Category: Crimson Writ

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

Mood Ring

The first time NE told me she wasn’t in the mood, I gave her a look and smiled. It was still early in our relationship and she had yet to fully grasp what she was getting into. Within minutes I had her leaning back on the steps of the dorm, her breathing erratic and her eyes half-closed.

It has got to the point that she won’t even say those words anymore. To say them is to practically ensure the opposite of her intentions is going to occur.

So how does this work, this ability to awaken the hunger with a look, a touch, or a whisper?

By understanding the power of awareness.

We all have hunger. What I do is bring that hunger to the surface, reminding you of how good it feels.

This kind of hunger is life-affirming. We want to be in heat – but our conscious mind presses these feelings away. It is hard to live in a state of constant arousal; eventually our hunger becomes a need, that need becomes an edge, and that edge becomes sharp enough to cut.

Telling me you’re not in the mood? When I know you that well?

Silly rabbit.

—

I am going to be scarce over the next couple weeks, so my posts will be sporadic (next week I am heading to the beach and the following week I’ll be in Vegas for a conference).

Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone.

Hymns of the Faithful

“It’s almost like…like you’re tasting every word before you let it come out of your mouth.“

I am.

When I am inspired, I let words filter through my mental fingers like grains of sand, sifting them against my palm, feeling the weight of them. My will becomes the pivot upon which rests the balance of my desire.

I write sins for you the way hymns are written for the faithful.

—

You will give yourself to me

cross the threshold of my gaze

and believe.

For You or Me?

“Take off your panties.” There was only the slightest pause before she stood up, slid them down her thighs, and let them fall to the floor. I turned back to the computer, selecting a few more songs for the playlist. A moment later, I turned to her again.

“Stand up.”

“Now draw your skirt up over your hips.”

No pause this time. I watched skin appear from under the blue of her skirt and then ran my fingertips over her hips, tracing the curve of her ass down to the back of her thighs. “Bend over.” I followed the curve back up again, fingers spreading to caress the small of her back. Leaning over, I brushed my lips across her lower back, tasting the softness of her skin. Lips parted and traveled lower, following the heat of her skin along the edge of her ass, teeth grazing.

I turned her over and pressed her back on the leather ottoman. My knee nudged her thighs open and I rested my knee against her pelvis with just enough pressure to keep her pinned. She looked up at me and said, “That…was for you.”

I paused, looking down into her eyes, “Was it?” I lowered myself, my fingers drawing her thighs further apart, fingernails biting into her skin. My mouth found her throat, small burning kisses laid across her neck. “Are these for you or me?”

She arched up, “M-me.” My hands found her breasts, fingertips pressing down on her nipples through her shirt, “And this?” A gasp, her eyes closing, “You, you!”

Dragging my fingers down, I drew the v-neck of her shirt and the edge of her bra away, exposing her breast to my gaze and touch. Resting my head against her chest, I took my time in exploring the contours, my slow teasing licks a sharp contrast to the harsh pressing focus of my fingers as they slid between her legs.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I circled her nipple until I felt it harden against my lips. Now teeth, now the hard tug, just once, to let her know I was there. She took in a deep breath, her body shivering slightly underneath me.

Each time my hand found her throat, tilting her head back, each time my lips found another stretch of skin to taste, each time my breath touched her thighs, the question was there.

“…for you or me?”

The answer, of course, was simple.

Fill in the Blanks

Here is one half of a conversation I had with someone I consider to be deliciously adept at being the right kind of prey. This was…just under two and a half years ago.

The half missing? Mine. See if you can imagine what it is I am saying between each of her responses.

—

Mischief moans and presses herself against you. “Never mind.”

Mischief gasps involuntarily at the thought of being punished.

Mischief smiles mischievously, “And what if I said it was?”

Mischief groans, “In that case, I have a confession to make…”

Mischief inhales sharply, a growl escaping her lips.

Mischief says, between clenched teeth, “Harder. Bite harder.”

Mischief says, “Ohhh…” Mischief arches her back as she moans in pleasure.

Mischief squirms and purrs, “So have I.”

Mischief is breathing hard now, lost in the feel of your lips on her soft flesh.

Mischief groans, “Ye gods…what do you think?”

Mischief pants, “I’m dripping…the crotch of my panties is practically soaked. And that’s *not* hyperbole.”

