Wednesday, 30 December 2009
Ooh! Tie me up…tight…I can take it. Blindfold me; gag me. Show me to your friends as I sink passively into my humiliation. Then you can rescue me; untie me. By indulging me in this secret ritual, you show me that you love me.
Check out Aubrey Beardsley’s dirty picture. The woman is stuffed -- literally. She is being whipped; tormented by her master. Beardsley draws a degrading image; yet the woman does not struggle. She acquiesces. She is passive.
The passivity of women, portrayed in bondage images, struck me, as I put this piece together. It’s the contrast to the piece I put together a few weeks ago, on male bondage that I find intriguing. The men struggle furiously; violently against their tormentors. Their desperate cries can be heard through the canvases; they echo in the marble sculptures. The women do not cry out; they just take it.
If the old Masters are deliberately intending to arouse, is the sight of a strong man struggling, a turn on? And the sight of a docile woman, meekly succumbing to her fate, erotic? Traditionally, the answer has to be ‘yes’. The themes of struggling man and helpless woman, are reflected in contemporary pornography and old stories. Look at Laocoon fighting his adversaries; those muscles! The Sleeping Beauty, the most passive woman in our fairy stories, isn’t just surrendering to her fate, she is sleeping through it; until, of course she is rescued -- by a strong man.
But to get back to bondage; what’s going on? Why do folk want to tie each other up? Are they sexually strange? Is there such a thing as sexually strange? Or are the web sites coming up on the search engine, just tapping into a fetish that’s been going on for centuries, in those very old stories and paintings?
The bondage of Andromeda is a topic that has fascinated artists for centuries.
Edward Poynter paints Andromeda in 1869. She bows her head. She submits. Her hands are tied behind her. Her blue, silken robe, restrains her further.
Here is Andromeda’s story.
In Greek mythology, Andromeda was the daughter of Cepheus and Cassiopeia, king and queen of the kingdom Ethiopia.
Her mother Cassiopeia bragged that she was more beautiful than the Nereids, the nymph-daughters of the sea god Nereus and often seen accompanying Poseidon. To punish the Queen for her arrogance, Poseidon, brother to Zeus and God of the Sea, sent the sea monster Cetus to ravage the coast of Ethiopia including the kingdom of the vain Queen. The desperate King consulted the Oracle of Zeus, who announced that no respite would be found until the king sacrificed his virgin daughter Andromeda to the monster. She was chained naked to a rock on the coast of Jaffa. Luckily, the hero, Perseus, was sailing by, fresh from slaying the Medusa. He fell in love with Andromeda and rescued her, just as she was about to be devoured by the sea monster.
Gustave Dore paints Andromeda, also, in 1869. Dore paints her delicately. You can count her tiny toes. Her skin is fragile; translucent. She is a helpless victim.
Rembrandt paints Andromeda in 1629. His Andromeda has a look of desperate fear on her face. Still, she does not struggle.
Tying up women is an ancient art, that is thriving today. You can read stories about it on the web; you can look at pictures. I got 715,000 hits just from typing in ‘female bondage’ to Google. Interestingly, I got twice as many hits for ‘male bondage.’ Why is that I wonder? But that’s maybe a topic for a different discussion. Although, any suggestions will be gratefully received!
Thursday, 24 December 2009
Sunday, 20 December 2009
She knew that he knew that she was watching him. She cast her predatory gaze over Joseph’s strong body; her eyes lingering on his broad shoulders and neat, tight butt. It amused her to see him nervous; trembling. Almost dropping a priceless ‘rose en famille’ porcelain plate, on loan from the British Museum. She mused on what he would be like to play with; a sweet little Christmas treat. A new pet.
Ulena looked around her antique shop, decorated and displayed for the Christmas festivities. She was satisfied; the exclusive, and expensive interior design guys had been worth it. The fifteen foot blue cedar tree, that she’d had especially imported from Russia, looked superb. It topmost branch reached up to the high ceiling of what had once been a Regency sitting room. Festooned with thousands of tiny blue lights and no other frippery, it was exquisite; mysterious. The opening chapter of a fairytale. The rooms of the old house didn’t look like a shop, with the huge log fire blazing in the hearth. Ulena had wanted the customer to feel as if she, or he, had stumbled into the past; into a wealthy home. You almost expected to see a Regency gentleman, leaning against the mantelpiece, sipping his glass of port; taking his snuff from an engraved silver box. His lady, demure, in a muslin gown, gazing adoringly up at him.
She glanced over to where Joseph was just putting the finishing touches to a grouping of Victorian rocking horses. She smiled a small, secret smile. Joseph; now there was a sweet little submissive. Ulena played with the notion of Joseph stripped and flogged, sobbing, as she forced him to lick her clit. She wondered if Joseph even knew he was submissive; she doubted it. He probably thought he was quite a stud. As if feeling the command of Ulena’s gaze, he raised his eyes to her. She held his gaze; he blushed and looked away, biting his lip.
Finally, he found the courage to approach her. She was bloody attractive after all; but still, just a woman. Joseph was also between girlfriends; he’d tired of his last relationship. But to his shock Sarah had been the one to finish it. She’d told him he wasn’t assertive enough, sexually. She’d knocked his confidence; he needed to get back into the saddle. Asking Ulena, his boss out, was taking a huge leap of faith, but Joseph had confidence in his ability to charm.
“Um, I wondered if you’d like to come out with me…for, er, a drink, or maybe dinner?”
A simple enough question. She wasn’t shocked, disconcerted, or even embarrassed; just that cold, unnerving stare. Perhaps she just didn’t like men; Joseph hadn’t thought of that. But he’d seen her turn her vivacious smile on for the good looking delivery guy; the postman; even that ugly, slimy creep who ran the storeroom. Joseph fidgeted miserably as she scrutinized him.
Joseph wished he hadn’t bloody bothered. He didn’t usually ask women out; they came to him. He’d thought she found him attractive; she was always watching him. Obviously, he’d been wrong. Ulena’s heavily lidded, steel grey eyes looked him up and down, as if he’d just crawled out from a stinking swamp. The stirring music of ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful,’ playing into the antique shop, faded into the far distance, as he squirmed uncomfortably in front of her. She leaned back in the Georgian chair, watching him. The delicate, deep rose coloured Faberge egg she held between her long, carefully manicured fingers, was worth thousands. She traced the raised gold patterns on the jewelled surface with a fingertip.
The first flakes of snow were starting to fall outside, and the antique shop had been busy all morning. People came into the shop not only to buy the expensive trinkets, but just to marvel at the Christmas charm. They were expecting a fresh surge of customers after lunch, but this was a quiet time. Joseph was aware that he was blushing and still she was silently appraising him, as if he were a horse at an auction, she may, or may not, choose to buy. Her eyes rested on his crotch, as if trying to assess the weight of what was in there.
His cock, joyous to receive the unexpected attention, hardened instantly.
The rousing chorus of the faithful choir harmonizing ‘oh come let us adore him!’, burst into the silence and he jumped, nervously. A small smile played around her generous mouth.
“Let’s get it clear,” Ulena drawled, her exotic accent, laced partly with French, with just a hint of Russian, “I do the asking.” Her low, husky voice hardened his cock into a violent, throbbing erection.
He hadn’t been expecting such a strong rebuff, in fact he hadn’t been expecting a rebuff at all. He was puzzled. He knew he was good looking and possessed a kind of charisma; he raked his fingers through his chestnut hair and tried his charming ‘boy next door,’ smile.
She didn’t respond; not a flicker.
“Was there something else?” she asked, raising a perfectly delineated eyebrow. Her scarlet mouth curved in a parody of a smile.
“Er no,” he stammered. “ Nothing else…thank you.”
He could feel her eyes on him as he walked away.
Damn her, Joseph thought, as he went back to the counter. Why had he let her make him feel so small? It wasn’t as if she was out of his league. He’d been out with women far prettier and probably, smarter too, certainly wealthier; but they held no allure for him. He sensed hidden depths in her; besides he knew damn well she watched him. So if she didn’t find him attractive, what was all that about? But she’d made him a nervous wreck. As she’d scrutinized his crotch he’d been dismayed at his cock’s outrageous behaviour. Usually, he was slow to arouse, but with Ulena’s attention his cock had other ideas. He’d become flustered, wanting to cover the growing bulge with his hands, but he was frozen into immobility.
