Category: Crimson Writ

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

Rituals

Each night, before I go to sleep, I open the windows in my bedroom, pless play on the MP3-player connected to the speakers on either side of my bed, and then slide between sheets that are soft and cool against my skin. There are times I will light a candle and fall asleep to the flickering shadows it casts on the walls of my room.

Rituals. We all have them. Morning coffee with the newspaper. Solitary masturbation in the shower before you sleep. Sopranos on Sunday night. The cigarette before you head through across the bridge on your way home from work. They comfort us, these acts, these devotions to every day living. We endeavor to turn them into moments of zen, a place of peace. Sanity amidst the confusion of our lives. They darken the line between what is routine and what is deliberate intent.

Recently, I purchased a tradional Japanese tea set. Cast-iron green metal tea-pot with the symbol for ‘memory’ etched into it, a pale wooden lacquered tray, two small tea cups with leaf holders to sit upon, and a couple hundred dollars in expensive tea: English Morning, Irish Morning, Golden Monkey Oolong, Meadow Mint.

That night I made some tea and sipped it while watching TV. Rituals are best when they are about the simple pleasures in life. Cloves. A glass of port. An hour of good reading. Being on your knees, answering only when spoken to, addressing someone as Master. Practiced ease in giving in to that touch on your throat.

What are the rituals in your life?

—

It starts with a look – a question in your eyes that asks:
Shall we dance?

The touch of my will, like silk steel, gives my answer:
I’ll take the lead.

Undressed.

I am perverse.

I have no shame in saying this; I embrace it. I revel in it. I seek to understand it.

One aspect of my perversity is my desire to touch the human animal within those I play with. To distill for a few minutes that electric liquid exilir comprised of two parts raunch, two parts rigid instinctual need, and one part laughter.

This is my nectar.

—

When I am in a particularly good mood, I find myself mentally undressing those women I have the potential to be attracted to.

I’m not picturing perfect bodies – I can stare at a plastic Barbie doll if that was my desire. What I think about are the imperfections – the differences that makes them unique, that shift them from being an abstraction and into being a potential reality.

I want to hear the story of their desire in the pattern of their breathing. I want to feel the rhythm of their lust in the undulation of their hips.

I live for that moment when they stop being a lady. When they cross over to me – racing, stumbling, wide-eyed or blindly seeking. When they give into impulse.

When they become mine.

“Going to make this difficult?”

Someone once asked me what ‘kind of man’ I was. A leg man? A breast man?

No.

Finally, she suggested I was a brain man. For some reason, despite being more accurate than the first two guesses, I found this incredibly amusing.

Yes, I love a woman’s mind. More than that, I crave the contour of her soul, the cracks in the casement of her life.

I crave, want, desire, a woman’s mind. But when I look at a woman’s body, there are three places my gaze goes. Her eyes. Her throat. And her ass.

***

D’jaevle throws you onto the bed, face down.

Madeleine grins and scrambles up to all fours in a futile attempt to escape, her hair tousled around her face.

D’jaevle slowly arches a brow, as if to say “Going to make this difficult?” He shakes his head and steps up to the edge, eyes watching you intently.

Not really having time to make it difficult, Madeleine decides not to, and snuggles back down the way you threw her in the first place.

D’jaevle’s hands rip your pants over your waist roughly, yanking them off. His fingers snag your panties with them, leaving your bottom half, naked, exposed, and facing him.

Madeleine is suddenly cold, and wishes she’d run when she had the chance. On the other hand… “Spank me hard,” she murmurs, with a flutter of eyelashes.

D’jaevle nudges your thighs open with his knee, his hands doing his speaking for him. He doesn’t give you what you want, content for the moment to run a finger down the edge of your ass, between each cheek, a delicate trace along your back.

Madeleine shudders and pouts, glancing at you over her shoulder. Even after a moment, she’s already saturated with arousal.

D’jaevle finishes the trace with his fingers brushing your heat from behind. He drags his wet fingers back over your ass, and then leans down to lick your skin clean, his hands on your hips, holding you still.

