Under My Skin

Long have you woven your sinuous form through my dreams.  Long have you touched me, stroke me with sharpest nails, lapped at me with wettest tongue, drawn me close with hot breath in my hair, nudged me up atop so that I might cling in fear as your wings beat on and further on.  My mystical darling, daring me, tearing me, pulling me along, night after night, height after height.  I am everything.  All yours.

As I walked along, out in the cold world, bright with the sunlight, I came upon the One, of course sent by you.  The One with the Talent and the Skills.  She set me upon you –and etched you deep within my skin. With trepidation I sat, her breath upon my arm, your breath upon my cheek, tasting salt upon my tongue.  I walked away, in awe.

I slept that night.  My dreams were empty.  Clouds covered me, devouring me, emptying me.  I felt there was a space being made within, one I could not touch.  There was a purpose here.  I could no longer divine.  My space it was you.

Dripping ochre sandalwood, crimson strains and scarlet stains.  Teeth so white, more pure than driven snow, perused by needles threaded with red, driven deeper into soul than into skin.  Outlines neglected and detected, roaming through my bloodstream.

And now here we are, all in one, you and me.  As my burned-in flesh opens wide to take you in, sloughing of as you are accepted, as you worm your way further in, attaching to every organ, every detail.  Susurrations trickling through into my brain.

Two Silver Dragons

Blinding in the sky, between the Sun and Moon, where neither Light shines, and yet every Light shines, the two silver dragons unite.  Bound and bonded, a mated pair, though not with one another, as friends they share, and share alike, and then fly on ever higher.

Twisting in the middled Light, flying lazily with tails entwined.  Plumes of smoke and haze adrift as wings beat in somber time.  Flight of one upon the other, spinning playfully round and round.  Caught up in the dream, in the whispy threads, barely visible, physically drawn to there.  So much more in store.  So less circumspect.

There is so much to be said for shooting straight up, splitting open wide the air, as tucking tail and anchoring fin, and the dragons flare is styled.  There is a great deal of petting, stroking, forceful playfulness.  A terrific clashing of shield and banner.  So much dancing in the breeze.

None can tell when they plunge down and swallow up the seas.  Locked in combat, throbbing still, a hollowness, a greed.  A questing spirit nudging on, with tender claw and flickering tongue and silver dragon seed.

No claxon bell of warning.  No hideous bloody sight.  Only pearly strands of opulence and heady beads of love, dripping and oozing, carousing and caressing, being untied and tight.

Then back in the sky, with heads held high, tails dancing in the breeze.  With mischievous snarl and wharf, the dragons part.  Until the next opportunity comes.

Sitting Here

So, how is it you have this weird power over me?

Why is it I am sitting here, soaking my panties, thinking of me grinding myself into your face, gripping the headboard for dear life, head thrown back and screaming with sheer joy and pleasure?

Why is it I find myself nearly to the point of orgasm every time I bend over, for the least little reason?  Now if I drop something, or need to pick something up, I am nearly afraid to do so, lest my orgasm overcome me.

Why is it I find myself with eyes unfocused, one hand very softly stroking the sodden surface of my undies, no clear thought in my head, other than being bent over in the shower, and nearly overpowered?

Why is it I have these thoughts that feel so very real of you moving inside of me, of you holding me down and having your way, of making me come again and again?

Why is it I am nearly driven to my knees with thoughts of your tongue and your fingers molesting me, teasing me, prying me open and licking me, devouring me?

Why is it that I can nearly taste you, feel the flavour of your skin, your flesh, so potent, in my mouth, against my cheek?

Why is it I can feel your teeth ever so gentle raking against my breast, tenderly nibbling at my nipples?

Why is it I can hear the sound of our blood boiling, of our fluids spilling, of the deep lost moaning?

Why is it I can think of nothing else?  Even though I have had you, even though I am prepared to have you again and again.  Why is it you are the only thing that comes to me mind?

How is it that you’re devouring me so completely?  And yet leaving me so whole?

So Easy

You always make it so easy for me.  When I walk in the door, there you are, sitting in my favourite chair.  All the lights are low.  No one else is near.  I love the way you smile, that crooked half-aware thing you do, the giggle ever-present in your eyes.  You don’t even have to motion towards me; I already know what to do.

All I have to do is walk to you, my eyes trapped by yours.  You are all ready for me by the time I am able to touch you.  I lift my skirt, straddle your lap, and impale myself upon you, tuck my legs in beside you.  You hold my arms, digging your fingers in, silently begging me to go on.  What can I do?  I am already dripping wet, soaking all over you.  I cling to your lapels, leaning back, rocking, up and down, back and forth.  The soft groans in the back of your throat are so divine.  I have my own matching purr, inside.  You pull me closer, burying your face in my neck, biting down, tenderly, painfully.  I gasp, arching back more, rocking faster.  I grab your neck, pulling myself in closer, desperate to break through the binding flesh between us, the conquer body and soul in one fell swoop.  And we do come close.  We come so close.