He put the counter between the rest of the world and his cock, and wondered how quickly he could hobble to the bathroom, and masturbate his erection away. That was something he rarely did; usually, his erections just faded. But this one was persistent, throbbing insistently inside his pants. The image came unbiddened into his mind, of himself stripped, tied up and kneeling before Ulena. His flesh was seared; he’d been recently flogged. Ulena was naked except for thigh high, spiked heel, black leather boots. Her hand clasped the back of his head, forcing him to lap at her clit. Where the hell had that come from? He hated doing that; it was disgusting.
He noticed a customer, gazing with rapt attention at the gorgeous display of antique French music boxes. Despite their phenomenal price tag, they had been selling well. Damn, his erection would have to wait. He prayed that his orgasm wouldn’t explode into a messy chorus in the middle of his sales-patter.
He couldn’t understand why Ulena had had that effect on him. He didn’t consider himself highly sexed, in fact he only usually rose to the occasion when he felt he had something to prove. On the whole he’d found his past girlfriends far too needy. He was a tall, strong guy and they wanted him to be protective; to seduce them, to make the first move. He always had to initiate sex. One girlfriend had liked to dig her sharp nails into his shoulders, just before she came; that had given him a frisson of excitement, but apart from that, she was as bad as the rest of them. They always wanted to know if sex had been good for him? Was that the best time ever? Sometimes they expected him to repeat the performance, just ten minutes later. And they always wanted to know what he was thinking. Joseph hated that.
But he had to get rid of his erection, urgently. He tried thinking bland thoughts. What he’d had for breakfast that morning. Rehearsing the drive home in the Christmas traffic. Remembering all the gifts in the ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’ song. But the image of Ulena’s luscious crimson lips stretched around his thick cock, popped, unbidden, into his head. Orgasm was close. He mustn’t come in his pants. He just mustn’t; he had to get to the bathroom on the second floor. He picked up a stack of books and holding them awkwardly in front of his growing bulge, began to scuttle towards the elevator.
He looked up to see Ulena laughing with a male customer. Flirting outrageously. Cool and casual, in her black suit, her blonde, expensively cut straight hair, swinging level with her neatly chiselled jaw line. Bitch.
He stumbled over the corner of a sumptuous Turkey rug and staggered through the avenue set up with a glittering display of old Venetian glass. The pieces tinkled musically as he lumbered passed. Joseph placed the stack of books down on a fragile Louis Quinze table. He thanked the god of erections that the elevator was not in use, the antique metal doors were already open. He closed the doors and pressed the button. The old, heavy machinery whirred noisily into use. His erection throbbed. The image of Ulena riding him, astride him, taking him up to the hilt, her beautiful head thrown back in ecstasy, her crimson mouth contorted in orgasmic bliss, flew into his mind; unsuccessfully, he tried to banish the thought. He limped along the corridor to the bathroom, his erection was crippling him, bending him over, double. He prayed that the bathroom would be unoccupied.
Urinal or cubical? The urinal was closer. He unzipped his pants and groaned with relief as he released his cock. Joseph was justifiably proud of his cock. It was long and thick. A good ten inches. His cock jerked as he ran his thumb over the fat helmet. He wrapped his fingers lovingly around its girth and started to pump.
Just minutes ago, if he had just touched his cock, it would have exploded. He pumped fast, moaning, sensing the orgasm was imminent. But it was elusive and faded. He pumped harder, grunting; it built, then receded again. What was wrong with him? He’d never felt such urgency in his life before. And still he couldn’t come.
The door opened behind him. He frantically tried to hide his erection. His cock, however, was determined to be displayed; it bounced and slapped happily against his belly.
She stood close to him. Close enough that he could smell her perfume. Chanel Number 5.
He turned, to look at her. Her eyes were half closed. “Continue,” she ordered.
“But … but, you’re not supposed to be in here…this is the men’s…”
“I said, continue. Do not question me.”
Her voice was controlled; exotic. Joseph started to pump his cock again. She watched him in the long mirror. He pumped quickly and then slowly. He still didn’t come. The orgasm was just a breath away. She circled him. Her black, killer heel shoes, clicking on the tiled floor.
“Poor little slut,” she murmured, consolingly. “It will happen when I permit it.”
“Please…touch me,” he gasped.
“I think not,” she said with a curl of her lip.
The tension was unbearable. Joseph started to cry. Tears coursed down his cheeks.
“Please,” he groaned. “Have some pity. Is this what you get off on? Turning guys on and leaving them hanging.”
“I don’t see anything hanging,” she said. “I see things standing to attention. Besides…I don’t recall doing anything.”
Joseph panted and pumped.
Ulena took a breath. She leaned in, close to his ear. He could feel her hot breath on his neck. “Come,” she whispered.
Joseph exploded. The release was almost painful. But the relief was incredible. Spunk splattered in gallons; thick, white, stringy globules. Into the urinal, over the mirror, onto the floor. Over Ulena’s shoes. He sank to his knees, his pants tangled in a messy knot around his ankles. He wrapped his arms around Ulena’s legs. He was weeping in earnest.
“Thank you, oh thank you,” he blubbered.
She stepped away from his embrace. She pointed to the mess on the floor. On her highly polished shoes.
“Clean that up,” she ordered.
He looked around for some cleaning implements.
“With your tongue, slave,” she said. “Lick it up,”
Joseph lowered his head and started to lick his mistresses’ feet. He’d never tasted spunk before; but now he did. The flavour was intoxicating. A cocktail of spunk, mixed with the turpentine flavour of shoe polish. And the leathery texture of her shoes. He lapped noisily; slurping and gulping at the sticky strands. Gracefully, she lifted her foot to permit him to fellate the pointed toe of her shoe. He crawled around her slender legs and took her spiky heel into his mouth.
Ulena kicked him roughly away. He gave a wail of protest and she kicked him again, a swift kick to his head, lacerating his ear with her sharp, metal tipped heel. Blood trickled down his cheek and into the corner of his mouth. It tasted bitter; metallic.
“Meet me tonight at Mezzo’s,” she commanded. Nine o’clock. Don’t be late.
Joseph didn’t answer; he was licking the bathroom floor.
Friday, 11 December 2009
In this sumptuous painting, we the viewers, are place in the position of the voyeur. Marie Louise O’ Murphy de Boisfaily is mischievously splayed naked on a day bed. She is displayed; advertised. She is sexually provocative; she is open and ready. Her bottom is raised; her thighs are spread, as she awaits her lover. The painting stimulates the imagination. One can smell her perfume, her juices; sense her spasming labia lips as she eagerly awaits her lover’s cock. This painting is, literally, part of a sales campaign. In his memoirs, Casanova claims to have sold Marie Louise, to King Louis XV of France; it isn’t recorded what he paid for her, but the King was the highest bidder.
Marie Louise was a favourite mistress of the King . Francois Boucher painted this picture of her in 1745. With its frills and frivolity, its love of confection, it is fine example of the Rococo style.
I imagine another voyeur. Her gentleman friend, perhaps standing at the open door, rubbing his erection and licking his lips in lascivious anticipation. Or maybe a servant, peering through a crack in the door, as he masturbates.
Is Boucher’s painting of Marie Louise pornographic? I don’t know. It definitely celebrates a hedonistic lifestyle. I struggle constantly between the definition of porn and erotica. Certainly Marie Louise is presented as a sexual object. I keep feeling the need to write her name; she’s not just a thing; she’s a human being. But she is passive; she simply waits, for one lover, maybe two, perhaps a dozen.
Boucher’s painting of Marie Louise O’ Murphy can be seen in the Louvre Museum, Paris.
Thursday, 3 December 2009
There’s something strangely alluring about the sight of a strong man in ropes and chains, struggling to be free of his bonds. Well, I think so, anyway. All that muscle, straining. His sweat making the bonds slippery, ever tighter. The struggle is hopeless; he sees defeat staring him in the face and still he is spirited enough to fight on.
You’ve only got to type in the word ’bondage’ into any search engine, to be overwhelmed with images, and stories, of men and women, bound and helpless. Mostly, it’s consensual, at least I hope it is. A little piece of BDSM, being acted out by adults involved in a highly charged erotic game.
But bondage is nothing new. The Internet generation cannot claim to have invented it. Neither can writers of porn and erotica. Bondage is in ancient art and old, old stories.