Madeleine tenses in anticipation of the bite she thinks is going to follow that lick.

D’jaevle does indeed nip your skin, but it’s along the small of your back as his hand comes down *hard* on your ass, causing your whole body to shake under the intense impact of his hand meeting your vulnerable skin.

Madeleine yelps, and falters on the bed a little, burying her face in the sheets.

D’jaevle brings his hand down again, flat across both cheeks, leaving a red imprint of his hand burned into your skin. His breath is harsh against your back, your pain inspiring his own hunger.

Madeleine squirms away from the blow at first, but warms to it a moment later as the pain dissipates across her skin and fades into arousal. “Again…” she begs.

Spoken Mastery [uneditted]

Everything here, in this place, is filtered, edited.

It is part of the charm of this medium, that perfection may be attempted. Attempted, but never attained. Because it is that drive for perfection, that constant editing, molding, shifting of ideas, that continual desire to see it better, that ensures it never will be.

***

Here, uneditted. One take, one try.

A taste of imperfect perfection.

Class Attendance

When I first began writing for this blog a year ago, it was for one real purpose – to have an excuse to write. I love writing. I love the power of the written word. And I love what it makes of me.

It was to be an experiment. Could I post consistently for a year? Write enough, speak interesting enough, believe enough, to do it? More than a diary, it became a sampling of my private life. The things I think of, the places my mind goes.

And I have succeeded, I believe.

I’m an intensely private person, which may seem at odds with having a blog detailing my private thoughts. A blog that anyone, with the proper inclination, can read. I hoard my time and my thoughts selfishly. But sharing these words, here, with you, is different. It isn’t the anonymity, which is a thin veil at best. It is the potential of this space.

So what’s next? I’ve debated closing shop, moving on and finding other diversions. Because certain elements are so deeply ingrained in me, I fear some of my themes grow repetitive – that I’m not learning anything new in the constant examination of those ideas that fascinate me.

This blog sphere moves fast; I’ve lost count of the bloggers I’ve grown to love who came and went in the last year. And I wonder how quickly it would take for the sands of the network to wash up over my words.

But no, I don’t think I am done. Not yet.

I am going to take a small month-long break. To determine what it is I am to be in the coming year.

In the meantime, I invite you, you who read me daily or occasionally, to leave a note on the door while I am gone. You’ll see the picture just above this post. Tell me why you read my words. Tell me why you write your own. Ask me a question, or make a suggestion. Share a memory inspired by something you read. Hate me, adore me. This is your chance to speak to the wolf and the man who shares its skin.

I promise to answer each note upon my return.

And then decide who I am going to be next.

Sex Life of a Doorknob

Staying with a poetic theme, here is something I wrote in college. As you can see, I have a rather warped sense of humor.

***

The sex life of a doorknob
is a peculiar thing, indeed
I’ve never seen them having sex
yet even doorknobs must have a need

So callous people are,
when opening a door
they twist, they yank, and then it’s done
and they regard the knob no more

How must a doorknob feel
used everyday like so?
No loving caress, no soft spoken words
no tangible afterglow!

Next time you rest your hand upon a doorknob
it is possible you might find
letting your hand linger there,
is an act from you most kind.

Master

You have only this moment to decide.

Are you still thinking?

Too late. My hands are already around your neck. I can feel your breath catch under my fingers, your heartbeat against my palms, the heat of your skin a warm reminder of the life I hold. In that moment of hesitation, I saw the truth and made the decision for you.

It is dangerous, this game we play. The rules are silent and each move is made in the space of a breath (if breathing were to be allowed).

To your knees you are driven, my hands implacable, immovable. My voice has become your voice, your thoughts. I am over you, beside you, inside of you, willing your body into a state of expectancy and readiness. The gift I am to bestow on you requires complete compliance. I leave no room for regret in the process, only the determination.

Are you with me yet?

Try harder.

Put yourself in that space. It does not matter if you close your eyes. The words brand themselves into the darkness you seek to hide within. The only guideposts in a land empty of meaning, they lead you to the same place everytime. You dress yourself in the clothe of routine, the face of the familiar. You seek to numb yourself with the practiced ease in which you greet those who think they know, but it is the comfort of the condemned.

