Friday, 19 August 2016

Cut Clean

It's a late morning of our last day when I open my eyes, look at him asleep next to me; half on his side and half on his front, the blanket having slipped down. He's moving a little, but his breathing is deep and his eyes are closed so I get up quietly, tiptoe out of the door and start gathering the gear for today, load the rucksack into the car and sniff the air from the back deck; a sharp, bright day with a breeze, the sky a cloudless blue, the world itself giving me a nod.

And so we go, a short drive to the end of the peninsula, parking the car by the gate at the end of the estate road.

It's an easy walk at first, hardly more than couple of miles of a stony dirt track undulating between a rocky hillside and the sea, with views to the mainland. We turn off the road onto a side trail. This last stretch is steeper and narrower, needing more attention on the narrow stone-made path.

I am climbing down from the log bridge over the burn, making my way around a rock outcrop, when my boot slides and I lean forward to regain my balance. My left hand slips down the mossy stone, catches a sharp edge of something before splatting into a small hollow filled with murky water, reddening now with the blood from the gash that's splitting the fleshy left edge of my hand.

I steady myself, the instinctive movement of my injured hand towards my mouth halted mid-way by the bits of rotting plant matter and dirt that are sticking to it, and stand there, trying to remember where and how deep the first aid kit is buried in the bag.

He's a few steps behind me and when he sees what's happened, dumps the rucksack on the side of the path and comes closer, his eyes on my hand, tracing the rivulets of blood and muddy water dripping off my fingers.

“Let me, please.”

Not quite sure what he's going to do, I nevertheless let him take my hand between his. He drops to his knees, not really ritualistically but because it's practical at this moment, but he keeps his face down, and raises his eyes up to mine, for a moment, as if waiting for permission.

I nod.


Your lips touch my skin, then your tongue; on my fingers first, one by one, licking meticulously, then sucking; on the middle of the palm next; all the dirt and blood coming off, your saliva drying cool and quick.

You move slowly towards the gash, starting around the cut, slowly, carefully, waiting for my reactions after each lick; your tongue skirting the edges of the wound; slow, feather-light touches from each side, then resting inbetween the ragged flaps of epidermis; a stinging flick to the open flesh in between, a raw burn of pain passing before I really notice it; my blood now cleanly flowing, tasted, scooped up, swallowed.

It's a base, fluid binding, a ritual of purification, a primal, animal-like act that makes my heartbeat pick up all the way to a heavy thump, makes my breathing halt, then deepen.

I lean against the stone outcrop, my left hand still in yours, your lips and tongue still there, licking and sucking my wound clean. I'm getting turned on, despite the dull sting of the cut, my eyes closing, my right hand passes through your hair, stops for a moment, withdraw, moves away and up to my breast briefly, then slips down under the belt of my jeans to the swelling heat of my cunt, throbbing wetter and hotter than my cut hand under your blood stained mouth.

I stifle a moan into a deep sigh, withdraw my hand, remember the tissues in the side pocket, the plasters in the rucksack hood, get you to dig them out, put one on for me before I say anything, your hands shaking just a little when you smooth the edges of the dressing on my skin.

“Thank you,” I say to your back, bent down to pick up the rucksack again.

You turn towards me slowly, eyes down first, then catching mine just before you straighten up, my gaze slipping from your face down your body. I smile and you look away again.


“I'm so hard it hurts, Ma'am.”

“I know. It's good. You'll probably need that.”

I turn round and walk on, the path getting more level and a bit wider along the field fence on the right.

The pasture is empty of its usual sheep and it's only then I realise that we've met nobody on the way, neither tourists nor locals nor the land-workers, despite the halcyon feel of the day. We walk on, in companionable if charged silence, and it's as if we were walking into another world, a quieter, clearer and slower one, an alternative space just a couple of molecules, a few milliseconds, a tiny Doppler shift away from the usual.