Laocoon and his sons are bound and helpless by fierce serpents. There’s a statue of Laocoon in his death throes, in the Vatican in Rome. Pliny attributes it to three Rhodian sculptures, Agesander, Athenodoros and Polydorus.
Laocoon’s exotic punishment is for committing a sacrilegious act; that of procreation in a place holy to the god, Poseidon.
Punishment through bondage, for a sin, real or imagined and often trivial, is the catalyst for many modern bondage stories. A slave forgets to collect his master’s dry cleaning, and is tied to a whipping bar; he is helpless and is whipped. The whipping is secondary; it is the fact that he is bound and helpless, that is the important part of the ritual. In another story, a submissive craves his punishment and will contrive to get it by inventing any misdemeanour. He visits his mistress in his lunch break and is forced to return to his office, wearing a cock cage beneath his pants. The cage is screwed tightly, pressing painfully against his balls, yet still his cock struggles valiantly for an erection that just cannot happen.
Strength and power are contained, controlled and relinquished.
The old stories are even in the Bible. Delilah contrives to discover the secret of Samson’s great strength. This is a man so strong and powerful, he has ripped a lion in two. Eventually, he tells her. His strength is because of his long hair. Delilah tells Samson’s secret to the Philistines, and Samson is shorn of his locks while he sleeps. His strength is gone and Samson is bound and chained. His eyes are put out and Delilah pockets the silver that the Philistines have paid her.Samson is punished through bondage and humiliation, for breaking his oath with God by cutting his hair.
Michelangelo’s REBELLIOUS SLAVE, can be seen in the Louvre, in Paris. The bondage is there for all to see. The slave is being punished. His hands are tied behind his back; he is engaged in an active struggle against his bonds. Michelangelo has left the marble raw and unpolished, emphasising the grittiness of the subject. The expression on the slave’s face is of agonized humanity. A rebel that has to be controlled.
I shall be posting a piece on female bondage soon -- to redress the balance!
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Saturday, 28 November 2009
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
It’s not unusual to read erotic stories about Voyeurs and Exhibitionists. But we’re not really reading anything new. Painters have been telling us erotic stories for centuries. A particularly delicious picture is THE SWING, by Jean-Honore Fragonard.
The painting was commissioned by Baron Saint-Julien and features the Baron’s mistress being pushed on a swing by a bishop. Fragonard dates the picture as 1766 and the story we’re being told and the style of the work is a great example of the frivolity of the Rococo style.
It is immediately obvious what is going on here. The story is easy to read. A girl, on a swing, playfully abandons modesty, parting her thighs, exposing her genitalia to a man, watching her antics from the bushes.
“The painting is charged with the amorous ebullience and joy of an impetuous surrender to love. In a shimmer of leaves and rose petals, lit up by a sparkling beam of sunshine, the girl, in a frothy dress of cream and juicy pink, rides the swing with happy, thoughtless abandon. Her legs parted, her skirts open; the youth in the rose-bush, hat off, arm erect, lunges towards her. Suddenly, as she reaches the peak of her ride, her shoe flies off.”
Fragonard captures a moment of wonderful naughtiness. An erotic fantasy, brought alive by the painting.
THE SWING currently resides in The Wallace Collection in London. Just a short walk from Baker Street and Marylebone Village.
Sunday, 22 November 2009
Friday, 20 November 2009
The light was fantastic; tactile, translucent, diaphanous, sublime. The sky huge, giving us an Artist’s horizon of the Albert Dock. Industry and nature. Man’s machines and the natural world. The weather was perfect. The weather woman had told us wind and rain. She was wrong.
The clouds were strata, high and thin. And it was high tide.
We giggled. Where were the iron men? We’d driven all the way to Liverpool, to see Antony Gormley’s ANOTHER PLACE installation on Crosby Beach, and nature had defeated us. We'd come on a pilgrimage; such a long way. But as King Canute famously discovered; you can’t control the mood of the ocean waves. So we just stood and breathed the cleansing scent of the salty sea air, and watched the crashing waves.
Then, as we watched, the tide turned. Slowly, slowly, before our eyes, the waves receded, revealing a sandy beach. Dylan pointed to what looked like a rock, appearing just above the waves. Is that one? Then I spotted another. We watched for a while, then turned back to the first. A man was emerging, as the tide withdrew. And as the ocean sucked the waves back, more and more iron men appeared.
Antony Gormley constructed the iron men after making a cast of his own body. There’s 100 of the iron men, scattered over the vastness of Crosby Beach. The final men are just uncovered at low tide. They tell you not to walk out to the men farthest away. The ocean is unpredictable, and the tides turn quickly. It would be easy to get cut off. There’s quicksands here too.
Nature is dangerous.It’s impossible to see more than two or three iron men, at any one time. They stand, alone, lonely, just staring out to sea. Blank eyes fixed on the horizon.
First just the heads, then the bodies, then the whole thing. It was like watching primal pagan gods, emerging from the ocean. It gave me the feeling of what it must have been like to be one of the first men. Just looking at the vastness, amazed -- and filled with wonder. As always, in the presence of great Art, of things that are so much bigger than me, I felt tearful. Such a gift Antony Gormley has given us -- just because he can.
I don’t know what the installation is supposed to mean -- if anything. Some people say it’s a comment on the first men to emigrate. A sense of loss. Of leaving the homeland and staring out across the huge Atlantic Ocean. Daring to leave; not knowing what’s on the other side. To boldly go, (sorry, couldn’t resist).
But it doesn’t matter. It means different things to different people. It doesn’t have to mean anything. The light, the sounds of the ocean, the vast expanse of beach, the skies. For the two of us -- we just felt privileged to look and wonder.
Saturday, 14 November 2009
Daedalus stood on the crag gazing up at the night sky. His eyes followed the patterns of the constellations. He could read the stars, as easily as he could read the hieroglyphics on a parchment, or the engravings on a clay tablet. The stars told him that the god was brooding; angry with a powerful mortal. The stars also told him that one day, in another time, he would be hailed as the greatest inventor the world had ever seen. With that he was content.
The sea below, was stormy; ink black. It roared at him. He murmured an incantation of thanks to the god and spilled dark red wine on the granite, as a libation. He inhaled the fragrance of the wine. It was good wine; the god would be pleased. The sweet, stickiness trickled into rivulets in the cracked rock, creating a delightfully unexpected treat for an army of ants. Daedalus smiled; he didn’t begrudge the tiny creatures their feast. He didn’t think the god would either. The god had favoured him, bringing him safely to this island called Crete, and placing him under the protection of King Minos. He had left Athens, his home; a jealous murderer, his reputation tainted. He was never to return. Here, he had the respect of the King of Crete.
Gasping for breath; the air rasping, hot, scorching my lungs. Terror weighs down my limbs. Running helplessly, naked across the wet sand, my breasts flapping and bouncing, the crashing sea to my right, steep cliffs to the left. The moon, ‘Far Winged Selene,’ hanging in the night sky, pale and remote. Almost disinterested, only vaguely watchful, observing dispassionately the shocking drama being played out before her. I plead with her; but she does nothing. Does she just want to see what was going to happen?
My heartbeat pounds frantic and terrible. The pain in my chest is tremendous, searing; and still I run. My legs are weak as I sob, stumbling from the pursuing bull. Hoof beats, like drum beats yammering on the damp sand. The roaring in my head, echoing the roaring sea and the roaring bull as he closes in. Stumbling. Breath burning, as I suck air into my lungs. Tasting my own fear; it tastes of violation and death. I had seen what the beast had, as he had appeared, roaring from the waves. I know what he wants. The beast is almost on me. He bellows his fury and his triumph. I try to scream, but no sound comes.
His slobbering, burning breath on my neck. I sob. Snot drooling from my nose. My mouth hanging slack, saliva dribbling. My cheeks are wet with tears. I know what the beast wants. Rape; violation; obscenity. A heinous crime. This terrible thing cannot happen. Must not happen. I fall pitching forward and at last loosen a scream from my parched throat.
The two handmaidens struggled to hold Queen Pasiphae down. She writhed, cursed, snarled and gnashed her teeth, like a wild beast. Sweat matted her beautiful pale hair, turning it the colour of dirty metal. A cool breeze drifted through the apartments, yet Queen Pasiphae was feverish and overheated.
A third handmaiden tried to sooth her mistress, wiping her forehead and temples with cool rosewater. But her lady would not keep still, pitching forward, and landing a blow high on the girl’s cheekbone.
