Category: Crimson Writ

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

trapped

It's funny how a darkened room filled with strangers can so quickly become the faded backdrop to a moment of such complete intimacy.

I counted the number of breaths it took between the meeting of our eyes and the first meager sampling of flesh. You pressed close, silver-fox eyes never leaving mine despite the inequities in height.

And then I watched the bright crimson of your lips part in surprise at the cool touch of something sharp and dangerous at the small of your back.

Your first mistake was coming so close. Your second was in trying to back away.

Four.

Four was the number of breaths it took to close the distance between us.

Three.

Three breaths for you to realize you were trapped between the point of a knife and my knowing smile.

Two.

The time it took for you to inch closer, motivated by the prickling tip of my knife. Your body settled nicely against me.

One.

One was all I gave you before I stole the rest away.

easter is more than chocolate bunnies

This weekend I attended Dark Odyssey's Winterfire, a weekend-long alternate lifestyles convention held at a local hotel in DC.

Attending the convention without a play partner (although I did have a comrade-in-crime, my good friend Tarkin), and not having any pre-arranged scenes, I was more voyeur than active participant.

I made it to several classes, picking up a few tips on rope bondage, flogging, and knife play. In particular, the bondage class was memorable, as the teacher (Shibari Warrior) had a very nice rapport with the victim he was tying up; he had her responding very nicely, illustrating to us just how enjoyable a knot in the right place can be.

I was able to meet up with Tess, although I didn't get nearly enough time with her; she bought a very nice black and red corset, and though I only caught her in it from across the room (she was occupied at the time), she looked…delectable.

And then there was the burlesque show, put on by Melody Sweet and the Rouge Coquette, which Tarkin and I attended with the ever lovely Mistress Dolphy, and her friends (Angelina, Lucy, and Shazz). French maid outfits, the can-can, and Melody Sweet dressed (and then undressed…) as an angel while singing a hauntingly beautiful song about falling. What more could a decadent sadist want?

But as much as I enjoyed the classes and burlesque show, what stands out most in my mind are the various scenes I saw taking place in the dungeon play areas.

My favorite may be a knife scene, found in a side room (a room where a man and a woman were being pierced with small colorful pins that turned their skin into art, and another girl's back was made into a living corset).

The knife scene: the girl was bound and laid out on the floor, leaving her vulnerable to the variety of knives being run along the more sensitive stretches of skin. Her top's use of edge and knife tip kept her writhing, her cries a mix of surprise, fear, and pleasure. A blade drawn across her throat, slowly; the piercing sharp tip of hand-daggers pressing into the palms of her hands; her feet untied, twisting and moving as cool steel traced lines up the inside of her thighs.

Oh, and did I forget to mention the bachelor party we attended? The one with the hot pole-dancing nurse, the one where a very pretty blonde was on his knees, arms bound in red ribbon, and giving head to the bride-to-be while she clung to the pole and the groom got spanked?

No? I'll have to save that story for another time.

one hundred percent true

to the innocent child
safely snug in comfort green
your laughter
crowds my heart

to the unrepentant teacher
driven, but never divided
your passion
is a lesson itself

to the patient submissive
whose quiet never quite reaches her eyes
your deserving need
serves my own

and to the fair-skinned woman
who believed when I said time would be enough
your love
is a fulcrum in my life

the other side of the blade

It has been a while since I shared one of these conversations. 

I met Keysha at a weekend-long convention I attended; between events at the convention, I spent my time in my hotel room, door open, reading a book and listening to the world outside.

A few weeks after the convention, I corresponded with Keysha. We both had plans to attend the convention again the next year, but it never happened.

—

Keysha wishes muchly that you'd simply dragged me into your room at Con. I'd wanted to pester you, but every time I saw you alone, you were reading.

D'jaevle smiles. I was keeping myself entertained; several people did come by to pester me. But you were mostly otherwise occupied. Besides, how much trouble do you think you'd have let yourself get into?

Keysha pages: Actually, a lot of the time I was bouncing around, looking for things to do.. and I tend to not interrupt people who are reading, I value my time with books. But… *whimpers* Enough trouble to get both of us hungry for more? At the right touch, I'd have done anything…"

D’jaevle touches your cheek, but his fingers are not gentle, "Anything? Because I can tell you that if you had responded right…so easy to slip your shirt over your head, to give a naked canvas to play with. For fingers to linger on your shoulders, slipping around the front from behind."

Keysha whimpers from more shivers. "Being touched can be the greatest seduction, when it's done right. And if someone takes that time, I'm very seducible. Anything."

D’jaevle brushes your lips with fingertips, "You know well enough now, my patience. Unfolding, the slow heat. Finding each sensitive part. I thought of it – of what you would look like under my fingers. Of how your whimpers would sound."

Keysha curses missed opportunity, and tugs your jeans lower, caressing the revealed skin with her lips and fingers. "This gives us… who knows how much added time, to tease one another before we meet, then?

D’jaevle takes another deep breath as you move. "Enough." He takes a slow breath, "Anything. Anything, hands finding your bare breasts. Anything, fingers parting to capture nipples. Anything, walking that edge, seeing how far you'll let the line take you, there in a room."

Keysha wraps both of her legs around one of yours and whimpers, pressing her face against your stomach to muffle it. "Such cruel thoughts you fill my mind with.. and yes.. anything. I would happily be led down that line, as far as it would take me."

D’jaevle pages: Cruelty is a double-edged knife, and soon I must sleep.

Keysha would far rather have you at night than sleep.

D’jaevle smiles. Are you offering yourself in the place of sleep?