I take my eyes off the trail and look at the little cove opening up below us, its white sand and clear water of tropical perfection bound by a semicircle of dark grey rock, the mountains of the mainland rising in grey-blue strata beyond the water east of us, the islands mere smudges of shadows to the south-west. The colours are shifting in my very sight the same way the time and sounds have done, the greens blueing and the blues pearling; the shapes follow, the outlines sharper and yet more distant.

The rocky path merges into a short grassy slope, we walk down and dump the stuff near the edge of the grass. The tide is high and it's clear where the land will remains dry. I sit down on the low rise of stones, light a cigarette, watch you put the tent up, my eyes scanning the higher, not quite straight rock wall opposite me for the steel eyelets I hammered into it a few days ago.

You've finished and sit down on the sand by my feet, look up, follow the line of my sight, look at me again, a mixture of disbelief and realisation in your eyes.


I smile.

There are two just above the sand, about three feet apart, next two roughly at the waist level, closer together, two more at six feet high and four feet apart.

“Later, though. Make a fire, boy.”

I watch you, the dull throb of the cut on my hand suddenly making itself known in the background. You pick up driftwood, sticks, branches, couple of small logs, build a neat pile surrounded by a circle of stones, light it up, kneel down on the ground to blow at the little flames, your eyes squinting, the smoke blown by a stray gust of the breeze obscuring your face momentarily before it gets lit up by flames picking the thicker twigs.


Read the whole story:

Tuesday, 16 August 2016

Fripperies, foibles and fabrics (an ode to stockings, a denunciation of tights)

I read a blog post on a kink-too-far recently and intended to write my own inspired by that, taking the subject seriously. But then I saw an gif that made me shudder. A close-up of  a female crotch clad in white tights, the gusset being suggestively cut open with a knife.

The shudder wasn't caused by the close-up, or by the knife (I wrote a cutting-off-clothes fantasy scene once and I am rather fond of knives, of which perhaps at another time). But tights, especially white tights, especially white tights worn without knickers: As someone else commented: NO. Just no.

So before I write that serious post on turn ons, turn offs, limits, YKINMK and the like, some thoughts on fripperies. Little things. Isn't it odd, and funny, how a relatively small aspect of an object or a situation can change something that's hot into something at best neutral, sometimes shudder inducing, sometimes repulsive? But also the other way round: a little change that transforms a neutral thing into gasp-inducing hotness?

Hosiery is a case in point.

I love stockings. I dislike my bare legs most of the time (no need for a body-positive sermon, I don't pathologically hate them, merely dislike, OK?) and stockings That includes hold-ups, though it's cheating and I wear suspenders with hold-ups anyway because I have not yet found hold-ups that hold up for any length of time, which might be size related. Whatever it is, walking along a country road in the rain trying to catch a lift and having to stop every three minutes to hitch up your skirt and pull up the fucking no-hold hold-ups is not at all fun.

Anyway. I do like stockings, especially opaque stockings with plain or plain-ish tops. Rather high (i.e. opera-high rather than mid-thigh or just-above knee schoolgirl type). Black, or occasionally bright red, for preference if opaque, black if fishnet, nude if disposable, dressy and translucent.

I like the process of putting them on and fastening the clasps, and sometimes I like to have my partner do it for me. I like the way they look, but I like the way they feel much more. I like the way the cover legs without covering crotch, I like the ease of access that's not obvious to the onlookers. I like the way they make it easy to slip my hand under my skirt and into my knickers to touch myself while driving without having to fiddle with the belt, buttons and zips. I like the way it's possible to have sex while wearing them. I like how they make one both dressed and undressed.

I like the stocking edge and the suspender straps perhaps the most: a line in body landscape between the living skin and the fabric. I love how this line can be traced with my own fingers or how other fingers or lips can be guided along it across my thigh, or cross it on the way up. I particularly love the shift in sensation when a tongue moves from the stocking to skin, the change in temperature, the different way the moisture of the breath and saliva feel directly on skin and through the fabric, how the barrier both limits and paradoxically, enhances the sensation.

Fishnets scale the latter effect both up and down for the whole garment, and if cum is to end up on stockings, fishnets are my favourite by fair. Particularly if it's to be licked off (think: those little holes and a stiff tongue tip!).