A night bird screeched in the palace gardens, yet it could barely be heard above the Queen’s ravings.
The Queen retched and a stream of black vomit poured from her mouth. When she was spent, she sobbed that the beast had defiled her and she was rotting inside.
It was the third night in a row that the Queen had woken them, with the shrieking screams of her dark dreams and her mad visions. Surely it was an omen? A torment from the gods. An unintended insult or slight, against one of the mighty immortals could provoke them. Everyone knew that the gods could be cruel and would not tolerate transgressions.
These things Kia, the Queen’s handmaiden thought, as she quieted her mistress. Kia could read dreams and the reoccurring dream that Queen Pasiphae had whispered fearfully to her, left Kia uneasy. The mighty, white bull that the Queen had seen, crashing from the sea, was an angered god. In the dream the bull had plunged after her, the Queen had run in terror from him, waking herself with her screams, just as he leapt on her to rape.
The nature of the gods, had always puzzled Kia, ever since she was a small child. Everyone knew that the gods could torment a man, or bestow gifts on another, for no apparent reason. Sometimes the gods would inflict pain on a man, just for their own amusement. Or to settle a score with another god, who had favoured a particular mortal. The gods were jealous, and fickle.
Even Kings and Queens were beneath the gods. And perhaps those in high places were of more interest to those celestial beings. In instances where the correct protocol was not observed; it was a well known fact that the neglect would be enough to incur a god’s wrath. And the gossip whispered around the palace, was that King Minos had refused to sacrifice the beautiful white bull; the bull that had been a gift from the god Poseidon to the King. Minos had kept the bull for his own herd, sacrificing an inferior creature to Poseidon instead. The god had been insulted, and there would surely be a price to pay.
Besides, Kia had seen a black raven each day for the last three days. The raven had seen her too, and had screeched obscenities at her. Everyone knew that to see a raven was bad luck. But to see the same bird thrice, gave Kia a deep feeling of foreboding. Each time she had seen it, she had spat three times on the palm of her hand, to ward off the evil eye and cancel out the curse.
Meanwhile, Kia wiped the sweat from the Queen’s body, and murmured soft, soothing words. When her Mistress was finally calm, Kia warmed a cup of sweet, red wine, and stirred in a strong draught of poppy. There would be no more dark dreams tonight. Queen Pasiphae would sleep well into the morning.
It took six of the strongest men to lead the magnificent, white bull into the field of heifers. The bull had scented the heifers heat on the soft warm breeze, and plunged and bucked, desperate to reach them. The dust and dirt that the bull’s mighty hooves threw up, clouded the hot air. The men strained and struggled in the hot, dazzling sunlight. Grit got in their eyes. Sweat poured over muscled chests, arms and legs. King Minos had refused to have the bull nose ringed, so dealing with the creature took brute strength and strong nerves. The heifers in the field bellowed their fear and need. They knew what was coming and were panic stricken. White juices stained their hindquarters, signifying their readiness. It would be their first mating and they would throw fine calves the next spring.
The peace of the glistening morning had been shattered by the riot of sheer masculinity.
One of the handlers, a fine, strong young man from the south of the island, stumbled and lost his footing. He was the Cretan ideal of male beauty; broad of chest and narrow waisted. A sideways kick from the bull’s massive hoof sent him spinning to the ground. The angry bull reared, roaring and took a step sideways. The strong, dark haired young man shrieked his agony, as the bull’s cloven hoof trampled him and crushed his testicles. One moment, a strong, virile man. The next, a ruined eunuch, writhing in the dust. It was a castration. The crushed ball sacs, spilled blood and the seed that had made him a man, running into the dirt. The mighty bull snorted his triumph, and his fury. The young man’s ruined sex a fine tribute to the god.
The remaining handlers released the ropes, and the bull charged, snorting and bellowing, across the open field, launching himself, onto the first available heifer.
Later, in the cool of the evening, just before Helios slipped beneath the horizon, when the shadows were lengthening, the men would whisper softly, as they gathered in the stable courtyard, beneath the mulberry tree, draining cups of sweet red wine. They would tell of how they had heard the god order the sacrifice of a virile man. They would glance nervously over their shoulders, hearing the bull bellowing as he raped his wives.
Kia watched her mistress watching the bull mating. Kia thought the Queen’s interest unnatural and unhealthy. Queen Pasiphae, stood at her apartment window, her full lips parted, her pupils dilated. She swayed slightly, lost in a trance. Her pelvis pumped rhythmically, in time with the bull’s thrusts. A low, rumbling growl came from deep in her throat.
Queen Pasiphae wore the traditional garments of a priestess to the goddess. A full flounced skirt and a laced bodice top, exposing her beautiful breasts. Kia gasped and blushed, as the Queen stooped and raising her skirts, fingered herself to orgasm.
The Queen’s obscene act, nauseated Kia. It was not in keeping with her status as Queen and High Priestess. Dressed as she was, in the garb of a Minoan Priestess, her erect nipples tinted gold, the act seemed even more lewd. Like a blasphemy to the goddess. Or perhaps, Kia thought, the climax was an offering to the goddess. As she had observed before, if the ways of the immortals were strange to her; so were the ways of Kings and Queens.
Kia knew that Queen Pasiphae was highly sexed, and that she was dissatisfied with her husband’s performance in the marriage bed. She also knew that her Mistress regularly used an olisbos on herself. A carved, wooden thing, shaped like a man’s erect cock, which she lubricated with olive oil. She would visit her husband’s apartments regularly, each evening, after oblations to the goddess had been observed. The Queen was irked with her husband, because she had not yet conceived, even though their wedding had been two years since.
Indeed, others had noticed this fact, and there was talk that King Minos could not perform for his young wife; or that if he could, that his seed was dead. Lewd jokes about impotency, were already being whispered around the palace.
Kia watched as the Queen fingered her genitals and brought herself to another crashing, fainting climax. Kia went to her Mistress and raised her head, bringing to her lips a cup of cool water. She noticed an unpleasant odour coming from the Queen and she wrinkled her nose, trying to raise from her memory where she had smelt that animalistic, meaty smell before.
Slowly, the Queen roused herself from her faint, and Kia retched her disgust as her lady panted her terrible, desire to her.
I had to do this thing. I had to have him. The need was overwhelming. Each night, after the Kings’ pathetic attempt at lovemaking, I would return to my apartments and after locking the doors, I would oil the olisbos and stuff myself. I was rough and crude and when I came, I would bleed, but it was nothing to what would happen when he finally fucked me. I knew that such a coupling could damage me, even kill me. But I didn’t care. I had to have the white bull. The god had demanded it and I could hear my new husband bellowing for me, in the fields beneath my window… And so I told Daedalus.
Daedalus, made his way to the Queen’s royal apartments. He took long strides along the dark corridors. It was cool in the palace; the marble flooring cold beneath the soles of his bare feet and he relished the sensation. He spent far too many hours, sweltering in his stifling workshop. He was making plans to build a workshop made of marble, where he could work in some degree of comfort. He hunched his broad shoulders, realising how out of condition he was. He was already out of breath, just after a short walk. Too many hours spent peering over parchments and not enough time spent swimming and wrestling.
Daedalus frowned. He had never been summoned to attend Queen Pasiphae before and he was curious. It was not unusual for him to spend time with King Minos; designing and drawing the King’s request for new inventions. Sometimes King Minos’ ideas were impossible, such as when he had wanted to be able to walk on water. But at other times he and the King had shared ideas and Daedalus had been able to bring them to fruition. Ideas like the double headed axe, which had been his first gift to the King. Following that, Daedalus had invented carpentry, using tools like the saw and the plumb line. He had brought plumbing and drainage systems to the palace and had redesigned and rebuilt Minos’ fleet of ships; now they were speedier. For the first time, sails, the prow and the mast were used. A fleet to be proud of. The King loved to watch his ships gliding effortlessly across the blue sea. With faster ships, the King’s fleet had rid the surrounding seas of piracy. To show his gratitude to the inventor, he had showered riches onto him. Neither was Daedalus ever short of women; the King saw to that too. But Daedalus wasn’t interested, in fucking them. He liked to see their lovely mouths stretched tightly around his thick cock. But most of all, Daedalus was a voyeur; he liked to watch.