All that release.  All that peace.  We collapse into one another.  Holding on.  Breathing one another in.  You are always there for me.  And you always make it easy.

A Taste Of Faery

So now, what happens when you walk upon my hill?  You tread into my lair?  What happens then, lad, when you’re all caught up in my hair?  Did they warn you not to drink my wine?  Did they say not to taste my fruit?  Will you be able then, my dear, when you travel back to your own land, to tell them what you did?

Will you be able to speak of taking my hand, drawing me close and near?  Will you tell them all those words of love you whispered softly in my ear?  Can you see it clear, how we went into the bath, streams of heat and pearls there, dripping across our flesh?  Will you tell them how the cloth of you and then of me simply fell away?  When did you become aware?  When your hand grazed my cheek?  Or braised my breast?  Or when into my cleft went your fingers, so sweet?

Can you describe even now how before me you knelt, with tender lips and probing tongue, parting silken curls and diving in?  Will you know the words to say, to give up detail clear, how my honey melted and burned over you, coating your face, your grin?  Do you yourself recall when you took me to you, burning wicked as you prised your entry, tongue in cheek, boldly, fervently, as you bent me down?

I know…every pulsating beat…the tomten in your soul…evoking in me the quivering need…so few mortals know…as you dove ever deeper, stroking ever harder, pushing yourself to limits you’d hardly dreamt before…then spilling over in seed…overcome by need…as you fell to the floor and pulled me over…down and on top of you.

Still united…still courting…still counting…as back leaned I…no need of enchanting…the thrill of you so hard yet…as I rode back and forth…long locks pillowed between your knees…with you so unable yet to reach me…such as you were clenching clawing your way into my knees, the flesh of my thighs.  The scream of rapture from your throat was more than I could bare.

Yet up you rose, still stiff with need, again, now me on my knees.  Arms thrown out in front of me, the shouts bursting out.  As now you pulled and pushed and drove.  And burrowed, furrowed, yet again in me.

Tired then you were, not yet softening, you let me lead you still.  Refreshed by the rose-scented waters, cleansed without and within, I took you back beneath my briar and there upon I laid you down.  Your arms locked above your head.  There squirmed I, astride your chin, bucking to my own wild night.  Then loosed you I did and let you pull me closer and ever tight.  You tasted me, lips roaming here and there, testing every inch.  With boiling tongue and sparkling hands, you made me writhe and sweat.  Nothing more than stroking me, pulling all about my heart.  And down again you moved, only this time, in my mouth, dueling with my throat, as you plied your trade yet once again with tongue betwixt my legs.

Not enough be that, to say the least, after swallowing every seed, I dragged you in, beneath the reeds and had you ocean-blow.  Twirling myself around you, enwrapped and ensnared.  As you stood your ground so magnificent, and I trod the devil’s weir.  You upheld my every breath, sinking fingers into flesh, pulling me in, forcing yourself in, in, ever in.  Til next I thought we’d never part.

And then came up the star, the one for morning, calling.  You kissed my lips,  You stroked my breasts.  Your fingers twisted one fine lock of hair.  Too late for you, now, sweetly pet.  Your eyes are gone; you stare.

There is no way out once you come in, but back with me, it never will be, for you cannot come here.

How do you stand the day by day, as mortal time fluxes and dulls you away?

How can you live with faery stain, where nothing else can taste the same?

Will I not damn you to the rest so none you’ll have til this life blessed and ended, moved along the trail?

Could I save you?  Why would I so?  For me a brief blink in time.  And for you, an eternity known.

A Concubine’s Introduction

You want to know something about me.  Don’t you?

How much to tell you?  Which version of the truth would suit your needs and your purposes best?

There are many versions of the Truth.  All of them are real and valid.

Not all of them are palatable.

Which one of the versions of me are you best able to stand?

When I was eleven years old, I was accepted into a certain family.  For the sake of appearances, I shall call them Family K.

I was not a precious child.  I was a future femme fatale.  I was petted and feted and teased, but I was also educated.  I was inducted.  I was brought to heel.

When I was twelve years old, I entered into service and became, for all intents and purposes, a Bound Concubine.

Capital letters.  Yes.  To me, it was important.  It still is, in my heart.

I was groomed.  I was molded.  My job was to provide viable heirs.  To love the man, or men, who would not become my husband.  I was chattel.  I was proud of it.