This is all about the garment, though. I don't have anything beyond a practical appreciation and in fact a sensory dislike for nylon, lycra or any artificial fabric. I'd love to wear silk stockings updated by modern technology to make them stretchy and fitting rather than wrinkly, and ideally not costing equivalent of my weekly earning.

But yeah, I do like stockings, and I do fetishize them. They turn me on, as an idea and (just a little bit ;) in actual use.

But in the same realm, I dislike (i.e. fucking hate) tights. Sure, I wear tights now and then, especially in the winter, always thick and opaque. They are undoubtedly practical, sometimes look good or are fun with chunky, studenty, wintery clothes, sometimes are necessary evil.

But sexualization of tights? Ewwww. Ewww. I mean it. I chatted to a very nice boy once, who was into crossdressing/lingerie a bit (I think I forgot to mention that I do like men in stockings now and then too) and what could have been a fun flirty exchange of ideas and pics crashed (or laddered, perhaps) on his continuing bringing up tights. Worse: pantyhose. Panty-fucking-hose. Talk about a (lady)boner killer.

So, just to make my point clear, tights, although not phobia-inducing, are not sexy for me. And thin, plastic tights worn without underwear, as often depicted in erotic/pornographic visuals are definitely a gusset too far.

Thursday, 11 August 2016


My lower body opens up, ripe, sweet, muskily slick, taking you in, a perfect hold, tight yet effortless embrace.

Taking you because you are giving yourself to me and I want it all.

All that you have, and all that you don't have;
all that you've gathered, carefully, recklessly, all that stuck to you;
all that you've misplaced, all that you didn't want but had to bear, all that you wanted but never got, all that's been taken away from you;
all the you are and all that you are not;
what you wanted to be and what you feared you might be;
the full and the empty;
the sins and the virtues, the sane and the crazy;
pain and joy, words and screams and silence;
skin and all that's under the skin, even if I can never know what it is;
and I want it all;
and I will take all of it that you have to give,
not to keep inside myself but to touch it and taste it, and to let what can fly, fly, and let what can grow, grow, to bury what ought to be buried,
and to give back to you what you need.

Tuesday, 9 August 2016

Not Real: a personal statement

The subject of ''real kink'', ''real D/s'', and most of all, ''real dominants'' and ''real submissives'' is a perennial favourite among the bdsm/kink crowd, particularly those active online. I have written a  little post on the subject before, but there is much more to this and before I rant and overanalyze it further, as I am wont to inspired by some recent reading,  I feel (although I am not a cis het male dom, but there are other issues) a Personal Statement is due. So here it is. 


Hi. My name is Skin Shallow and I am not real. 

Before you start imagining a porn-soaked 16 year old locked in his bedroom typing and wanking furiously or some other version of a Deluded Internet Fantasist (OK, the wanking bit might have some connection to the reality), here is more. 

I believe I have a noticeable dominant side to me. I know that I have a noticeable sadistic one. So far, so good, some might say. But here is the catch. I have not lived in a real life bdsm relationship with anybody. The last time I derived or gave sexual pleasure by directly giving someone pain using my actual, real hands, Wonderwall was in the charts, John Major was still the Prime Minister, EU consisted of 15 countries and you could buy 20 red Marlboro for less than three quid. 

And when I did, I didn't know what I was doing. I had no concept of ''kink'' or ''bdsm community'', or ''dominant'' or even ''sadist'' as an identity. I knew that there were things I liked doing that many people didn't like, I knew that there were things that turned me on that many found alien or repulsive, and I had always know that I was... kind of weird, sexually. A bit twisted, and less than any other woman I knew interested in being seduced, swept of my feet and ravished. So there was that. But I didn't have a name for that box of delights, and I didn't have a frame of reference apart from more or less erotica-focused contemporary and classic literature. The names and the framework came later. Much, much later. 

And by that time I had been involved in a committed, long term relationship with a vanilla partner. I had a life, I had a family, I had projects, I had all that stuff that has little or none to do with how I get my rocks off and what turns me on faster and deeper than anything else. 