He hadn’t needed to stretch his creative mind to indulge his voyeurism. He had simply removed a knot in the wood of a stable partition, where he could watch his workers fucking the women he passed on to them. That was what delighted Daedalus; the beautiful sight of a youth’s arse pumping, between a pair of plump splayed thighs. Or a maiden kneeling before his apprentice, his cock pounding into her throat. He would masturbate to the rhythm of their fucking and challenge himself to come at the same time as the amorous couple.
The stench hit him as soon as Daedalus was admitted to the Queen’s royal apartments. The familiar stink of a cow in heat. The Queen stood before him and he bowed down low to her; but judging from the agonised grimace on her face, observing royal protocol was not on her agenda.
The Queen was a young woman, but she looked gaunt; haggard. She was holding herself strangely. Her head was thrust forward, elongating her neck. Her back was arched, pushing her belly outwards. She paced continually. To Daedalus she had the look of a frustrated animal about her.
At last she spoke and Daedalus was shocked at her frankness. Not at what she wanted him to do for her. He had seen men fuck animals before, but never a woman.
The Queen wanted the magnificent white bull. She wanted to mate with it. She maintained her dignity throughout the interview; but still pacing, still panting. She spoke her instructions clearly to Daedalus, as if she were simply giving him orders to carve her a new throne.
Was the Queen mad? Daedalus didn’t think so. Everything suddenly was clear to him; the signs he had seen in the constellations. The white bull, that Minos should have sacrificed to Poseidon, still ran free and was at this moment copulating with his wives. The god was insulted. This was the powerful mortal that had angered the god. This was his revenge. Besides, Helios, the sun, was in the constellation of Taurus, the bull. The story was already written in the skies. In humiliating the Queen, the god would humiliate her husband. People would wonder about Minos’ manhood, once they knew that the Queen had fucked with an animal. The whole of this small island would know that the King was a fool. The story would travel across the seas. History would tell of King Minos as a cuckold.
Queen Pasiphae had even made drawings on parchment, of the type of construction she wanted Daedalus to build for her. He was impressed; she had approach the matter of construction intelligently.
She realised that if the bull were to mount her, he would kill her. The bull would crush her to death. She wanted him to build her a hollow cow. Something that she could crawl inside and something that would take the bull’s mighty weight. Her cunt would be exposed and somehow, Daedalus was to convince the bull that she was a cow, and the bull would copulate with her.
Daedalus reasoned with her. Had she realised the size of the bull’s erect penis? Would she be able to accommodate him? Didn’t she realise that he could split her in two?
But the Queen countered those questions. She had thought of all of those things. If it was the god’s will that she should die in that way, then so be it.
Then he told her that the King must be informed. Daedalus was, after all, the King’s guest at Knossos. It seemed wrong to actively help the Queen in an unnatural act of adultery, without seeking the King’s permission.
Then Daedalus surprised himself at his boldness. Their dialogue had aroused him. And he could smell the odour of the Queen’s arousal. His cock was erect. He lifted his tunic and exposed himself to the Queen. Let her see, he thought. What could she do? She needed him. He stroked his cock, pumping slowly. All the time watching the Queen’s face.
And so I saw what I had come to. Daedalus’ vile behaviour, showed me what men and women would think of me. There was no longer any respect, as he exposed and pumped his cock. This was how it would be from now on. Pasiphae, the slut. The Queen who would copulate with a beast. Men would joke about me in taverns, laugh behind my back. They would sing lewd songs about me. The story would be carved out in history. Pasiphae the whore. Pasiphae the perverted Queen. Daedalus grunted and spurted his seed on the tiled floor, never taking his eyes from my face. He bared his teeth at me. I knelt at his feet, obediently lapping up his spent seed.
The Queen stood before the King, in the magnificent throne room; Daedalus standing at the King’s right hand. King Minos was a big man, yet on this day he seemed shrunken and frail. He had aged years in just a few small minutes. He sat on the sculptured throne, his head in his hands. The frescoes of gryphons guarding the royal throne looked on at the King’s devastation impassively.
Queen Pasiphae was composed; she had told Minos, clearly and slowly what she wanted, needed to do. Now she stood before him, her eyes wide, watching him.
And how magnificent she looked. Every bit a Queen, her blue flounced skirts setting off the deep blue of her eyes. Her voluptuous breasts were bare and swayed when she moved. She had gold tinted her nipples, as was the custom for a high priestess. Her arms were covered in gold bracelets, filled with precious stones. Golden hairpins of crocus flowers decorated her long, tumbling, fair tresses. She wore a costly, pendant, shaped and hammered by the court goldsmith, into a bee hive pattern. Pasiphae had dressed for the occasion. Speaking with the authority of the goddess, she diminished her husband. Both she and he knew it.
Daedalus smiled. The previous day he had ordered the Queen to suck his cock. Not because he particularly desired such a thing. But because he wanted to see her beautiful mouth stretched to its capacity by his thickness. She’d gagged as he pushed his long cock into her throat; but he’d been relentless. He’d talked to her throughout; telling her that she was dirt; a slut. Then he’d come, spurting his seed down her throat, into her belly.
But at she stood before her husband, Daedalus admired her composure. Not once had she flinched, not even when her husband had cursed her, for an evil whore. That she was no better then the women who sell themselves to the sailors at the docks and harbours around the island. She had simply replied that it was what the god demanded; that her husband was to blame, for not sacrificing the beautiful white bull to Poseidon.
King Minos had wept his response. He would go down in history as a cuckold. A fool, who would encourage his wife in this perversion. He knew what the gossips around the court whispered; that Minos was an impotent idiot, who couldn’t satisfy his wife. Now they would think that they were right.
Again, Pasiphae had asserted that it was the god’s will.
Daedalus bowed his head to hide another small smile from playing around his lips. It maybe the god’s will, he thought. But the Queen was desperate for this fucking. The fucking may kill her; but without it she would surely die.
The King rose to his feet as if to strike his wife, but his large frame tumbled and crashed back onto the throne, his limbs twitching and jerking. He tried to speak, but his words were slurred. One side of his mouth dragged down in a terrible sneer. His head fell back; the eyes rolled beneath his lids, showing only the whites. The god had struck him down, silencing him.
Daedalus left the Queen pouring over the drawings he had brought to her apartments. He had ordered her to finger herself before he would give them to her, and desperate as she was, she’d obeyed him. He’d made her pull up her skirts and open her thighs, so he had her split cunt displayed before him. He’d grinned as he watched the Queen’s fingers slurped in and out of her hole.
She wept as she fingered herself, little sobs coming from her throat. How much longer would she have to wait? She had begged Daedalus to make haste with his work. She’d flung her arms around his knees, begging him to hurry. The tension had gone on for too long; she couldn’t bear to wait much longer.
Meanwhile, after Daedalus had left, Queen Pasiphae continued to play with her genitals, as she poured over the drawings. They were basic ideas, but they showed it could be done. She traced the outline of the drawing with a fingertip, as she stroked between her labia lips with another. She trembled with anticipation.
The structure, as she had instructed Daedalus, was hollow. It was supported on six wooded blocks, nailed to a trolley on wheels. She was to lay in the base, her arms hanging loose, her legs pinned open. Her head would poke out of one end, her chin resting on a cushion of soft leather. The arse end would be open; her rear exposed ready for the bull. There would be tight leather straps inside, keeping her body firmly in place. Daedalus had told her that the bull’s thrusts would be powerful and he could push her out of place. For his cock to fill her completely, her body must not move. He had looked at her closely, and asked her if she wanted the bull to fill her up? She had thought that her humiliation was complete, but she had felt herself blush, as she had nodded her assent.
The top half of the structure was to be nailed shut, after the Queen was strapped inside. She would be pinned down and confined, able only to move her head and neck. A prisoner, able only to scream.
This roof of the structure was to be made of blackest ebony, a tree from the deepest forests of dark Africa, Daedalus had told her it was the heaviest of all the woods. It would be reinforced in several places, above where her body would lay. This would prevent the bull’s weight from crushing the whole contraption and the Queen within it.
But Pasiphae was no longer worried about dying. What was the point? It was likely that very soon she was going to be fucked to death. She licked her dry lips.
It was the fittings that were the most degrading, but I endured them. I was sure that many times Daedalus lingered a little too long over details, such as the distance from where my arse crack began, to my cunt. Or the circumference of my breasts, or my belly. I had to trust him; but the length of time it was taking was unbearable. His workmen looked on, smirking. And all the time, while I stood naked in Daedalus’ workshop, my body flushed with shame, my silly little handmaid and Daedalus’ apprentice, played eyes with one another.