For you, my hand is steady and my knives are sharp. For you, I will cut quickly, so that the nerve endings remain intact. I want you to feel what is under your skin, under the protective lining of your beliefs.

Still not there?

You are not subliminated or subsumed. You are measured, manipulated, and made. You are the paintbrush of an artist, the words of a poet, the inspiration of a visionary. You are drawn, written, believed in.

You are a sin to indulge in, a moment to be experienced, an implement of intent. You are a skill underused, but often practiced. You are my craft in form, my faith derived, my artform, my belief, my self.

You are my mastery.

Let’s Play a Game

The manner of seduction can take many forms. I’ve used massages, poetry, indifference, deliberate intent, teasing, a smile.

But one of the most effective has been the game of truth or dare. This game, like domination, provides freedom to misbehave. The rules of the game are structured so that the choice is not yours. The key is to provide questions and dares to match the person’s secret desires. You can lead a person down the path of temptation, but only if it is one they already built in their fevered imaginations and unspoken thoughts.

Of course, if you aren’t intuitive enough to figure out the direction of their desires, you run the risk of an unenthusiastic response or an abrupt end to the game.

But if you are sharp, if you pay attention, you will provide them an excuse to indulge…and your cleverness in being so makes you the benefactor to such indulgences.

[audio:Djaevle_MoonlightGame.mp3]
D’jaevle, Moonlight Games

“Not going to let me hear you?”

I will share one final conversation between Madeleine and I. There are many others, all of them as delectable, or more so, than the ones I’ve already shared; but they will remain solely mine for a while longer.

The first time I met her (not the first ever, but the first as the person I have grown to be) I bit her neck and drew her to the ground. There were tears in her eyes when she came for me.

The second time I met her, I left her body battered and bruised. I was rougher with her than I have been with anyone else in my life. I let myself the freedom to enjoy her absolutely, and in return she found within her a place of absolute peace. A place of balance where everything, for a few hours, was simply right. For someone who is constantly moving, seeking, pushing, testing, wanting, this was a small gift, an important gift. And she earned it with her devotion and hunger.

***

D’jaevle grips your wrist and pulls you closer with a rough tug. “Knees.”

Madeleine kneels, sliding down your body, and looks up at you sweetly. “After you’re done tormenting me, may we play?”

D’jaevle looks down at you, eyes hard, his lips parted enough for you to see his bared teeth. His fingers wrap around your neck. He gradually tightens his grip around your throat, adding pressure. “Perhaps.”

Madeleine’s cheeks flush. “Thank you Master…”

D’jaevle bends your head back and his teeth flash before he throws you back roughly, forcing you to put your hands out behind you.

Madeleine looks a little puzzled by the sudden show of ferocity, and catches herself, inching back a little.

D’jaevle watches you. He steps closer, straddling your waist as he looks down on you, his dark eyes flickering across your body.

Madeleine looks wounded, somehow, in her eyes. “Why are you angry, Master?” she wonders, guilelessly.

D’jaevle slowly lowers himself onto his haunches, both hands slipping behind your head as he looks at you, “Is it anger you see when you look at me?”

Madeleine looks at you again, curiously. “Perhaps not anger… violence,” she muses. “Volatility.”

D’jaevle allows himself the hint of a smile, and his hand comes down, almost as if he was going to slap you, but it stops and his fingers rest under your chin, “Where does that put you?”

Madeleine lifts a brow, but nuzzles against your hand. “In a scary place… like I’m going to fall through that door, and you’re going to step back.”

D’jaevle does nothing to stop you from nuzzling, but neither does he encourage it. His eyes simply watch, “Do you think I would let you fall far?”

Madeleine shakes her head. “Just enough to bruise my rear end. To make a point.”

D’jaevle leans closer, lowering himself further, almost kneeling against your chest, his weight hard against your body, “And what point is that?”

Madeleine shakes her head again. “That’s what I don’t know… that’s why I asked why you were angry.”