Sure, we had the Talk. We had several Talks, some more serious, some more playful, some angry, some incredulous, some understanding. But, contrary to some of the popular femdom fantasies, not all men have a hidden submissive side aching to get out, and trying to work kink into your sex life by stealth is not only unethical, but doesn't work beyond a certain point. And, contrary to another popular fantasy, not all men are locked into monogamy by jealous women and dream of having a carte blanche for the sexual adventure of an open relationship. Perhaps I was unlucky. Perhaps I picked unwisely. Perhaps both.  

I could have dropped all the things I valued in my life and openly pursue a fulfilment of this side of my sexuality. Perhaps I was too much of a coward. Perhaps I felt too much loyalty or sense of duty towards innocent members of my family. 

I could have also pursued all that on the sly, create a secret life on the side. I sometimes crave it, and fantasise about it, and once or twice I was genuinely tempted. But I know how important monogamy is for my partner and I don't think he deserves this level of deception and betrayal. I wish monogamy had not been a default all those years ago. I wish I had had enough sense and self awareness then to negotiate a possibility of opening that door later on. I didn't. I had, stupidly in hindsight, made my vanilla, monogamous bed and I had to sleep (and fuck) in it. 

Not that there was anything wrong with the vanilla (sometimes just-this-side-of-vanilla) fucking. But the itch for the extras returned, and I have developed a compromise that involves a don't-ask-don't-tell, tacit acceptance of discreet, remote, mostly fantasy based pursuit of satisfaction of the kinkier side of my sexuality. I write small-scale pornography of the kind I like. I play online, here and there, mostly casually, occasionally longer term. I don't pretend to have a fully equipped dungeon hidden in the garden shed, or a stable of slaves ready to kiss my domly feet and submit to my domly spankings at a drop of my non-existent domly hat. I don't promise real life play or real life relationship, because, well. Because I am not real. 

Saturday, 6 August 2016

On beauty, on what's hot, and on social pressures

This starts analytical, gets ranty/preachy, then a little bit sexy, then a little bit wistful. A mixed bag. 

Every society, every tribe, every social group has always had their own averaged, normative standards of beauty (and other traits considered to be ''attractive''). Some of these might be based on human universals, hard wired to some degree. Others are culturally defined and change in our very eyes with fads and fashions. This post about fashionable tits by GOTN charts one such a course. 

I am not writing to persuade anybody that people lacking normative fuckability can, and do, get laid, are desired and loved, and that "universally hot" might be a useful data point but it's a poor predictor of individual attraction. That is so blatantly obvious that it doesn't need saying. Just look around, in the real world. 

But I am also not writing to persuade anybody that "everyone is beautiful". Some people are beautiful, either by the current social standards, or by personal ones, and others are not. 

Instead of trying to broaden the criteria by saying ''everybody is beautiful'',  it might be better to say ''it isn't that important'. 

I know. I know. It isn't easy. These judgements sting, more so when we are not confident about our own or our partner's looks. In the real world we inhabit, who we choose to fuck and whom we choose to love reflects on us. However much you don't like it, your choice of a mate, casual or long term, influences what people think of you. 

But still, I really don't like the notion that ''everybody has a right to be considered beautiful''. It gives way too much power to ''beautiful''. 

It tells us that only beautiful could, and should be desirable, and desired. It makes us insecure about not being beautiful enough or about the loss of beauty that comes with age or happens with life events. It conflates ''beautiful'' and ''hot''. It tells us that to be desired and loved we have to be beautiful, even if only in the eyes of that one person. It makes not just the less-beautiful feel wobbly and needy of reassurance, but also those who choose them. 

I have been on both sides of that.

The thing about fat girls being great to fuck but not someone you'd want to be seen with, yes, I've been there. 

The girl (and allow me, please, a moment of mean, a girl whose own looks weren't exactly of model standards), who said incredulously ''I get that boys want casual sex, but with her?'', and the one that repeated it to me. 

The look in a friend's eyes when she said ''I get it, you were drunk and horny, but him? him?'', I've seen it. 

