeting your vulnerable skin.

Madeleine yelps, and falters on the bed a little, burying her face in the sheets.

D’jaevle brings his hand down again, flat across both cheeks, leaving a red imprint of his hand burned into your skin. His breath is harsh against your back, your pain inspiring his own hunger.

Madeleine squirms away from the blow at first, but warms to it a moment later as the pain dissipates across her skin and fades into arousal. “Again…” she begs.