Mischief leans over and moans softly in your ear, “How’s this for a voice breathless with anticipation and need?”

Mischief says, “Unh…” Mischief digs her nails into your back, whimpering with need.

Mischief just decides to dispense with the panties altogether, after which she slowly buries not two, but three fingers inside.

Mischief leans back on the couch, purring deeply with pleasure.

Mischief rests her hand on your head, entwining her fingers in your hair.

Mischief writhes back and forth, alternating between moaning and growling as she feels her clit become hard and swollen.

Mischief looks down at you. “Please…”

Mischief whimpers softly, “Oh…I want you to hear me moan for you…”

Mischief trembles, being driven almost crazy with the urge to climax.

Mischief whimpers, “Don’t stop…”

Mischief stares at you and whispers, the need in her voice apparent, “Call me? Please?”

Mischief growls. “Ohhhh…you…”

Mischief pants, her need making her rather dizzy. “Please…please call me…I need to cum.”

Mischief growls, “Now.”

Breathe.

Saturday night found me sitting in my hotel room (at a convention), drinking Coconut Rum and pineapple juice, and listening to an eclectic mix of party music. Resting my black and green leather flogger on my knees, I contemplated my next step. Finish the writing I had started earlier in the day? Wander into the hallway with the flogger and stir up trouble?

In a one-on-one situation, I have little trouble gaining ground with people. Group dynamics are trickier, particularly when I am in the role of the outsider. It can be a very thin line between ‘interesting fun guy’ and ‘creepy guy’.  The second label was one I didn’t want to even come close to inhabiting.

A disturbingly strong headache made the decision for me and I crashed early (only to be awoken briefly for a rather intriguing, and eye-opening phone call – a topic for another post). When I woke, I packed up my things and slipped out. I felt some regret in not having had the chance to speak to a couple of people I had intended to spend more time with, but I did manage to get some writing onto paper. Such as the poem below.

—

Four breaths
the distance between your
throat and breasts

Three to your stomache
two between your thighs
one to take you in

No breaths to find
the limit of you

Overdramatic

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

Vibrance Isn’t Necessarily Sanity

What cost, awareness?

—

Madeleine says, “Mon maitre, you never bring sanity to my life.”

D’jaevle says, “I bring the best kind of sanity possible.”
D’jaevle says, “You’re never more alive then when my hand is on your throat.”

Madeleine says, “You bring more like the pleasant numbness of complete upheaval. Vibrance isn’t necessarily sanity.”

The Fine Art of Absence

Taking time apart does not always mean an end, it may be a new beginning. Sometimes space is a necessity.

Absence does make the heart (and other, more malleable organs) grow fonder.

***

We want what we can’t have and we take for granted that for which we already hold. It is why abrupt loss of someone in your daily life can quicken your need for them. For months, years, decades, you develop a sense of understood comfortability in the commonality of a life share. It is only the absence of their presence that makes you keen.

It is one reason I guard my time and privacy so closely, choosing when and with whom I spend my time with. Overexposure leads to a lack of mystery, a loosening of the coil around their hearts and mind. Even with those closest to me, such as NE, I quietly put specific space between us to achieve a certain affect. I may be less communicative, a touch colder, weeks before a scene. I cultivate her hunger and nervousness, bringing it to a fine edge.

Fear

You are well acquainted with my fascination with edges, both real and metaphorical. My mind is occupied today with something that skates on the surface of every edge.

—

Fear.

It entrances me. Between what I want and what I can have is a gap, a sliver of space, black and sharp. If I could exist forever, it would be there. Time does not slow. It stops.

Breathing patterns my desires, my fingers gripping, careful – careful, not too tightly, yet, just a handhold, a place to place. I craft each unbalanced step atop unbalanced step, weaving my wants in and out of the spaces between. One whisper to topple it all. Delicate, half-starved, never pleading, quite beguiling, I push.

What is on the other side is never quite as exciting as what it takes to get there. This journey is the fear of not getting what I want.

Fear of danger? A different, but no less intoxicating fear.

This I draw with tight circles; it is in the presence, a cult of personality enforced by unrelenting form, hands and will driving you back against the wall. Leaving you uncertain despite an unshaken trust in me. I make you falter. I make you shake. I make you fear.

But I never make you doubt.