Category: Crimson Writ

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

A Proper Education, Part 1

This is an excerpt from a story I wrote last year. I never got around to concluding the thread started with this scene, and I'm now considering the possibility of separating it from the original story and giving it a life of its own.

Here is the excerpt, with a few edits and the protagonist's name changed.

—

There is a land, very far away, and often forgotten.

In this land, there is a small harbor town.

There is a cliff by the town, and on this cliff is a lighthouse

At the top of this lighthouse is a hexagonal room of glass designed to protect both the source of the lighthouse’s brilliant light and the light keeper who maintains it. Five of the six walls of the room are made of glass and bordered in bronze; the sixth wall is not a wall at all, but a glass door. The revolving lamp in the center of the room takes up most of the available space, but there is a a three-foot wide path around the perimeter that can be walked in comfort.

Within this space, facing out towards the glass, a woman is held suspended by rope.

Although this room had been built for a single purpose, the master of the lighthouse had made some adjustments. Spaced at every foot and a half, hooks circled the ceiling above the path bordering the lighthouse lamp; a matching set of hooks followed in precision along the ground. Four of these hooks were currently in use and had, attached to them, long strands of rope that ended in leather strips. Positioned correctly, the leather could be used to hold a human figure spread-eagled above the ground. A figure such as Evelyn’s, the woman currently held locked into a spread-eagled position a good foot off the ground.

Sebastian paused on the last step of the spiraling staircase. A woman’s beauty can be captured in her silhouette; the hazy borders of the female form simplified in a manner that bypasses surface desires and strikes a much deeper chord. Shading gives definition to curves of breast and hip, depth to the concave shadows at the apex of her thighs.

He watched the suspended figure take each slow breath. The rising and falling of her chest in a rhythm that was both calming and stirring. She had the well-exercised but not quite lean body of someone who was used to working outside but knew the luxuries of a good home. Her dark brown hair draped over her bare upper back; her head was lowered and her bangs hid her in a waterfall of brown that obscured the details of her face. He didn’t need to see the details to remember well the dark green of her eyes.

He thought back on the circumstances that had brought her here. The daughter of a small town’s mill owner, she was cursed with enough beauty to attract the attention of a wealthy merchant. The arranged marriage brought her father enough mercantile contacts to increase his wealth twofold, but had brought her only the grief of a loveless relationship. This proved to have some unforeseen consequences; on her wedding night, every male within three miles – including her husband, the town mayor and several prominent clergyman – experienced a quite sudden, and rather dismaying, loss of ardor. Such a blow to male pride is hard to swallow no matter how forgiving the partner. This continued for several months (coinciding with each attempted consummation of the marriage). The extent, nature and source of the problem would have gone undiscovered (being of a subject not much admitted to, much less discussed) had her husband not complained loudly to her father in one of the town’s local pub. Looks were shared, connections were made, and an ultimatum was provided: she would need to learn to control her gift or have her wedding nullified before being exiled from the town.

Her father had sent her to Sebastian with a plea and several bags filled with gold. Neither meant much to Sebastian, but the sadness in the girl’s eyes had convinced him to take her in.

Sebastian stepped into the lighthouse room and walked to Evelyn. She raised her head, green eyes meeting his. There was no fear in her. Her vulnerability left no place for it.

The right balance of pull along the ropes holding her aloft kept muscle strain to a minimum – but she had been there for hours. Sebastian could see her fatigue in the slight trembling along her arms. His long fingers brushed strands of brown hair away from her face, fingertips tickling her cheek. His voice, when he spoke, was soft, “Why are you here, Evelyn?”

Evelyn raised her head just a bit further. Her eyes had the clarity of molten glass. “To serve…myself.” The words slipped free without hesitation, a reflex as deep as breathing.

He nodded once, “And how best to serve yourself?” His fingers drew down against her chest, parting so that thumb and pinky each found the starting curve of a breast.

Her breathing caught, and her eyes closed as she focused on his hand, the way it continued its path lower, to her stomache, palm resting at the top of her abdomen. “By serving you, by serving you…” the words were breathed more than spoken and she shuddered as he turned his hand and slid it between her thighs, fingers curling up to feel the searing heat of her.

Sebastian spoke just a single word, but it was enough, “Yes.” She responded to it by rolling her hips forward, swaying in the ropes to press his hand deeper against her. Sebastian wrapped his free arm around her, hand coming to rest on the small of her back. He drew her into an embrace close enough for him to rest his cheek against the smooth heat of her breasts.

He listened to her heartbeat as two of his fingers slid inside of her and moved along the top, finding the slightly rough spot just a few inches inside. It did not take long, body shuddering and moving under his rhythmic touch, before she came hard into his hand, her thighs tensing and relaxing but unable to close on him. She was open, restrained, and completely at his mercy.

Sebastian remained there for a moment, fingers inside of her, listening to the music of her heartbeat, waiting for it to slow before slipping his fingers free. Taking his time, he knelt on one knee and released each of her ankles from the leather's embrace. Standing, he pressed himself fully against her and then pushed her back until he felt the weight of her body alongside his. Carefully, he released each of her wrists and felt her sag into his arms.

In silence he lifted her, cradling her naked form in his arms, and carried her down the stairs and to her room. Settling her into bed, he drew soft white sheets over her and smoothed the hair away from her face. She had not stirred since he taken her down, and he smiled to see her now turn her face towards his hand, lips brushing the palm. “Rest Evelyn. For tomorrow will see your final test.”

