Category: Crimson Writ

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

Meeting Mr. Desmond

An old story, written from a different perspective.

— 

When people discuss the approach of dusk, it is often described in one of two days: the gradual shading in of evening, the passing of a day in a fashion that is imperceptible even while you are watching it – or, the dramatic change from light to day much like pulling a slate of sheet rock across the sky.

The darkness that fell on the small town of Jacobs was neither of these. Darkness came down like rain, a cessation of light in hazy scratches drawn across the sky, in some places pooling into tiny black lakes, and in other running in thin lines down the street like run-off from a painter’s brush. 

—

My name is Josephine.

The first time I saw Mr. Desmond, I thought it accidental.

I was holding a rose between my fingers. Its soft petals of bright red had an almost hypnotizing affect on me. The mid-afternoon breeze caused the petals to rustle and I teased them lightly with my fingertips; they felt like satin against my skin, a sweet sensation followed by a rather unexpected pain as my fingers drifted too low and caught on a sharp thorn.

Startled, I let the rose slip my fingers.

While bending over to retrieve it, I caught a glimpse, just at the edge of my vision, of a man in dark green and black. Something about him caught my interest. It wasn't his face, which most often catches my attention, nor his eyes, which are one of my great weaknesses. No, it was something in the way he held himself, a solidity of confidence as he crossed the street opposite the flower stand I stood beside. I turned towards the street to get a better look, but the swelling lunch crowd swept away all trace of him. Or … almost all trace; there was an indelible path woven through the milling people, as if people were shifting in some Jungian way around a single person.

Curious, I followed him into the crowd.

My next glimpse of him was more deliberate. He had paused at a street corner to light a cigarette. The silver of his lighter flashed in the evening sun, and the way in which he took that first drag – as if his entire focus was on that single action – stopped me in my tracks.

It gave me an opportunity to actually look at him. Dark black hair atop a face that would be considered serious in business room, but on a street-corner appeared more like concentrated intent. Not overly tall, nor noticeably short, his clothes rested comfortable on his frame. Not an easy feat  – wearing a black sports jacket hanging over dark brown slacks on a mid-summer afternoon – but one he could carried off quite well.

I stood watching the cars rush past him at the intersection; it appeared to me that he wasn’t there waiting to cross but waiting on…what? I was so absorbed in studying him, that it took me a moment to realize he was looking back at me.

Too startled to be embarrassed, I just stared back at him. I lost him a moment later in the dizzying speed of the cars flashing across the intersection. I sighed, shaking the day-dream from my head.

I could have followed him further, but I followed my hunger instead. I knew well the food served at numerous street cafes, but I took my time in browsing through their culinary offerings, I was well on my way to forgetting the intriguing stranger, when I felt a hand lightly brush my shoulder. I turned from a café menu, to find myself face to face with the man I had followed.

“Did you drop this?” He asked, holding aloft a rose I recognized as the one I had held earlier.

“That….I….” I paused to pull my thought together, “Yes, I did.”

He smiled, "May I join you for lunch?”

Ten minutes later saw us sitting at a small round table in the courtyard of the café. Other then sharing names (he shared his last, I, my first) we had yet to establish any meaningful conversation. “So…Mr. Desmond. What brings you to the small town of Jacobs? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

“Ah, yes.” He waved the young waitress over, glancing to her name-tag, “Malory. What a beautiful name.” The girl’s blush almost reached her eyes. “A cup of your strongest coffee please, for me. And for Josephine here…”

“Ice tea. No sugar, please.” I realized I was nervously tapping my fingers on the cool glass of the table and stilled my hand. Mr. Desmond had set the rose upon the glass surface of the table, and I distracted myself by rolling it over gently, feeling the smooth green stem between my fingers.

“I am here to meet some people. Three, in fact.” said Mr. Desmond.

“Family?”

“No.”

“Friends?”

“No…well, not exactly.’ He chuckled. “They’ve never really met me before, which would make the prospects of friendship rather difficult at the moment.”

I like to consider myself a rather sharp person, but I found myself confused, “I’m not sure I understand…”

“No, of course you don’t.” His words eased into the space my confusion had left. He raised his left hand, holding up three fingers, “Mrs. Lovell.” One finger down. “Angela Beckett,” The second finger folded in. “And Josephine.” The last finger went down. He spoke each name like he was sharing a secret with an intimate of his. I hardly knew the man, yet he acted with an assumed familiarly that left me more then a little uncomfortable. 

I gathered my wits, “But to what purpose do you want to meet…”

His long fingers lifted the rose from the table. “It’s what I do. Meeting people.” He gently draw one of the petals from the rose, resting it atop of finger like an offering.

A moment of  silence. “Why are you telling me this?”

Eyes the color of grey skies regarded me in silence. His finger tilted slightly and the petal slid clear of his finger, tumbling gracefully to rest atop my hand like an angel kiss.

“Because it is what you want.” I felt his eyes on my skin, as if the weight of his gaze was something physical, “Your capture will be the easiest, because it will be your own curiosity that drives you there.” He leaned forward, resting the rose on the mirrored surface between them. “You will be here tomorrow, and the day after, to hear each step of their seduction. Until we reach a point, the climax of the story, where you want to know,” the pause was a smile, small, controlled, “…how I take them. And you will know the price for the story.”

There was nothing left but silence for me. I was unable to speak while he carefully removed his wallet and placed several crisp bills on top of the table between the wine-glass and his untouched brandy. I wasn’t even able to watch him as he turned and left the café.

I did know the price. Worse. I feared I might be willing to pay for it.