As a concubine, I was not given classes in arts or history or musical instruments.  I had tutors who taught me various sexual arts.  I was taken to grand parties where the order of the evening was to engage as many persons in sexual activity as possible.

I devoured the ancient texts on pleasure and sexuality, sensuality and feminine wiles and powers.

I wrote my own books regarding fertility, contraception, service.

None were ever published.  At least none of which that I am aware.  Most were for my own edification. For the benefits of my education.  To show and to prove that I was learning.  That I was knowledgeable.  That I was prepared.

I have been compared to a Geisha.  But no.  Geisha are like sacred creatures.  They are beautiful flowers set in the garden to titillate and to engage in conversation and debate.  They are there to entertain, with music and song and dance.  They are not there to service the party sexually.

My job was very different.

I was the sexual flower, budding and swelling.  I was the party favor.  The party favorite.

I was given strict requirements.  I was to engage many in sexual courses, although there were stricter rules about my not getting pregnant.  It was not yet my time.

I have performed in orgies.  I have performed in sexual contests.  I have had men.  I have had women.  I have had sex while riding on horseback.  That is as close to sex related to animals as I will ever get.  Even an indentured one can have her limits. I have learned many tricks, techniques, abilities.  My body was my tool, my craft.  Sex was my area of learning, my area of expertise.

The man to whom I was bound was found to be medically impotent.  Did you realize that impotent men can still orgasm?  Can still produce an heir?  It is true.

These men present an entirely new set of sexual strictures.  They require a multitude of techniques to help them achieve their…goals.

I excelled at dealing with older men because of this.  They too require a certain knowing touch.  I was good at what I did.  I still am.

When I was sixteen, the man to whom I was bound took me as his wife.  That had not been the original plan, but he was more than the jealous type.

Between his alcoholism and drug use, which was rampant between all of us at that time, there was no way he could perform any of his … husbandly duties.  He merely wanted me out of the party circuit.  To prove that he owned me, that he and he alone had power over me.

I was to be prepared to be the bride and the mother.

He was unable to give me that one thing his family so desired. A legitimate Heir.   His father came to me to sire the first ‘grandchild.’  It was not the first time he had come to me.  What belonged to the son belonged to the father.  It was a well-established fact in that family.

The son, however, took great offense.  When I was three months pregnant, during a drunken rage on his part, he beat me, with a baseball bat.  The child did not survive the attack.  I barely came out alive.  To say the man was punished is an understatement.

The police were never called.  The father took care of things himself.  He arranged for the son to be transported somewhere else.  That is all I was told.  He was gone for a year.  The year it took me to go through enough surgery and enough therapy to be able to walk again.  As far as I know, the son still cannot walk.  They don’t think he ever will.

Doctors warned I should wait until my body was more healed, maybe two or three years, before attempting to get pregnant again.  They could not even guarantee I could get pregnant again.

Siting an unconsummated marriage, which was true, as the son could not perform sexually, the marriage was quickly annulled.  I was given a rather healthy settlement along with a generous yearly income to last throughout my lifetime.

Where did that leave me?  I was eighteen years old.  My body crippled and scarred.  My head full of arcane sexual odysseys and information.  My soul intact and wide-eyed.  My heart ever innocent and open to trusting again.

I moved to the villa I was provided.  At first, I spent a great deal of time improving it, turning it into my home.  I honed my writing skills.  I learned to knit to while away the hours.  Knitting helps me focus through the pain as I continue to heal.

I often sell my knitted items in town.  When I get the chance.  My housekeeper is a good woman.  I let her keep half the proceeds most days, simply because she is so kind.  She does the hard work, going in to town, dealing with the merchants.  I’ve adopted her family as my own, since I have no family to claim me any longer.

I’ve been moving a new project through my mind of late.  With all this knowledge in my head, should I not be writing books?  Should I not be giving advice?  Should I not start my own school?  A school of the sexual arts.  I can write many of the textbooks myself.  There are so many old texts, from hundreds of years of expertise, also waiting to be utilized.  I have the knowledge.  I have the talent.  I have the ability.  Why should I not?

It is something to contemplate.

The Church Scene

She walked into the remnants of the church, holding onto her husband’s hand, as she always did whenever they were out.  She walked them more slowly than the rest of the tour, taking her time, gazing about, intent to see every detail.  Not that there were many people there with them.  The guide.  Maybe two other couples.  Not many had wanted to continue on after so long a day, when now all there was to be seen was ramshackle buildings long fallen down into disrepair.  Most of them without benefit of electric lighting.

