Category: Captured – The Spoken Word

kisses are a better fate
than wisdom.
~e.e. cummings

the first kiss

[audio:Djaevle_AThousandKisses_01.mp3]
D’jaevle, A Thousand Kisses, Part One

There is a place between understanding and enlightenment. We, creatures of habit yet seekers of knowledge, disdain the ordinary yet prefer it to the alternative. Can we be taught to want – to need – more?

I believe we can.

—

She says I make her mad, in a good way. At times, she makes me feel the same way.

[audio:NE_Tease.mp3]
NE, Mad

My collection of toys is eclectic. I don’t own any dildos. No vibrators, large or small, phallus or butterfly shaped.

In my official toy chest I have a flogger, a pair of leather cuffs, a leather collar, leather leash, and nipple clips.

I am also the proud owner of a lot of edged weapons.

I never want my toys to be the centerpiece when I play (unless, of course, that is the point of the session). I want the experience itself to be the focus. The slow seduction or the rough submission. Toys are props for me. I’m just as content pinning hands over head and holding them still in my grip, as I am in tying them down with rope. Sloping furniture made for experimenting with positions is nice, but my large leather reading chair is perfect for spreading open someone’s thighs, resting them on the plush arms, and laying them forth as a feast.

An evening of slow increasing pressure drawn forth in glances and subtle touches is just as effective as any toy I have yet had the pleasure to use.

Not to say I don’t love playing with toys – there are many I look forward to experimenting with. But to bastardize a well-worn sentiment – I want to own my toys, not have them own me.

—

[audio:Serenity_Nethers.mp3]
Serenity, Nethers

The last of my bedtime stories for a long time to come. I have an idea for future audio posts (in a slightly different vein).

I realized something today while listening to the recording below. I record these not for an audience, but for myself. My tone is overy affected. I do in fact eat the words, lingering over some, moving quickly past others.

I've asked NE – what is it that I sound like when I take her down?

Different from the posts, she responds. Some of them she finds quite sexy and…effective. Others she is less impressed with.

Ah, NE – so quickly to her knees she goes, but never fearful of telling me her truth.

—

[audio:Djaevle_BedtimeStory_6.mp3]
D'jaevle, A Fearsome Lullaby

This is a longer bedtime story; my fourth, and one I did over a month ago. There is an eclectic range of music woven through my words – but with a bit of patience, you might find the trip rewarding.

Enjoy.

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

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.

Everything here, in this place, is filtered, edited.

It is part of the charm of this medium, that perfection may be attempted. Attempted, but never attained. Because it is that drive for perfection, that constant editing, molding, shifting of ideas, that continual desire to see it better, that ensures it never will be.

***

Here, uneditted. One take, one try.

A taste of imperfect perfection.