Category: Crimson Writ

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

Weapons of Choice

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

Lullaby

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

Leavings

You promised not to leave. Linguistic salvation would have to be enough.

But it never is; true salvation is in the act. Your mute appeals were too quiet to ignore. I bound your hands and feet and left you to the whimpers of helpless sensation. I hinted at the purpose that may be yours.

Your missing pieces are not hidden.

I cut them in the shape of your broken parts.

Gaze

Eyes, said to be the gateway of the soul. The difference between staring and gazing is…what? The barrier of soul being raised or lowered?

I’ve seen pretty eyes, sorrowful eyes, intent eyes – yet I do not believe that you see through them and into a person. They tell just as much when closed, as when open.

Let us take your eyes, for example.

Do they look away during a particularly intimate moment of the conversation? Do they flicker down and to the side when I mention how warm your skin is? Do they widen when my fingers find the pulse on your wrist? Do they go half-lidded when I whisper the details of my plans for you? Do they close entirely the first time my teeth find that spot along your inner thigh?

—

D’jaevle leans over and whispers softly, “If I were to fuck you, how would you want it?”

Madeleine hmmms. “I think I’d want you on top of me, so I could look into your eyes.”

D’jaevle looks down at you, “Could you hold my gaze while I slid into you?”

Madeleine says “It would be hard… but I think I could try.”

D’jaevle draws the hair from your face again, “The whole time I drove into you?”

Madeleine nods. “I think I’d like to try… I can imagine it would make me squirm.”

D’jaevle says “Yes, it would. Especially if you saw in my eyes what I think you would.”

Madeleine says “What do you think I would see?”

D’jaevle says “You sure you want to know?”

Madeleine nods.

D’jaevle says “I think you would see me taking everything away from you. Each time I slid inside, you would see me laying you open, driving into you just exactly where I’ve placed you.”

Madeleine says “Or I’d see anger. I often think you look angry when you’re above me that way. It makes me feel very small and helpless.”
Madeleine says “Which, of course, I kinda like. ;)”

D’jaevle smiles, “You might see anger.” He leans over, “And you might see something…else.”

The Occasional Gentleman

I am coming to believe I am not a Dominant as others perceive that role to be.

I find myself a different breed of animal.

I dominate, but do not demand.

I require, but do not insist.

I take without fear, but always with thought.

I am polite, but cruel.

I am the occasional gentleman, but always the rake.

I want to possess a person, but I am not possessive.

I am a predator, but I am as addicted to the hunt as I am to the kill.

I am more philosopher magician than warrior king.

I write of sacrifice – yours and mine.

—

Brute force of will is not my instrument of choice. To demand or insist is to imply a loss of control. My answer to a request unanswered is in the silence of rebuke or in the sharp cry of pain and pleasure born of an ass burnished bright red.

I enjoy overpowering, whether it be the physical act of holding someone down or the agile cleverness necessary to draw someone under. I am unafraid to strip someone bare, but I always do so with purpose. I enjoy the irony when I place you on all fours and whisper to you what a bitch you are for me (because I do it out of respect for the needs we both share).

I get jealous. But more often I just get better at what I do. Jealousy, for me, is born of not knowing. If I know how much of you belongs to me when you are on your knees, what cause is there to fear you with someone else? Better earned trust and ownership than the sickness of envy.

Any relationship is a partnership of needs. How these needs are met defines the relationship. And equality is not found in an equal division of needs, but in how well each meets, enjoys, and accepts the needs of the other.

Some may think this the very definition of domination. But quite a few see domination as a state of being played much closer to the surface than you may see here. The beauty is that there is no one truth, no single path to follow.

Walls

NE says I have a thing for walls because I have a habit of pushing her up against them.

It’s not just walls; I use doors, windows, whatever is available.

Why?

I like to trap her. It makes it easier to pin her hands over her head. I can press my knee between her thighs and part them. And it’s not just for me – when I slide to my knees and drape one of her legs over my shoulder, it gives her something to brace against while I nuzzle her stomache and bury my face between her thighs.

Mystery

What is mystery?

There are the secrets we wrap about ourselves, knowing the lure a mystery can have on the untamed soul. We offer tidbits, slices of ourselves, cut to a size that tantalizes and teases but never quite satisfies. These are mysteries we wear, masks we’ve crafted with purpose.

The mysteries I want to speak about are the mysteries we inhabit. The ones internal to us. The parts of ourselves we have yet to grow into. The spring in which our muse dwells.

It is the promise of an unwritten future, the joy inherent in myriad paths unfolding before us.

Lost mystery engenders the little death. To have no mysteries left within us is to forget ourselves.

Stagnation starts here, the shifting waters of ourselves not calmed or stilled, but untouched. We distract ourselves to hide this little death. We throw ourselves into work. We watch more TV. We devote ourselves to a single person without reservation, needing to believe their mystery will be enough for two.

Finding mystery again is so simple we see through it, past it, a transparent mirror to the self you want to see. You pause to enjoy a bit of music and think, See? I am enjoying life. You read a bit of prose that makes you smile and think, Here, this is it, a new idea. I am still learning, moving forward. You see a new play, you write a sonnet, you envision perfection in a scene and bring it to life, each time thinking, I am alive, I am alive!

But you are seeing only what you want to see. Because you never hold on to these moments; they have become so familiar to you that you let them slip from your grasp, content to accept them at face value. You are too full to understand that you will always enjoy that music, that the ideas you read were ones you accepted into yourself long ago, that the sonnet you wrote is merely the reshaping of words you’ve written a thousand times.

Finding mystery again is to unknow. Is to unacknowledge, to unbelieve. To unburden yourself. It is not about disavowing a lifetime of joys and wisdom, but about giving yourself permission to let go. It is the act of release, allowing yourself to make space for something new. It is to create room inside you for growth.

It is inviting mystery back into your life.

“I’m about to float out of my skin”

One word after another, weaving the lines tighter and tighter, devolving thought into instinctual pleasure.

—

Djaevle: Press your hand in against your pussy.

Reine: yes

Djaevle: Feel the heat.
Djaevle: The wetness.
Djaevle: The hunger, under your hand.
Djaevle: Feel yourself stroking, for me.
Djaevle: Feel it build even higher.
Djaevle: Until you feel it in your pulse.
Djaevle: Your breathing.
Djaevle: Your hand.

Reine: god
Reine: it is ethereal
Reine: i’m about to float out of my skin
Reine: may i?

Djaevle: Almost.

Reine: please

Djaevle: Think. On that edge.
Djaevle: Think about the wicked things I make you do.
Djaevle: That I can make you do.
Djaevle: That you’re playing with your pussy at my words.
Djaevle: That I could make you be even more wicked.
Djaevle: Feel that.
Djaevle: Taste it.
Djaevle: Do anything for it? 

Reine: YES