And then, there was the Ugly American. He rented a room for a few days in the same, empty for the summer, dingy student flat in Fulham where I was renting one too. We met properly at the bar of a pub facing a leafy green, on a sunny weekend afternoon, some time between that horrid Bryan Adams song and the possibly even more horrid Winds of Change. 

He lit my cigarette, we started talking, had a few more beers. His eyes kept darting between my fingers, the cigarette, and my lips, and we joked about non-smokers kissing smokers being compared to licking ashtrays. We walked home, staggering along the shaded side of the street, and kissed for the first time before we passed the entrance to Parson's Green tube station. 

First tentatively, heads leaning towards each other. His lips, dry and full. The tip of my tongue touching them, his sliding along my lips which opened for it, reaching deeper into my mouth, tasting, pressing, licking. My hands on his neck pulling him closer, my body tensing in a spasm of desire.

We shared the next nine days in that dingy flat, drinking cheap lager (me) and cider from large plastic bottles (him), talking about what trees dreamt of (both), smoking More's 100's (me) and watching me smoke them (him), and fucking at at every opportunity that my cash-in-hand, 50-hours-week job and his attempts at sightseeing on the cheap.

He was enthusiastic and attentive to my pleasure, with eager hands, surprisingly skilled mouth and a thick, pretty cock, the first circumcised one I'd had fun with, which responded beautifully and repeatedly to things I did and which was likely a significant factor in my first-ever (and still rare occurrence more than twenty years later) orgasm from penetrative sex. 

It was simple, joyful, uncomplicated. It made me walk around in a haze of happy glow, thighs sticky and mind dizzy with desire. 

But although he was tall and reasonably shaped, he was also rough-hewn and - yes, ugly. Not in any way repulsive, but plain, lacking proportion and finesse. Light years away from the faces that stopped me in my tracks and made my heart skip a beat. Light-years away from the androgynous, beautiful face of the boy I had been in love with for the previous four years or the finely defined features of my occasional fuckbuddy at the time. And not only that. The Ugly American was also, alas, a bit stupid, a bit simple, a stoner who'd made his way around the world hardly noticing or remembering anything about places he'd visited, undereducated in that a way that only graduates of US universities were then capable of. And I was a snob, and a young and silly one at that. Unduly worried about judgements of my friends, often keen to express disapproval of my tendency to grab what was there and my general lack of discrimination. 

So I didn't take him to a party the day before he was due to leave. And although the party was boring, and I left early, and our last night was as good as all other times, and we tried to sleep together in one of those hard, stupidly narrow single beds, and he neither knew about my reasons nor was bothered by my actions, and none of it was a big deal at all, later on I felt ashamed by my own embarrassment. I felt ashamed by my giving in to the need to maintain the public image, by my making that guy, who still, twenty five years later, holds his place among the best sexual experiences I've ever had, into my dirty little secret, neither because it was necessary nor because it was thrilling, but because I was ashamed of fucking the Ugly American. 

Thursday, 4 August 2016


I wasn't sure about posting fragments of what is neither straightforward smut nor even strictly speaking erotica here, out of the longer context of its own somewhat hallucinatory, somewhat fantastic narrative. But as I made the first step with this little report, I might as well show another extract. 

I guess ''content notes'' are due: ritualistic sacrifice, blades, cutting, blood, eroticised death. And so on. 



It's so vivid. The colors and contrasting light. And I feel so warm. I tilt my head to the side and look to your eyes, let a smile curl up the side of my mouth. I'm calm, but can hardly breathe. I'm aroused way beyond what I can remember. And yet I feel guilty for sexualizing this, stealing it and making myself the centerpiece. I pull against the chains, my eyes roll closed and I let out a loud moan.

We walk on, ceremonially, the two women leading the way, the beast behind them, your head between the horns, face up, your wrist and ankles bound with dun rope, chains keeping the whole ensemble in place. I keep my hand on the animal's flank, warm and furry, touching you now and then briefly.