The fittings ended. The following day was going to be the day that Daedalus had worked so hard for. The Queen and the mighty bull would mate. He knew that the mating would not kill the Queen; he had read it in the stars. He had also read in the stars, that there would be offspring. The Queen would bear the god’s child, and he would be terrible. A monster. Half man, half bull.
The apprentices in the workshop carried on with the finishing touches well into the night. Daedalus had told them that there must be no rough edges left on the wood. Everything must be smooth and fine. They argued as they worked, sweat pouring over muscular chest in the hot night. They made bets as to whether the Queen would survive her ordeal.
King Minos’ worst fear had become a reality. Everyone, even to the lowliest kitchen maid, gossiped about the Queen. Everyone said that she had made a cuckold of the King. What sort of a man was the King that his wife would have sex with a bull? And for him to permit such a thing! Minos prayed to the god for an end to it, but the god ignored his and prayers and sacrifices
I lay helplessly imprisoned in the belly of the false cow. This was the time. Now. This terrible thing was going to happen. The leather straps were so tight, I could hardly breathe. Daedalus had carved holes for my breasts to be pulled through and I yelped as the apprentice tugged them into place. He pinched and squeezed my tender nipples and stood back, with a sneer on his face to admire his handiwork. I knew what he was thinking. With my breasts dangling like udders, I made an excellent cow.
Kia watched as the top half of the cow was hammered into place. The noise was incredible and she put her hands over her ears to shut out the din. She knew she would never forget this scene. For ever after the smells of the oils, lubricants, wood preservatives in Daedalus’ workshop, would bring it alive. Her mistress was encased inside a heavy wooden tomb on wheels. Just her head poking through at one end; her cunt at the other. Her large breasts dangling. Daedalus had raised the rear end of the cow, placing the Queen’s pubis on a platform. This would make her more accessible to the bull’s cock. Her legs were tied; stretched apart, forcing her cunt into a gaping hole; an open mouth. Her beautiful Mistress was a whore. A wanton woman reduced to cunt, breasts and head. Kia swallowed, suppressing her need to vomit. And in that moment she knew, that an obscenity would be born of this union.
Kia saw Daedalus grin as he liberally smeared juices from a cow at the height of her season, to her mistresses’ bottom and inner thighs. He was enjoying himself too much, Kia thought. More than once she saw his fingers slip into the Queen’s open hole. Kia knew her mistresses’ shame, as tears of degradation slid from her eyes. But she knew she would never call a halt to this sick ritual. Her need for the violation was all consuming.
It took eight oxen, in their prime, to drag the contraption containing the Queen, along the track, into the field. Before they began the wearisome journey, Daedalus raised his hands, and gave thanks to the god, in silent prayer. And then he gave the signal for the oxen to begin. Daedalus brought up the rear. As he followed the slow procession, his eyes were fixed on the Queen’s cunt. She glistened with the juices he had spread on her and with her own juices, dangling and oozing, in slippery silver strands from her cunt. Her hole gaped, and spasmed open and closed.
He was struck by the quiet of the early morning. Truly, he could feel the presence of the god. Daedalus could hear him breathing; sighing. This was the god’s will. He would be pleased and Daedalus’ reward would be great.
It was early enough for the first, warm rays of Helios not to have yet touched the meadows. The dew still glittered in pearly droplets on the grass. It had rained at some time in the night and Daedalus inhaled the fragrance of the damp earth. No birds were singing, they were quiet, as if they were contemplating the solemn little procession. All was silent, even the bull was quiet. Then, a dog howled. A mournful ghostly cry.
He’d ordered a dozen strong men to bring the bull from his pen into the field, where the Queen lay waiting for him. They’d hobbled him, to make controlling him in their favour. Daedalus was taking no chances this time. He’d already lost one good man to the bull. But still the bull plunged with furious energy, as he was led to his wife. Daedalus wished he could see the Queen’s face; her expression. Was she humiliated? Degraded? Was she weeping, or was there a sublime smile curving her beautiful mouth? But he stayed where he was. Daedalus wanted to see the bull’s cock split her cunt open.
The bull mounted her and his cock probed her dirt hole. Daedalus leaned down and seizing the bull’s cock, thrust it into the Queen’s cunt. He was amazed by her body’s elasticity as she stretched to accommodate him, her cunt walls gripping the bull’s cock, instantly swallowing him whole.
The noise shattered my ears, as the bull’s heavy, cloven hooves clattered and rattled on the roof. I ululated a cry, high and wailing. A lament for innocence banished. I was unnatural, and I rejoiced in my depravity. My heart was pounding as if it would burst out of my chest. His mighty cock probed against my tight anus, and I shouted out in panic. Then he penetrated my cunt, opening me; I screamed, “Yes!” in elation. The pain was shocking, every part of my body screeched with it. It was if I were being torn apart by an invasion of spears. I screamed again and again as his cock pushed into my cunt. With each thrust he grunted. And then, as he thrust ever deeper, the pain dulled. At least, it didn’t matter. The shame didn’t matter. We rutted together; destined for one another. He knew every fibre of me, as a husband should know his wife. My womb contracted in a series of spasms; my orgasm was close. His thrusts became fiercer; he pumped harder, as his seed flooded hot, into my womb. He bellowed and roared in triumph. And when the orgasm roiled over me, I swooned.
And so it was, that I, Pasiphae, Queen of Crete, High Priestess to the goddess, fulfilled the god’s sacred demand and fucked the bull.
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Poseidon had given a wonderfully beautiful bull to Minos with the expectation that Minos would sacrifice it to him. This bull indeed certified that Minos was the rightful king of Crete. Rather than sacrifice the bull to Poseidon, Minos kept it for himself. To punish him Poseidon had made Pasiphae, the wife of Minos, fall madly in love with the bull. With the aid of Daedalus Pasiphae let herself become impregnated by the bull. Daedalus made a hollow wooden cow for her to get inside, so she could mate with the bull. The resulting offspring which she bore was a monster called the Minotaur.
Friday, 6 November 2009
Bernini was the first sculptor to realise the dramatic potential of light in sculpture. This is fully realised in his famous masterpiece Ecstasy of Saint Teresa (1645-1652, Santa Maria della Vittoria, Rome), in which the sun's rays, coming from an unseen source, illuminate the saint and the smiling angel about to pierce her heart with a golden arrow.
I would argue that the expression of sublime ecstasy on Saint Therese’s beautiful face, has little to do with her heart. It has everything to do with a swooning orgasm induced by the smiling angel’s golden arrow. The images of her smile and the golden arrow, are simply metaphors for what is really going on.
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Hey! My friends in the U.K. It's not to late to get hold of the Hallowe'en edition of Forum,(Vol. 43. Issue 10) with a wonderful article by M.Christian. Christian writes about sex and fear and death and why they are inextricably linked in our psyche.
It may not still be on the shelves, but my newsagent got hold of a copy for me, no problem! Indeed, I skipped out of the newsagent's, with my copy discretely wrapped in brown paper, only yesterday!
Order it now!
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
Friday, 30 October 2009
The Halloween party was in full swing when Sarah arrived. She was late; deliberately so. She wanted to tease James; worry him, just a little. Make him think he’d been stood up. She had felt sure that he would already be here. But she couldn’t see him in the crowed club. So many people, dancing, laughing, shouting, close in to one another, to make themselves heard over the loud music. She noticed several zombies in the crowd, and two or three Draculas. One guy had made a supreme effort and was turned out as a convincing Michael Jackson in ‘Thriller’. There were the usual witches and wizards; French maids and gypsies. Characters from Frankenstein and the Adams Family and a hell of a lot of noisy improvisation.
A fog machine pumped out puffs of smoke into the darkness. Black fabric decorated with shimmering, silver spiders’ webs, covered the walls. Bright orange Jack o’Lanterns stood on every available surface. Nooks and crannies were lit with flickering, coloured lights; red, blue, green, gold. A black, Siamese cat, with eyes like green gemstones sat aloof on the bar. The pounding music held no distraction for him.
She loved Halloween. Better than Christmas, or Easter or even her birthday. The festival was just starting to take off in this country and she missed the joyous, hectic way it was celebrated in the States; in San Francisco. Most of the parties she’d been to there, had degenerated into frenetic orgies by the end of the evening. She wondered how this party would turn out, with the restrained Brits.