He left her there, in the dark, with a single candle as company.

Pilgrimage


touch like slivered
         words
mine are the scars
         to trace
                                    winding their own merry way

and here is the end where even my god
              fears to set his foot.

so?
        are
              you
                    ready
                             to
                                 be
                                     taken
                                             by
                                                  my
                                                      little
                                                            hunger?
   
Forever tastes like this.

silver buttons on quiet shores
lies like shimmering lucidity upon which is balanced some small winged angel

wings to beat against the fury, like tossing pennies
    into a wishing well made of liquid god.
wings to shelter human skin prone to cracking under the strain of holding us in.
wings to hide behind
wings to sob against

we have no wings.

we are left then with craving, crying, crawling.

—

                     Let them come
                     Let them come
                     And ask

                                   why we must
                                          always have this

      driving anger
             fucking about
                   till every inch of the hard-biting cry
                                                                      Ends.

             for I know them too well.

    I am
                 too animal to be human
                         too human to be more

View from the Top

The use of the term 'subspace' is part of BDSM vernacular. With a bit of research, you will find that a great deal has been written about what it feels like, the many ways it is achieved, and the role it plays in each submissive's lifestyle. On the other hand, there isn't a lot written on the state of mind of the dominant (though Daemon does an excellent job in describing the mindset of a sadist). 

This is understandable – subspace is almost tangible, a level of consciousness that is a noticeable change in perception and awareness. It has real affects (which vary from person to person), such as an increased tolerance to pain, the sensation of 'floating', a disconnection from the outside world, or even sublime peace.

A dominant's head space is harder to pin down. It is assumed they are thinking up evil plans or planning their next step of cruelty. With their mind filled with the details of running the scene, is there any room for anything else?

Yes. 

In broader terms, I use the metaphor of the caged wolf to describe how it feels when that dark desire lies coiled inside me, waiting.

Every so often, I let it out. 

This state is rare and most often brought on by a combination of natural hunger, an irresistible opportunity, and a need to test myself. I see the gap between what I want and what she is capable of giving to me at that moment, and distance between the two becomes irrelevant. 

I become capable of acts that would normally make me hesitate.

Need becomes a cold fire, and I act in a manner both calculated and instinctual. There are no moments of indecision, no questioning of motive. Those choices have already been made.

All that is left is the feast.

— 

And that – that's a small glimpse at how it feels from the other side.

Improper Usage of a Desk

It is my desk you feel against your back.

I push you into it, hands on hips to lift your over the edge and set you on top. With one hand, I press you down, pinning you firmly onto your back. Rope is wound tight around your wrists, my fingers follow the length of nylon upwards, loose ends captured in my grip.

I tug firmly, pulling your arms over your head, and then tie off the ends under the edge of the desk.

You are now bound.

I stand between your parted thighs, staring down upon you. You raise your head to watch me push your skirt up over your waist, your eyes riveted on the motion of my fingers as they hook on the last piece of clothing between you and the desk. Slowly, letting the fabric draw along your naked skin, revealing your secrets one inch at a time, I slip it off.

And now you are bared.

The smooth cool surface of the desk against your skin is a reminder of place, a distinguished contrast to the warmth of my palms as they press along the inside of your thighs. You know I relish this position over you, this place that allows me to do what I want to you. Where the gentle touch of my fingers and lips, the cruel bite of my nails and teeth, the quiet guidance of my words, can pull you close enough to the edge that you tremble and cry out.

I write my words on your naked skin, whisper my name against stomach. Your skin is soft to my touch, and smells of jasmine.

I want you.

I make you a willing participant to my desires. I place you atop a chasm and hold you there, knowing full well how far you have to fall. When my fingers draw along the slick heat between your thighs, you feel yourself slip, fighting to hold still. And this struggle, this desperate attempt to keep yourself from going over, only makes the pressure worse. It is a victory you don't want me to have, but each touch is agonizing, each word a taunt that threatens to make you lose control.

You are filled with fire, your nerves burning and your skin hot, yet you keep from falling. And for a moment, you think you have won.

But all it takes is a kiss.

Left along the side of your neck, an intimacy almost unconnected with the fingers buried inside of you. A single kiss, warm and light, and the words, "Give me what is mine."

And you are lost. 

Madeleine: Markings

We mark what we would own, lining skin with scratches and bites. We write our ownership in the calligraphy of the cruel, broad brush strokes of word and whip, leaving scars both emotional and physical. The most delicious of morsels are plucked still red and sore, a tasting of plump flesh engorged with pleasure.

Yours.

It becomes an internal anthem, a mantra to self, and this belief of place, this dedication to the life carved out by you, for you, with you, is enough to fill you entirely, washing away the grit that would sandpaper you into nothingness.

—

Madeleine laughs. "I'm a woman… you shouldn't get your hopes up."

D’jaevle looks down at you in his lap, "And I am cruel. I shall leave one here," his finger runs over your neck, right where it meets your shoulder. "And here,", his finger slips down to your breasts, tracing the curve of one, stopping along the side, "Maybe here…" the finger continue to your hip, lazily teasing the skin.

Madeleine grins. "All new places… perhaps one day, there won't be a single part of me below the neck that you've not marked."