Keysha blushes. "If you'd want me"

D’jaevle chuckles, "Oh, I do. But to replace sleep…you'd have to offer yourself. Your skin. Your heat. What do you fear?"

Keysha pages: to me, there are two types of fear,.. but one is better expressed as dread. I don't /dread/, talking to you on the phone,.. I fear it.. which is a much more delicious sensation, one I can savor and enjoy, and succumb to if I were to go through with it. It would be the delight of being drawn into talking, and of teasing, since I'm the most nervous on the phone, out of any form of interaction. It's the knot in the pit of my stomach, that feeling of danger, without it being present, and then, giving in and letting go…. that's what I mean. It's enough to make my whole body ache with wanting,.. enough to make me stifle whimpers just from reading and thinking of what you suggest doing to me.. it's fearing that I would give in to all of it, if I could, and wanting to. It's wanting to be helpless under your control.

D’jaevle pages: Tell me what you want.

Keysha pages: I want to feel the heat of your kisses, and your hands, roughly parting my legs as I lie beneath you. I want the sensation of your teeth against my nipple, biting hard enough to make me gasp as you enter me, after driving each other nearly to the brink of madness with desire. And I want to feel us give each other shuddering pleasure until we collapse, spent and exhausted, finally able to rest, too tired to move apart. I want to feel my heart racing just at the thought of you, feel my breath quicken at the sight of you, my legs tremble at the sound of your voice.

D’jaevle smiles. Yes. And now – now, what is it you want me to make you do?

Keysha pages: other than beg for release?

D’jaevle pages: Yes.

Keysha doesn't know what her options are, which makes it hard.

D’jaevle smiles. Take off your shorts.

Keysha does so… but only after closing the blinds.

D’jaevle pages: 'Panties.'

Keysha blushes… and does.

D’jaevle pages: “Part your thighs. Press your palm down along the inside, against the heat. Drag your fingers up against yourself. Then again. Again. Until you are wet.'

Keysha shivers and whimpers, doing as you ask, eyes closed for a minute.

D’jaevle pages: 'It won't take much. You're already right there. Fingers moving, think of my eyes on you.’

Keysha is…very wet, with an aching pain between her legs, needing to be filled, joined.

D’jaevle pages: ‘I want to hear you whimper. When I tell you how I am going to nudge against you, just barely inside, just at the edge, back and forth.'

Keysha buries her face against the bed, hiding. "Oh god, that's cruelty. It's like holding water before a person dying of  thirst, and keeping it just out of reach."

D’jaevle pages: ‘I told you cruelty was double-edged.’

rose garden

be my rosary
            a decade of regrets
                      in a passing touch
 
 
your curves and cleft,
                 chalice
                      and font
                      
 
be my sanctuary,

       your bowed body
                   my
                  altar
 
 
and let the sound
              of your cries
                         give voice to my prayers

  
 

One step at a time.

She stood at the top of the stairs, blindfolded and naked.

With a single tug on the leash, she took a shaky step forward. Her left foot came to an uneasy rest on the step below. Her right foot followed a moment later.

I signaled again and she advanced down to the next step, moving with the unsteady grace of the blind; her hands were at her sides, but at each step they would reach the slightest bit forward, fingers grasping and flinching at the unseen. Step by step, I took her down the stairs, my touch on the leather strap her sole source of guidance.

And in her descent, I found beauty.

In her trust, implicit as it was: there were no hedged moments of hesitancy as I led her down the stairs.

In her vulnerability. Divested completely of conceit, her thoughts were unguarded; I watched them play out in the sway of her body and the brisk pacing of each breath.

And in my connection to her, a pattern of direction and response played out along the length of leather from my hand to the collar around her neck.

a poem, like a cage

But I am patient, and I understand something fundamental about the dichotomy of your role. It's not me your fighting. It's the coiled desire you keep so tightly in check, the sliver of need I've awoken.

It is surrendering to your desire you fight against.

And my firm grip, my gaze as it watches you, my words that detail the way I will lay you out as a feast, the knowledge I will follow through, despite your own fears – these are just the first steps.

— 

'Don't Feed the Words' said the sign.

[audio:Djaevle_Signs.mp3]
D'jaevle, Signs

Obeisance

Such a naughty girl.

Capture comes in many forms, but today it is found in the length of rope wound tightly around your wrists and stretched in a single twined path to the headboard. Placed on your knees, you are obeisance in form, a naked statue paying homage in reverse.

For I am behind you.

I know your hips well, and I should, for they have held you in this position many times before. Kneeling, I draw you back far enough for the rope to tighten around your wrists, forcing your ass close enough to feel the hard length of my growing need through the coarse fabric of my jeans.

Enough; you know your place now, your upper half securely bound, and the lower free for me to use.

I pull away, leaning over your back, my breath tickling your skin as I leave small bites along the length of your spine, teeth drawing across your bared skin, bestowing the small cruelties where flesh meets hunger. At the curve of your ass, I pause, and a more intimate touch is applied.

Nuzzling, I lick lower, pressing downward until I can taste you. Fingers replace my tongue: two, slipped quickly inside, curled upwards to read you from within, a steady pressure that fucks with intent, slipping in and out of you again and again until I feel you clenching greedily against my invading hand. My other hand finds your clit and is less gentle, capturing it between two knuckles, rolling it slowly side to side, tightening again and again, never quite touching it directly, just teasing, a cruel dance played out between the space of my fingers.

Now when I grip your hips, I'm not testing the strength of the rope, but the limits of your hunger. I slide into you, a single fucking thrust that drives you forward only to have you dragged back again when my fingers slide into the back of your hair and tug. I want you taunt, caught between the rope and my cock.

Now the real games can begin in earnest.