The door swung closed behind her. She drew herself up into her fashion model pose, one graceful hand on her hip, one knee slightly bent, holding the position a few seconds longer than necessary. Sure enough, heads turned to look at her, as she knew they would. She dazzled her sensational smile at them, and made eye contact as she swerved her practiced, brilliant gaze over the crowd. The attention turned her on; it would be an interesting night.
She looked stunning. She’s made a real effort with her ‘bad fairy’ costume. She was wearing over the elbow, black lace gloves. She’d laced herself in to a tight leather corset, that pushed her large breasts up, and out. Small black wings were sewn into the back. A black garter belt clipped onto her stockings. She fluffed out her tiny black netting skirt, and shook her long blonde waves. Nonchalantly, she adjusted the netting veil that hung seductively over her darkened eyes. Her pale skin glowed with a powdered, pearly luminescence. She didn’t need a looking glass, to know she looked perfect, as she strode confidently in her killer heels and black fishnets into the throng.
Count Dracula halted her, sliding in behind her, slipping his white hands, with bloodied fingernails beneath her arms, cupping her breasts. His thumbs brushed her nipples, through the soft leather corset. She laughed delightedly, feeling a frisson of sexual excitement and leaned into him, feeling his hot breath on her neck. She was tempted to snuggle up to the Count, but she’d finally caught sight of James, in his ‘Phantom of the Opera,’ costume. The white mask covering half of his face.
She frowned, perplexed. She knew he’d seen her, but he turned away, back to the bar. She wanted his attention and disengaging herself from the Count, she slipped up to him. Her arms slid around his waist. The music got louder and she felt, rather than heard, him chuckle, as he pushed her hands down, letting her feel his erection.
She giggled. She and James hadn’t had sex yet. They’d been quite restrained, knowing that when it did happen, it would be explosive. They’d talked about it a lot and she’d confessed her secret to him. That she loved doing wicked things in public. Was he going to grant her wish tonight?
She stroked his erection through his black denims and tugged at the zip. She wanted his cock. She could feel her breasts tingling. Her nipples were always the first part of her body to be aroused, and they’d already had the attentions of Count Dracula. Her womb muscles contracted with need. Her arousal surged through her. She felt warm cunt juices gushing, trickling over her inner thighs. She excitedly pulled his hard cock from his pants. She wanted to see it.
She stroked it, coiling her fingers around its girth. She ran her thumb over the bulbous head, smearing his pre-come. She pumped his cock slowly; she wanted to taste him. The music thumped, people danced and screamed and shrieked with nervous laughter, as a faux flash of lightening and claps of thunder echoed around the club. Sarah licked her lips in anticipation.
She sank to the floor kneeling at James’ feet. She painted her lips with the tip of his cock, smearing it with her bright red lipstick. She took him in her mouth, relishing it, swirling her tongue around its thickness. He tasted savoury; salty. She inhaled his male scent. His fingers cupped her head as he rammed into her throat; his pelvis thrusting as he fucked her face. She swallowed and gagged, she hadn’t been ready for such a rough invasion, but she breathed her way through it. Sarah prided herself on her skills at sucking cock and she swallowed him whole. She glanced up. The white mask covered half of his face, but she saw one side of his mouth curve in a grin. She would have grinned back, it seemed only polite, but her mouth was stuffed with cock. She was aware of people pointing and laughing, but that just added to the excitement; the thrill of the moment, as she performed. Her fuck juices surged again. She needed to come.
When he jetted into her throat, she swallowed every drop of his seed down into her belly. She never wasted spunk. It was nectar to her. She licked the remaining few drops from his softening cock and ran her tongue over her lips. She struggled to her feet and looked around her. A few of the female partygoers turned from her in disgust. But her lewd display had obviously sparked something off. She could see Frankenstein, fucking a delicate fairy, doggie style over the other side of the club. A witch performed cunnilingus on Cinderella. A gipsy dragged an elf into one of the alcoves. A zombie, with a bloodied face, waved a fairy godmother’s panties over his head. A high court judge, fingered a French maid, while another, on her knees, sucked his cock.
Sarah turned from James, she wanted to find the bathrooms, to adjust her make up, but he held onto her, trapping her between his hard body and the bar; he kissed her, pushing his tongue into her mouth, tasting his cock.
“Your turn,” he whispered in her ear.
She looked at him, quizzically.
He slipped his hands into her arm pits and lifted her high in the air. She looked down at him, laughing, as he placed her on a small table, steadying her as she tottered on her high heels. She realised that the music had been turned down low. She looked around; the whole room was watching her. She loved it; she threw her head back, shaking her long, tumbling curls, laughing.
“Come on,” he said. “Show the nice ladies and gentleman what you can do.”
The music changed to a classic striptease; she started to dance.
Someone cheered as she wriggled enticingly to the rhythm. She slowly pulled open the top laces of her corset and her large breasts all but burst out. Then her gloves came off slowly, finger by finger. She threw, first one then the other into the crowd. The zombies and vampires around her shouted out and whistled. She unclipped the tiny net skirt and then lace by lace, very slowly, always keeping the rhythm of the dance, she unfastened the laces on her corset, throwing it to the floor. She shook out her breasts, caressed them and held them out to her audience. They banged on the table wanting more. Feet stamped and there was cheering. A fat zombie got close and opened his mouth, waggling his tongue. She hung her breasts over his face and let him suckle her. A vampire joined him and sucked and bit on the other nipple.
Sarah felt glorious. She raised her arms above her head, and danced. She grinned down at James. He laughed his approval. He hooked his fingers through the laces of her thong panties and pulled them down over her hips. She stepped daintily out of them, squealing with delight. She was completely naked, except for the garter belt, her stockings, heels and the little net veil.
She finished her dance in a frenzy; pelvic thrusts, gyrating to the stripper music. James shoved three fingers into her dripping cunt, as she danced, rubbing his thumb on her clit. She came in seconds, but she wanted more.
James helped her down from the table, holding her close and shoved his fingers in her mouth, making her lick them clean. She bent over the table, her arse in the air. She looked around at him. She felt wild; beyond control.
“Come on,” she shouted. “If you can’t, someone else will.”
But James already had his cock out; his jeans pulled down over his ass. He didn’t want her from behind, he turned her to face him, lifting her high. She wrapped her legs around him, opening up her cunt. She shrieked in triumph as he slowly, lowered her wide hole onto his cock, filling her completely.
Laughing, they rutted. So did everyone else in the room. The sensory overload was contagious. The atmosphere was filled with the pungent odour of sex juices.
Sarah could feel her orgasm approaching and she opened her eyes wide, screaming as she came; James took longer, then he grunted, spurting his spunk into her.
Her eyes were fixed on the entrance. Fixed on the late comer. Just before he put on his ‘Phantom of the Opera’ mask, she saw his face. His dark eyes met hers, and registered knowing. She saw the high cheekbones; recognised the shadowed, craggy jaw.
It was James. Her James. The James she was supposed to meet here. Then who…?
Friday, 23 October 2009
After posting the stuff about Aubrey Beardsley’s pornographic drawings, last weekend, I got to thinking about the Victorians, and what a funny lot they were. Their opposed attitudes to children, are glaringly obvious to us, in the 21st century. But apart from a handful of social reformers, the polar opposites seem to have passed them by. Victorian Art and Literature, portray dear, pretty, little innocents, gathered around Mama and Papa’s knee; not seeing the stifled, starving little nobodies, working the coal mines, or sweeping chimneys.
If we’re looking at polar opposites, it’s not too huge a leap to look at Victorian ideals of family life and domesticity, compared with the commercialisation of subversive pornography, who’s sole purpose was the encouragement of illicit sexual arousal. The irony has a clarity that cannot be missed. Fidelity and chastity, and their polar opposite; debauchery and depravity.
So was this abundance of pornography, a result of a morally severe society? A golden age of repression? I don’t know. All I can say here is, that it was there, and it was available. Pornography, for men in Victorian England flourished. An official statistic of the Society for the Suppression of Vice, indicates that by 1834, 3 years before the start of Victoria’s reign, there were 57 porn shops on one street in London alone.
