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Milk.


I sigh as you begin.

An expression of boredom rather than pleasure.

It is as I expected.

I wearily hold out my wrists to accept the cuffs, open my mouth to the gag, kneel, bow and wait.

You promised to unveil darkness.

Expose me, unleash revelations.

So far, I find you …beige.

The spanking begins in earnest, with a damp, leather gloved hand to redden my cheeks.

Yes, if you say so…I am a naughty girl…mistress.

Another sigh.

Yes, I am cold, mistress.

Inside and out.

You scorn me, pulling back my head with a fist full of hair and scowl at my ambivalence.

Again, you promise to show me.

Threaten to pick at the wiry, black sutures and tease open the wounds and scars that have hardened to form my exoskeleton.

I dare you, with a disdainful lift of the eyebrow.

You produce twisted snakes of rope.

I start to pay attention.

Warmth begins to prickle in my veins.

Better.

Winding, twisting and tightening you deftly and quickly bind me.

I am hoisted, suspended, hung.

Much better.

Your sharp nailed grip tightens at my throat, staying the draw of a breath precluding another sigh.

Quickened, my pulse hammers, my temples swell and my lungs begin to ache.

You push cold latex deep into my cunt and smirk at the tiny, stifled cry.

You light your candle and remind me that I am penetrable, permeable, osmotic.

Now. Show me.

Petulant, impatient hands tug at my breasts, tighten their grip and then secure them.

They stand out, bulging from their constrictive coils of rope, like a week old balloon in the hands of a child.

Feral teeth sink into my nipples, searing through nerves.

Wax and flame, intermittently applied, startle my sleeping heart.

Heat pushes unrelenting through artery, vein and capillary.

A shock of pain crashes in like a wrecking ball.

Smashing through muscle and tendon.

So much better.

You lift your knife, weigh the balance, then nick and slice and drag.

You slowly tease the wounds, carefully opening them with finger and tongue and nipple.

You stain my skin, with rivulets of metallic tasting red.

My muffled cry falls on deaf ears as you taste, and taste.

All exposed flesh and bone, sinew and cartilage are dragged through by raking claws.

Mortally exposed, you remind me that I am alive.

Force feed me the milk of human kindness.

dream (Ver. 2)


You are restless again tonight, your eyes move rapidly behind closed lids and your breath becomes shallow.  A dash of light slipping through a gap in the blinds is animated by the wind whipped shadows of the tree outside our window. It defines your shape and form, and caresses your skin as you sleep. Deep red waves of hair scar your pillow.

The delicious curve of your breast and hip and thigh, highlighted in the otherwise dark room, tempt my twitching fingers. I watch as your thighs part, your lithe slim leg bent at the knee exposes you beneath the sheets; your hips rock slowly. I can’t tear my gaze from you, despite the stinging need for sleep. Once again, I try to burn the image of your beautiful shape on to the surface of  my fevered mind.

The taut velvet skin of your stomach, the spot where I love to kiss you most, appears to undulate slightly with your motion. I am, as ever, left breathless by you; captivated by the sight and hungered by your distance.

Where do you go? When the world fades out and you are alone with your conscience, do the daemons inside come out to play?   You guard them closely. Privately nurture them like sick children who must be kept away others; allowing me only the briefest of glimpses, the tiniest, cruelest  hint of their presence.

Your breath is ragged, and underscored with barely discernible sighs. The insistent staccato tap of rain from the window and roof tiles drowns the sound. I strain against the din, hoping to hear my name.

My over-active imagination writes a filthy script for the scenes playing behind those closed lids, inside your private, sleeping world. A pang of jealousy bites at my gut as I picture her, the lover who is with you now behind those deep green eyes. Does she love the taste of your cunt as much as I do?

With a slight arch of your back and a deep intake of breath your hand closes tightly, gripping fistfuls of linen.  The urge to touch you, reach for you, pull your soft, warm body close against mine and fuck away the hunger, is almost too much. But, to do so without prior invitation would be a desecration. Sacrilege. I stay my hand by force of will, though I ache to feel you.

With slow, quiet strokes I touch myself.

No sudden movements, no fucking noise! I caress, stroke, pinch and tease myself. Want streams into the darkest corners of the room, but cannot penetrate your world. I need to be there with you, over you, in you.