Hands from the crowd extend, pleading for a brief touch, flowers are thrown, heads bowed. Excited chatter in a dead language drifts over to us from behind the colonnade.

My clothes are changed, the dark cargos, the white shirt gone. I'm wearing a long robe of undyed linen, thick fabric but soft as if after very many washes. My hair is loose and down, but not tangled any more, longer and thicker than it was before, falling down in heavy waves. Leather sandals on my feet and, yes, again, in a suddenly clear echo of something that is less than a memory, a snake bracelet curved around my right wrist and a similar one on my left ankle.

Sadness and intense elation both wash over me, spill into my smile back to you. You look beautiful. . Gold horns like a lyre above your head. I can't take my eyes off you. Maybe I shouldn't. Your eyes close as I move my fingers from the beast's fur to your thigh.

 We are coming out of the building, into a wider, open space. A large glade surrounded by trees. Golden light, a lot of shades of green, flowers. The women that were walking in front of us have stopped in the middle, on opposite sides of what looks like a rectangular, slightly raised slab of white stone. They're kneeling down.

 My fingers find the dagger - the dagger from the labyrinth, the one with a round lapis lazuli pommel - in the folds of the robe. The animal walks to the stone and stops too. Silence. I can hear its breathing, a little laboured, with an odd snort every now and then. You seem peaceful, despite your position. I turn and make a step toward the beast, close, the folds of the robe are brushing its side. I touch you.  First my left hand, the leather wrist bands a contrast against the paleness of my skin, flat below your navel.

Your skin feels warm and alive against my hand and for a brief moment I step out of this reverie, this strange state, this ceremonial, ritualistic high and all I want is to take you away, for myself, mine, just mine, not given to this ritual. My cheeks feel wet, I realise I am crying, voicelessly and expressionlessly. Everything else is still and silent, as if time was suspended.

My right hand finds the dagger. I pull it out. The sounds start again, and some movement. People who've gathered around react to the sight of the knife. They seem to recognise it with an audible, collective inhale. There's now a circle around us. Not very close but close enough to see individual faces. The women kneeling at the stone raise their faces up and towards us. Everyone is waiting for something. For me to do something.

I put the tip of the night to your chest. Make a slow, very shallow cut, a long thin line pearling with red, all the way from the collarbone down your sternum.

I'm not crying anymore.

I love you.

More cuts, a little deeper. Blood dripping onto the beast's fur.

I'm close to orgasm.

Blood soaks into my robe, disappears, leaving no stains.

The animal has turned sideways so it's parallel to rather than facing the stone slab. The steady murmur from the crowd is growing, becoming musical, something between a whisper and a chant.

The pommel of the dagger feels hot. The fingers of my right hand are stained blue, woad blue, the left one is covered in blood.

You're still fully erect but breathing slow and far away, though your eyes remain open. The anticipation becomes nearly unbearable.

I'm not sure if I'm moving or if something is moving me.

I draw lines on your face with my blue-stained fingers. I use my blood stained fingers to draw the same pattern on mine. Then both, on the beast's forehead.

Maybe the animal is to be the real sacrifice, a symbolic replacement for the human one. Or maybe it's the other way round.  Or maybe it's a choice that can be made.

As soon as the last thought becomes clear in my head I know this is exactly the case. And I realise that it's what everyone is waiting for. That this ritual has been  repeated for a very long time. That we are the last in a long line of people who did this. That sometimes it was a man bound to the back of the beast, and a woman walking next to them, and sometimes it was a woman on a beast's back, but the choice was always the same, and the decision they made was always the same too.

 I can feel the eyes of people around me, especially the two women kneeling at the slab. Limpid open, beautiful with sadness and pleading. I cut the binds.

The knife goes through the chains without any resistance. As if it was made for it.  Maybe it was.

Your wrists and ankles are still tied together as you slide down the animal's side onto the grass. Blood streaks smeared along the fur. It should be horrific but isn't. Maybe it's the way my body vibrates with erotic charge. Maybe it's your face, calm, open-eyed, both here and far away. Or maybe the gold light, bright yet soft.