D’jaevle leans down and kisses you. His lips are dry at first. “Must I have a point?”

Madeleine moans softly, dry or not, and hazards a slip of her tongue along your lower lip. “No,” she admits.

D’jaevle punishes you with his mouth, his lips parting and teeth grazing your tongue, biting lightly as he lowers himself until he *is* kneeling over you, pinning you to the ground.

Madeleine squirms beneath you, more from pleasure than any desire to escape. “Maybe that’s your point,” she whispers. “That you don’t have to have a point.”

D’jaevle doesn’t answer you. Instead, he kisses harder, tongue fighting its way against yours, teeth biting your lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

Madeleine yelps against your lips, her own lower lip quivering from the shock of being bitten so hard. And liking it.

D’jaevle reaches for your wrists and holds them over your head. He lifts himself far enough to reach down and roughly yank your shirt up over your chest, leaving your breasts exposed. He settles down again, thighs just under each breast so that they rest against them slightly.

Madeleine looks up at you curiously, as if she’s just having a hard time figuring you out today. Her wrists flex beneath your grip, and her little pink tongue strays out to taste the blood on her lip.

D’jaevle rakes his fingernails down the tops of your breasts, until they reach your nipples, fingers cruelly biting into the hard tips. Again, his eyes don’t leave yours.

Madeleine gasps, arching her back into your touch, however painful it may be.

D’jaevle actually brings his hands back up – this time slapping each breast along the side, much as he has your ass, turning the skin red.

Madeleine’s eyes darken a little as she looks up at you somewhat obstinately, and bites her lip to avoid making a sound.

D’jaevle peers down at you, finally smiling, “Not going to let me hear you?” Once again his fingers rake across your skin, fingers cutting white swathes through the red as they slip down.

Madeleine shakes her head determinedly, trying to hide the shiver at the bite of your fingertips.

D’jaevle his fingers pause at your nipples and they spread around the abused skin and then close, twisting slowly, “Are you sure? Not one small cry?”

Madeleine’s eyes flash with hesitation and uncertainty. But she clenches her jaw and remains petulantly silent.

D’jaevle pinches even harder, his fingers unrelenting as they pull back. He leans closer, inches from you.

Madeleine stifles her whimper at great cost to her willpower, and squeezes her eyes shut tightly.

D’jaevle remains that close, his fingers cruel, harshly twisting, “Must I do this to your clit to hear you cry out?”

Madeleine yelps aloud at that, and shakes her head quickly. “No…”

D’jaevle slowly relaxes his fingers, and watches your face as the blood returns to each nipple, “You sure?”

Madeleine pants softly and nods her head eagerly. “I’m sure…” she murmurs, breathlessly, whimpering again as her nipples throb with pain.

D’jaevle lowers himself, moving down your body until his head is level with your chest. His breath tickles your skin, the home of suffering nerve endings, but his touch is gentle, light, softly nuzzling your skin.

Madeleine purrs softly, basking in the weight and warmth of you atop her.

D’jaevle slowly begins to bathe your skin, tongue running the length of each breast, leaving it glistening as he tastes you.

Madeleine sighs softly. “You’re tormenting me again…”

D’jaevle chuckles, his lips lightly brushing your nipples, and underneath, “Now, or before?”

Madeleine mutters. “Both…”

D’jaevle rests his head against your chest, his breathing soft and slow as he finally closes his eyes, lost in the warmth of your skin.

Madeleine runs her fingers through your hair slowly, combing it back away from your face.

D’jaevle finally stirs himself and crawls up your body to look into your eyes with a smile, “Poor dear.”

Madeleine resists the urge to stick her tongue out at you and instead smiles sweetly.

D’jaevle chuckles, “Still want to play?”

Madeleine nods vigorously.

D’jaevle finds his feet and pulls you up, “Roles?”

Madeleine hmmms.

Madeleine says “Perhaps we should reprise our earlier roles… me the living sacrifice, you the evil monstrous lord of the village.”

D’jaevle says “You up for that, ma fille?”

Madeleine grins. “I think so, mon maitre.”