Fingers, slick with viscous juices, silently, intently draw my climax from me. Heat, radiates out  from my cunt to my every nerve as I  stroke my clit with insistent circling pressure. Every muscle taut, gripped and tense cannot contain the need.

The smallest flutter rapidly grows and the muscles inside me grasp at my fingers, pulling my fucking hand deeper. I watch you as you tremble and wriggle,  distantly reaching your own orgasm with your ethereal lover. Your  lips part a little, opening with a feint sigh of release.

I always love to watch you come, especially on the nights when I am free to touch you. I devour your body and mind, needful and intense in climax. I love the moments after when, slovenly and languorous we caress and stroke, kiss and soothe.

Peace slowly enfolds you. The stillness of the room returns and you drift back into the quiet.

Haiku


Pressure marks bloom on

skin smeared with your indignation,

yet you demand more.

 

The Petit Mort of Cassie Onassis (Part 1).


Beautiful-redhead-women-photography14

Part 1. The Station.

Cassie exited the toilet cubicle, adjusted her clothes and tousled her rust red curls. She tugged her fingers through the mass, meeting resistance where the wind had swept and twisted it around itself.  Her face contorted with each tug, wincing as her fingers snagged in the strands. The tiny station toilets, which they laughably called ‘Restrooms’,  were freezing cold and smelled of piss and pine. Leaves, blown in through the door that didn’t close ,eddied around, skittering over the dried, dark, silty footprints on the red-tiled floor. The light in here didn’t work and everything was infused with the dull grey hue of winter.  Cassie couldn’t imagine a less restful place.

Her exhalations made delicate plumes of vapour in the cold air as she regarded herself in the full length mirror on the wall. She moved closer and studied her face through its grime spattered surface. Her fingers brushed lightly over her face, dusting away excess powder that concealed her true skin beneath. Her index finger traced delicately over a scar on her forehead whose origin was long forgotten, checking that it was adequately covered.

She rummaged through her tote bag to find her lipstick. He said that the ‘Claret’ was his favourite shade. He liked the colour on her and he liked it when it smeared over his shaft as he fucked her mouth. Her guts tightened at the memory of the last time when, completely lost in her reverie, she had opened her throat to him and tried to swallow him whole. Hungrily she drank his cum, and drained him until he had to forcibly remove himself from her face. Her punishment for being  such a greedy little cum whore had been ten strikes with a cane across her thighs.

She lifted the hem of her green velvet dress and, for the fourth time that day she studied the marks on her thighs, the pattern of stripes now faded from their original, glorious shade of apple red. Lifting the hem higher she studied her neatly trimmed triangle of  chestnut coloured hair. and the asymmetry of other marks and scars that surrounded it.  He didn’t particularly care for girls who shaved themselves bald. He would tolerate it, if this was their preference, but he said that it brought to mind the pre pubescent and, while this fantasy had its merits, he preferred a more natural look on a woman. The mature and self-assured were infinitely more attractive to him than any shy, pigeon-toed trainee. Breaking down the psychological and physical barriers of an experienced, battle hardened partner presented him with a far more exciting challenge.

Yes, she had plenty of scars. some were the result of incidents and accidents that occurred in the early, experimental days. Some were his work, others were not. These scars were never concealed with make up. These scars were her trophies – badges of honour and proof that she had undergone a rite of passage. So, why after all these years had she never been properly rewarded for her efforts? Why was she still struggling to achieve the one thing that she truly desired?

It seemed to come so easily to others. She had heard countless tales of the nirvana that she so fervently sought. Heard it from those less experienced and, to her mind, less deserving than her. She learned, to her amusement, that some actively avoided the experience out of fear and ignorance.  She suspected that, for her, years of chemically induced highs, which produced myriad, lovely psychoactive states had artificially increased her tolerance and her ability to reach the natural high that she needed. But promises had been made; hers was to never again seek relief from psychoactive drugs, his was to show her a better way.

 She had endured scene after scene, labouring as he so carefully tended to her. Burned, whipped, shackled, spanked, slapped, constricted, contorted, shocked, caned, cut, deprived of her senses and breath. The list went on and she had revelled in every magnificent moment of pain, filth, humiliation and depravity. Yet, she had always been starkly, rudely sensible to it all. Never had she felt more than the faintest hint of detachment from herself, or her lover, or her lust.