I realise that I must decide. Now. Kneeling on the ground between the bulk of the animal and you. Looking into your eyes again, heavy lidded but open. Searching for the answer. The yes or no.

Then it comes. Your mouth moves, in something between a moan and a skewed smile. You nod. Or maybe I just imagine it, but I can't be imagining it because it seems that everybody - not just I, but the women at the stone, the crowd standing in the circle around us, and even the animal itself, saw it, heard it, felt it.

Felt the same wave of acquiescence, a yielding, and although yielding should feel merely like lack of resistance, and it usually does, this time it's different. This time, I am receiving something, but not to keep. As if you were giving your body, your self, of yourself, not to me but through me somehow.

The beast stands up. It tilts its head with what seems like a knowing look at you, shakes it, snorts and slowly walks away, people parting to let it pass, reaching out to touch it on its way, dabbing faint smears of blood - your blood - from its hide on their cheeks and foreheads.  The kneeling women move up to us.

You get moved somewhat unceremoniously onto the stone. I can't help but think of it as an altar  though there's no adornments of any kind. Just a smooth, white slab, likely marble, with a noticeable, shallow hollow along its length and three bronze rings, heavy and polished to a golden glow - so smooth and shiny that I wonder if they are not actually gold  - one in the centre of the western end and two in the corners of the eastern one. And don't ask me how I know where east and west are here, but I do.

Your hands are fastened to the single ring. Your feet to the other two. The woman at the head end leans down and kisses you on the mouth. It's a slow lingering kiss, the black ringlets of her hair falling over your shoulders and chest. I can feel it. I can taste you on my lips and tongue as she kisses you. She straightens up and goes back to her position, a kneeling sentinel.

The other woman moves between your spread legs and starts stroking your hips and thighs, then leans down and takes your cock in her mouth. I can feel that too. I can feel how hard and hot you still are, I can taste the musky brine of the precum, I can feel involuntary little thrust of your hips as she closes her lips tighter.

I'm incredibly aroused, so much that my body is almost separated from my mind. I said I was close to orgasm earlier but now I'm practically coming - or maybe I'm not. Maybe this intense, very much physical, whole body experience of pleasure, joy and elation  has nothing to do with sex as such but I'm just using sex as the nearest proxy because there is nothing better available. And it lasts. And lasts. Unabated.

The eastern end woman goes back to her place. I close my eyes, maybe black out for a short time because when I come to I'm shifted in space a bit, leaning over you, my left hand on your tied wrists, fingers brushing the gold metal of the ring, the tip of the dagger slicing along the inner surface of your forearm. Then the next one. The blood is flowing slowly, not onto the stone but into the ground to its side. I catch your eyes just before they close. I see your mouth moving in the shape of "Yes", silently, then opening to deep, long moan of an exhale. I move down and make two more cuts high on your inner thighs.

Your back arches and you come. Or rather, start to. Instead of the few spasms of ejaculation, they seem to be continuing. I see you, in front of me, on the marble slab, bleeding out and orgasming. My white robe immaculate despite all that's happened. And I feel you inside me. Hot and hard, pulsing, spilling out, your chest sticky with blood against my bare breasts. I scream. I scream when my pleasure peaks in a prolonged spasm of an immense orgasm.

And I scream in terror because I can feel the slippery stickiness of the blood on my chest and I can feel you go limp in my arms and maybe, just maybe, we are not in a mythlight gold-lit labirynthine glade at all, and maybe I have done something horrific rather than good, maybe it's all been for nothing, or for worse than nothing, or maybe I just have no idea what happened and where we are.

I am not sure if I am coming to, or blacking out, or going to some other place than the there we are at, the place where it happens, but wherever I am, I see the glade and the altar, from afar.

There's a man walking through the crowd, to a rumble of cheers, the people welcoming and honouring him as a long lost king, bard, prophet. Coming closer to the centre from a direction exactly opposite to where the beast walked away.  He's carrying a lyre, golden, made, literally, of the animal's horns, and there is something in his gait that resembles the beast's. The women at the altar get up and turn to him, joyfully, then they all stand above you, heads bowed down, as in thanks.