I felt the first drop of rain. 

nocturne, by memory

I still have dark dreams.

It is late, late enough that dawn curls at the corners of the street, a promise of orange and red that threaten to spoil the perfect blanket of darkness.

It is late, and I am outside your house.

I call to you.

…

You come awake, laying silent in your bed.

A minute, two, and then you are slipping out from between the sheets, opening the front door and stepping outside.

…

Your robe slips from your shoulders.

You join the moonlight.

…

There is much I want to tell you.

I know so many new things. My teeth have only become sharper, sharp as the crease of pain in the absence of the devotion it evokes, sharp as the curved knives that fit into my hands like guilty lovers.

Much has changed, but my hunger.

My hunger is an old hunger.

…

I have no words, here.

…

We are standing, facing each other.

Waiting for sin, or salvation, or something that tastes like both.

We will wait forever, but dawn will not wait for us; it quiets all dreams.

…
……
…

My friend.

My dearest friend.

I still have dark dreams.

things not forgotten

  
 

I forget not the timbre of your voice
     soft at first
then raised, spiraling around my words
   only higher, still
       to return
as mist and sighs

I forget not the first glimpse,
   deceptively unblemished skin
      hiding the promise
   of sweetness

I forget not the way you look
      supine, or sublime
angered indifference
    at war
with beggared desire

No, I forget many things.

But you are not one of them.

  
 

nice shoes

NE suggested a slightly different take on my audio clip below; ever the benevolent dictator, I've replaced the clip with the newer version.

— 

Tonight is a time of hunger, when the wolf is close enough to the surface that I can feel the cold yellow eyes looking out.

is it ever enough, a bit of blood, the ungentle allure of the forbidden – 

is it ever enough, lips parted, eyes closed, breathing it, drowning in it –

is it ever enough, cutting against the grain instead of with it, as if the welling of need can be stemmed by nipping at the heels, chasing tail instead of heart?

I don't think it is. 

— 

May I suggest – this is best listened to alone.

[audio:Djaevle_Raw.mp3]
D'jaevle, Raw

pygmalion

  
 

long-limbed and lengthwise,
         in repose, upon my bed
               less and less the dark silhouette
                     at play, within my head
 
 
eyes lachrymal and cerise
         limbs argent, adorned
               an angel child with the devil's will
                     carved sibyl heart, and lithic born
 
 
reprobate, I wait unturned
          in my sanguineous desire
               to rest my head against the breast
                     and await the funeral pyre

  
 

inherent responsibility

In a recent correspondence with a submissive friend, I was asked an interesting question:

The question:

Could a man, who says he is an experienced Dom and looking for a submissive to train and serve, be truly comfortable with himself if he also needs the relationship to be discreet, sexually friendly, and without responsibility.

My answer:

There does appear to be a contradiction inherent in what he may be seeking. I can understand a friendly, sexual, exploration of D/s. And I believe we are all capable of defining the boundaries of the relationships we build between people.

However.

Friendly exploration and finding a submissive to /train/ and /serve/ are not particularly compatible. Those terms cannot be spoken of without there being responsibility – it is inherent in the very nature of such concepts. You do not train someone without then being at least partially responsible for what happens next. We're not speaking of a playful scene amongst friends. We're speaking of an agreement between two thinking, feeling, entities, where ones taking on the responsibility to shape the other in a direct and possibly lasting fashion.

Of course, as I spoke of earlier, I dislike letting anyone dictate what is and is not possible. If such an arrangement appeals to you, there may be a way to create an enjoyable partnership with the Dom – but in truth, it sounds to me as if he is someone who wants to play at being at Dom without assuming the full mantle of responsibility that comes with it (perhaps due to an aversion to commitment, perhaps due to his relationship status that requires he be discreet).

—

Thoughts?

pyrexia rain

It rains, and I think of you.

Water, racing across the window, sculpts the shadows that fall across my desk; my fingers trace the changing landscape, following the dark lines, and I remember.

I remember the way the rain tasted on your skin. I remember how it trickled down your stomach, your breasts providing a cool alcove while I knelt, cheek pressed to your bare skin. I turned my head upwards to catch the drops of rain as they slid over your curves and onto my waiting lips.

I drank you in.

In my study, I can hear the rain, tapping at the glass of the window, and when I open it, just a crack, I can hear the soft roar of the creek outside as it comes to life. Normally a quiet, lazy, memory of a stream, the torrential downpour has awoken it.

I listen, and I remember.

I remember hearing your heartbeat as I stood, my head resting on your chest, and it sounded like the roaring creek outside, as if we were rushing towards concupiscence and that if we didn't let go, the moment would crash through us, leaving us tangled, the space between us lost.

But we didn't let go. We clung together, eager to drown in each other's heat, our desire turning to ferocious need, our legs and arms clasped tightly; you were no longer simply rain-wet, you were fever-drenched, and I felt you tremble and quake against me.

Eventually the rain passed. And, after I had kissed the rain from your lips, after your fingers had brushed my wet hair back away from my face so that you could see my eyes again, we let go, reluctantly, unsure, just a bit awkward, as we attempted to find our footing alone.

I remember.

But you are not here, now, and I have only the memory of rain, the shadow of rain, to remind me. 

goddess

I want to deify her.

I want to make her an icon of all that is worst in my needs. I want to worship her from between her thighs, an act of serenity and sorrow. I want to drink her in and bathe in the heat of her rapture.

And I want to watch her fall.

Because fallen goddesses are the most beautiful of creatures, with their brutally shorn innocence, their sweet regrets, and their silent tears.