Subspace. That place of altered  ‘otherness’. It called to her as she slept or daydreamed; and she wanted to know it. perhaps this time he would take her there, as he had promised he would. Perhaps she would find herself separate and free, drifting outside herself as she witnessed the truth of their indecent partnership.

I Want To Play….


This weekend I was lucky enough to be able to attend one of the most fabulous annual events in my writing diary, Eroticon2013.  The founder of the event is my friend. She is also an extremely talented erotic fiction writer. Her name is Ruby Kiddle,  she is @eroticnotebook on twitter, and evidence of her brilliance, and more detail about Eroticon can be found here: http://eroticnotebook.co.uk (and also on practically every blog or website belonging to the other attendees from this weekend’s conference – everyone is talking about it, and rightly so)

I have been reading a lot over the last few days about the post-event ‘drop’ that we all seem to be experiencing. It is what happens to you when a momentous or highly emotive event comes to an end. Even those who have never been to Eroticon or anything like it will probably still be able to relate to this. It is that feeling you get after going to a major festival,  or having a really great holiday, or participating in a really intense BDSM scene or, I don’t know, getting married (Probably). It is the emotional crash that comes with detaching from a fantasy and being back in your everyday reality.

For me there has been a sort of  lingering undercurrent of emotional loss since I stepped on to the train to begin my journey home on Sunday evening. That being said, travelling on the London – Midlands Railway can do that to you anyway, regardless of where you have been. Eroticon 2013 was one of those ‘you had to be there’ type of events – I for one found the whole experience both exhilarating and invaluable. Being able to mix with and speak freely to industry peers who I know (or know of) and, in some cases admire, reignited what had become a dying ember.

The poetry session on Sunday run by the lovely Ashley R Lister, whom you may find here: http://www.ashleylister.co.uk/ ranks as one of the highlights of that day. Quite unexpectedly, we were tasked with writing various styles of  poetry, against the clock! (The swine!)  I am still a bit gutted that I bombed on the limerick,! but it turned out to be a useful and revealing exercise, and it taught me a lesson that I have put into practice every day so far since.  That lesson was simply this: When you are writing, no matter what it is, it is okay to just have fun with language.

Now, for all I know this may have always been obvious to everyone else, maybe I am late to the party on this one, but maybe not. Something nagged at me for a little while after that session, and it dawned on me that actually this lesson was something that I DID know before, back when I started writing (Many years ago) and practised with even greater relish when I first got a computer, learned how to use it and threw away my rusty old typewriter. I had just never recognised that I knew it.

I have neglected my fiction writing for some time now (as you can probably see from my archive), I hit a bit of a wall a while back and subsequently listened to the self-doubt demons that were telling me I was not very good at it. Since then I have concentrated instead on business blogging and web site content (yawn). As a result, I have become preoccupied with things like correct terminology, and SEO ,and metrics (double yawn).

I put the muse away in her cage and left her to rattle away in there while I got on with running my businesses. Somewhere along the line, she ceased her incessant wailing, crawled off in to a corner and fell asleep. Somehow, I seem to have just forgotten how much I enjoyed her company. One of the questions which preoccupied me when I tried (unsuccessfully) to sleep on Sunday evening was, What am I going to do with her now that she is awake again?

Now, I understand perfectly that most of the writers who attended Eroticon2013 will have come home bursting with new ideas and projects that they wish to start on immediately and. like me, are busy getting them down on paper or screen. But I thought it would be nice to get out of that frenzied head space for a moment, and  just play.

So, I came up with the Idea of creating a simple character profile, upon whom I will base a short story. I also wanted to try to extend the feeling of camaraderie that I took away from this weekend, and have decided to also offer her up for other  friends and writers  to, um, use as they see fit.

There are no rules dictating what you can do with her, all I ask is that you mention me and link to my blog if you participate.

My own story will follow this as my next post – if you want to join in my game, please feel free – you can either write it on your own blog or  website and include a link to it in the comments – or if it is only a quickie paste it straight in to the box… down there.

So here she is:

Name: Cassie

Age Range: 30 +

Physical Characteristics: Petite, RedHead, Freckles, Green eyes, Curvaceous, Full lips. (Feel free to add to this list)

Cassie is sharp witted, self assured and bold – she works hard and plays hard – she always speaks her mind. (Again, feel free to add to this if your character develops more intricate attributes as you write)

Lets Play…. 🙂

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