I see the glade, and the altar, from behind a gossamer veil of shimmering air, drowning in a haze, and I see you, neither alive nor dead but suspended at the very peak of ecstatic arrival and departure, bleeding out and climaxing forever.

Wednesday, 3 August 2016

Transcribed, Mostly, But Not Always, Accurately


[female voice, low, slightly slurred, hoarse, breathy, very quiet, hardly audible, possibly due to the microphone placement ]

[audible heavy breathing throughout]

I'm so tired I'm light headed..
But the sea still looks... great. It looks great.

The lights of the island over the water... it'd be funny if it was Ithaca...

I don't quite believe we are here but.. [mumbling, impossible to understand]


[slow, dragging steps, clinking of glasses, sound of liquid poured out]

[quality of the recording improves dramatically, same voice throughout, still low and tired]

That's too much grappa... even if it's magic...

[audible gulp] 

Bloody hell, it's really making my head spin


And I still haven’t had a shower or a bath.
Fuck it

I need to do something before I can sleep

Mmmm [soft moan] oh god [loud inhale]


[sound of glass being placed on a hard surface]

Give this to me,

[same sound of glass]

[cloth rustling]

[heavier breathing audible]

I want to touch you properly now
[whispered, clearly enunciated] everywhere

You be still
and stay quiet
just as you've done so far
like a good boy


[muffled sounds of movement, moaning, turning to panting]


[more heavy breathing]

I want to taste you

[muffled but unmistakeable slurp]

oh god
oh fuck

[numerous breathy sighs and gasps]

It’s so very unbecoming, isn’t it?
to want you so much

oh fuck it

[low, free laugh, a rolling giggle]

certainly I’m not going to pretend I don’t

now I’ve got you here

in my hands

[deep breath]


Down now,
yeah, here is good,
on your knees

take your shirt off
lemme feel your skin
oh god
[unintelligible apart from ‘kiss’]

I’m so tired... so fucking slow
[soft,  panting]

so fucking  wet
[audible sound of swallowing, moan, gasp]

[hesitantly, but fast, higher pitch, a gasp that borders on a sob] I want to hurt you
[still soft, back to the usual pitch] I might just die

but not before you
[short laugh, several gasps]


[soft, decisive] c’mon
let’s go in

[soft, words slightly slurred] I want to watch you strip
All off

want to see you
for the first time

that’s good that’s
that’s really really good
I love it

[deep, seething inhale]

oh fuck

[audible swallow, more breathy breathing]

mmm oh fuck [gasp]

I want to fuck you

[more moaning, an louder, frequently occurring from now on]

oh god yes

[brusquer, faster, clearer] I want to take you
inside me

[through clenched teeth, a little seething] deeper

I want to hear you
breathe and moan for me

whisper please and yes
these are the only words you can remember

I want to come with these words in my

my nails on your back,
like this [panting]

my hands on your throat,
like this [more panting]

oh god [repeated at least three times, possibly more, semi-articulate]
ohhh [louder, and more inarticulate sounds of gasping and moaning]

[from 11.46 onwards inarticulate sexual moans and gasps, little laughs, followed by even more inarticulate sounds, increasingly louder]

fuck yes yes yes yes

[low laugh smoothly morphing into a moan]

ohhh [slower, low, repeated]

fuck yes yes [repeated, frantic]
good boy

[names, repeatedly, redacted to protect identities of the participants, inarticulate sexual sounds]

yes yes yes [repeated, whisper-like, low, even more breathy]

slow slow slow [breathless, very quiet, intense]

oh yes
really good


fucking lovely

oh yes
oh god

[more frantic moaning]

yes yes yes ah ah [repeated]

oh god oh fuck [redacted] 

ohhh [rising, louder, to a peak of a curve, then dropping lower, slowing down, short giggle, then quieter]

[slowing down, satisfied breathing]

[small laugh]

oh god

[deeper, steadier breathing, ]

You didn't do too badly. 

[another laugh, louder]

You may talk now, [redacted].