Perhaps too much sanitization isn’t healthy? Perhaps it brings out a secretive behaviour, which results in delighting in the obscene? Perhaps the more we get, the more we want, as in the extreme stuff that’s available on the Web? Perhaps I’ve picked up on a topic that is far more complex, than I can deal with here? A lot of questions; a lot of ‘perhaps’.
I think that there’s a delicious naughtiness about the porn the Victorians liked to look at. Yes, it’s sleazy; but to my mind there’s a sort of childlike innocence, a naivety that’s been lost, in the hard core pictures and photos that you can find anywhere on the Web today. It’s fun, it’s joyous; it’s a celebration of the forbidden.
Sunday, 18 October 2009
In February 1893, Wilde's scandalous play Salome was published in its original French version. An illustration inspired by the drama (reproduced in Joseph Pennell's article, "A New Illustrator: Aubrey Beardsley," in the inaugural issue of The Studio) was admired by Wilde and Beardsley was commissioned 50 guineas to Illustrate the English edition. This assignment was the beginning of celebrity but also of an uneasy, and at times unpleasant, friendship with Wilde, which officially ended when Wilde was tried and convicted of sodomy in 1895.
Beardsley's fame was established for all time when the first volume The Yellow Book appeared in April 1894. This famous quarterly of art and literature, for which Beardsley served as art editor and the American expatriate Henry Harland as literary editor, brought the artist's work to a larger public. It was Beardsley's stark black-and-white drawings, title-pages, and covers which, combined with the writings of the so-called "decadents," a unique format, and publisher John Lane's remarkable marketing strategies, made the journal an overnight sensation. Although well received by much of the public, The Yellow Book was attacked by critics as indecent and obscene. So strong was the perceived link between Beardsley, Wilde, and The Yellow Book that Beardsley was dismissed in April 1895 from his post as art editor following Wilde's arrest, even though Wilde had in fact never contributed to the magazine.
Saturday, 17 October 2009
I met my new friend, Neve Black in blog land, and I asked if I could read any of her work. She
sent me her short story SKINNY MAN. I began reading straightaway! I do love a dirty story! But immediately, I was surprised and curious. Where the hell was Neve going with this? I’d sort of been expecting the archetypal romantic hero; this is erotic fiction, right? The place we go to when we dream our dark erotic dreams on those hot nights.
Neve wastes no time in putting me right. This hero is repulsive. She tells me in her opening paragraph about the new neighbour’s pot belly and that he’s lost most of his teeth. The few teeth he has left, are dirty and stained from years of smoking and drinking cup after cup of black coffee. He’s scruffy and not the sort of scruffy that is appealing. Okay, perhaps it is on a guy of 23, but not on a balding unkempt man of late middle age.
The nature of the genre ‘erotica’ is that at some point in the story this guy and the narrator are going to have sex and I, as the reader, am going to be turned on. That is why we read erotica, isn’t it? But I carry on reading, because as I said, I was curious. And this is the best and most surprising bit; I was entertained.
Neve’s narrator tells us his;
“…legs and arms reminded me of an old brown, grasshopper that had lost its vibrant green lustre.”
Tall, dark and handsome he is not. Well, he’s tall, but there the comparison ends. You just know that this guy cares little about personal hygiene and that he probably smells.
His name is Carl, and he is determined to engage his neighbour, Janine, in conversation every time she puts in an appearance in her garden. Janine is Carl’s opposite in every way you can think of. She’s a professional woman, well groomed, physically fit and her teeth gleam!
She doesn’t really want to talk to Carl, but she wants to be nice and so she’s friendly. She can’t possibly be attracted to awful Carl, but you know she is when she’s wondering about the size of his cock.
The sex, when it happens is explosive, all the more so because Janine is so far above Carl socially, well, it doesn’t seem possible.
I loved this story. I love the way Janine puts aside her prejudices, to have sex with a man she feels wildly attracted to. I love Carl too. The skinny man. He may lack social niceties, he may be dirty, he may talk like a character from Deliverance, but he knows how to fuck.
Neve Black writes in a gentle, lyrical way. There’s a tempo and a rhythm that lures you into the story. She writes about sex, yes, but she’s writing about so much more. There’s a beautiful depth here that is quite enchanting. You know those nature films, where they slow the film right down, so you can watch a bud, unfold into a flower? That’s what Neve’s writing makes me think of. Those languid moments, where special things have happened. You’re not sure how or why, but you cherish it just the same.
Skinny Man is currently a free read at Oysters and Chocolate.
Saturday, 10 October 2009
TOPPING FROM BELOW, by Laura Reese, is not for the fainthearted. I started reading it with trepidation; the book at arms’ length. I had a good idea where it was going -- and I didn’t know if I’d be able to handle it. I’d written a feature for my blog, on bestiality in literature. Why was it so taboo; it’s in classical art and literature, so why are editors and publishers so fearful of going anywhere near it?
So there I was, with the real thing in my hand -- and I was scared. I’d been quite brave in my essay -- at least, I thought I had. I’d had a lot of intelligent response; one in particular from Neve Black, who’d recommended TOPPING FROM BELOW to me. What was there to be afraid of?
I knew the book contained the real act: yes, bestiality. Neve had told me. So with chilly uncertainty nipping at my fingertips, I opened the book and started to read.
I’m tempted to describe this book as a ‘decline and fall,’ story. But it isn’t really that, because there is no fall. There’s no retribution, because the narrator doesn’t recognise that she’s done anything wrong. No sin has been committed. By the end of the book, she understands that something has been drawn out of her, that should have remained hidden.
Nora knows who killed her sister, Franny. She knows without a doubt. The culprit has been questioned, but no charges have been made.
Nora is determined to prove his guilt and have him brought to justice; it is how she goes about this, that elevates TOPPING FROM BELOW, from dark pornography, to a powerful, beautifully crafted story.
Nora’s suspect is a charismatic sadomasochist. Franny, her murdered sister, had fallen under his spell and Nora sets about taking Franny’s place. She learns of Franny’s degradation and humiliation and learns how Franny embraced one perversion after another, just to please the man she believed loved her. The difference between the two sisters, is that Franny’s actions filled her with self loathing. Nora accepts each perversion as a new way of life.
In her closing chapter, Nora, the narrator, tells us;
“M awakened in me passions I didn’t know existed…”
But she is reconciled within herself. Nora continues;
“A year ago I would’ve said there was a clear line separating the good from the evil. I would’ve said that evilness belonged in the netherworld and that evil men existed beyond the peripheries of decency. Now I’m not so sure. I believe that there is a dark side that belongs to us all, lying beneath the surface of our humanity, twisted extreme and savage in some of us, less severe in others, but always present and always at struggle with the civilised soul…”
There are dark places in our hearts; those secret doors that are best left closed.
I’m glad I read Laura Reese’s book and I am so glad that Neve Black recommended it to me. As I said TOPPING FROM BELOW, isn’t for the fainthearted. It’s challenging and confrontational -- but it’s also a damn good story I definitely recommend it, and I shall certainly be reading it again.
Published in 1995, TOPPING FROM BELOW, now appears to be out of print. At least, I couldn’t get it directly from Amazon’s warehouse. They had a list of sellers, and I had my book delivered easily. Faster, in fact than Amazon’s usual mailing.
Thursday, 8 October 2009
Here's some great news for all my fans - both of them - living in the UK: the great folks at the British-based Adult eBook Shop has a page featuring a lot of my new books, including my very recently released Rude Mechanicals collection!
I SO love this new world of publishing! Remember how I mentioned that Rude Mechanicals, my new erotica collection from Renaissance E Books was going to be published soon? Well, 'soon' is right now! Below is the description, and here is the link to buy it.
Bondage, science fiction, fetishism, real realities and virtual realities collide in this unique collection by one of the most popular authors of erotica - ever!
"M. Christian's stories squat at the intersection of Primal Urges Avenue and Hi-Tech Parkway ... feral-eyed, half-naked ... Truly an author for our post-everything 21st century."
- Paul Di Filippo, author of the Steampunk Trilogy.
Two unforgettable novellas highlight Rude Mechanicals: In "Hot Definition," the story of a future just around our corner, Neko experiences the ultimate domination from the woman who is her master; and in "Speaking Parts," the second novella, two lovers, one with a camera-shutter eye, come together in a scorching, obsessive, edgy relationship that will take them both to the limits of sexuality and beyond. Plus four provocative, physically explicit short stories of sex and technosex.
"M. Christian writes like dream!"
- Paula Guran, DarkEcho