He let her hand loose as he reached for the camera to take pictures, knowing how much these pieces of history, even the ruins of them, meant to her.  She trailed off to the side, examining the way the rocks fit into one another to create the wall, without mortar, without anything other than rocks upon rocks.  She reached out with one pale hand to stroke the wall.

The icy chill hit her instantly, blowing her hair back away from her face, blowing her scarf back against her throat.  The picture before her grew painfully bright, the guide, her husband, the interior of the church, such as it was with the walls half gone.  Then it all went dark, although the cold did not diminish.  The cold intensified, snapping with winter wolf’s teeth at her bones.

The light returned, normal light.  Light from candles and torches along the wall.  The church was now whole, but she noticed little of that.  They were crowding around her.  Crowding in closer.  Reaching out.  Trying to touch her.  All talking at once.  Some speaking softly, gently.  Others screaming and shrieking, demanding to be heard, to retire.  She felt herself backed up into a corner.  A warm cinnamony smell assaulted her senses.  Something more than cinnamon, but a scent she could not place immediately.  Thick with clotted spices.  The stones against her flesh were warm, almost fiery hot, through the fabric of her clothes.

The women here were all crying, begging, pleading, wringing their handkerchiefs and their hands.  She could not get a fix on what language they spoke.  It didn’t dawn on her until she tried to understand the men’s words that it seemed many of them spoke different languages, and everyone had a different dialect from everyone else.  She couldn’t hear any single one of them to get a clear grasp of what they wanted, of what they needed, of how she could help them.

‘Mustn’t touch her.’ she heard, very clearly, in a voice that sounded randomly familiar.  “Mustn’t touch her.’

‘Fuck that.’   That voice she knew.  Her husband.  They’d been together too many lifetimes for her not to recognize him in any form.  His hands clasped her shoulders, drew her back from that world into his world again.

‘Come back to me.’ he growled under his breath, just for her to hear.  She knew that tone.  He’d had to do this for her, to her, before, many times over.

She opened her eyes.  Everyone crowded around her.  They were still there, only silent now, still beseeching, without words, their souls burgeoning out at her through the windows that were their eyes.  There was her husband, glowering down at her, but relieved.  The guide was backing away while crossing himself, muttering under his breath about those with the Touch.  The other couples had barely noticed what was going on off in this corner.

He drew her into the fold of his arms, cradling her against his chest as he squatted down beside her.  “You have got to stop doing that.’ he told her, for the hundredth time on this trip alone.  She nodded, clutching his shirt tightly, twisting her hand into the fabric as if she never wanted to let go.  He kissed her forehead.  He pulled her up with him as he stood.

It was he who turned upon them and issued the command, ‘Go back and let her be.’  They stood, unmoved.  “She will not help you here.’ he informed them.  ‘Just move along.’  He nodded at them to encourage them.  ‘We will send someone to help.’  At this, she nodded at them as well.  At her command, they disappeared, moving back into the shadows of their world.

He sighed, but pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her.  ‘You have to find a new hobby.’  he murmured into her hair.

She clung to him.  ‘Not my fault I know they are there or they know I’m here.’  She rubbed the tip of her nose against his collar.  ‘Just the way it is.’  She snuggled closer to him, inhaling the smell of him, his soap, his deodorant, his flesh.  She found comfort there.  ‘Whom shall we send to these then?’ she whispered into his neck.

He squeezed her tighter to him.  ‘You know more about that than I do.’  He kissed her cheek.  ‘Do what you do and let’s go.’  She closed her eyes for a moment, leaning more heavily against him.  He knew exactly what she was doing, but did nothing more than provide protection for her.  He didn’t need to do anything else.  She nodded then as she took a deep breath to come back into herself.  ‘Ok.’ she breathed against him, pulling her weight back into herself and not leaning so much into him.

He squeezed her tightly one more time, before releasing all but her hand.  He grinned at her.  ‘You keep this up and we’re going home early.’

She smiled shyly in return.  ‘At this point, I think I won’t complain so much if we do.’  She shook her head, chagrined.  ‘I am beginning to think I need a vacation from our vacation.’

They were both chuckling as they rejoined the tour.

censored version found here:

A Writer’s Notebook

Hello world!

Obviously–this is a work in progress.

I am just today (9/23/09) setting this blog up.

I realized that some of my writing groups may have been curtailing my writing since I needed to be politically correct and not overtly sexual.

Except that I am normally not politically correct.  Nor am I not sexual.

My writing is normally very sexual, very politically incorrect, and down right offensive to a great many, even when I leave out the curse words and the sexual tension.

So, hold on to your boot straps.  There will be more coming.

Wednesdays are always busy for me, so I may not get everything set up today.

But I am getting there.  Don’t feel bad about checking back periodically.

Cheers!