Category Archives: Erotic

my teenage horror moans

22 Sunday Apr 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on my teenage horror moans

Tags

, , , , ,

I’ll make a rude ghost — the kind who infects
crossroad brothels; anywhere the fragrance
of sex and fear sleeps. Skulking hulks of wrecks;
enthralled with jellyfish, phosphorescence
and the double-grin shark. A thousand years
of cock, hanging just so. Aeons of sprite
light, all that dreary pop-rock and cum smears
on my chin. I’ll make rude; ghost in skintight
trousers, tousled hair and alabaster
hunger. I saw The Devil in Miss Jones,
it made my grotty whore moans and toxins
all run amok. Dead lust is a horror
show. I traffic with fear and pheromones.
Lick me clean; I’ll make you cum in ruins.

wings and burning cheeks

16 Monday Apr 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on wings and burning cheeks

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Demons do all look alike. They are round
with wings and burning cheeks. I love bucktooth
fangs, scholars and poets all, those hellhound
coke-heads, all my dead friends with a sweet tooth
for flesh. The heavens were made in sevens
and I fuck in threes. Water still burns nerves
whose one duty is to delight. Demons
do all look alike; the way that the curves
and lines in cocks and cunts blur together,
if you’ve been with enough. If you haven’t:
‘ello, virgin. There’s a reason spirits
shun you. Like how I shun burning water
and the living. We love all wet, mutant
lovers; hellhound fucks; dead coke-head poets.

xenomorph, darling

16 Monday Apr 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Feminism, story

≈ Comments Off on xenomorph, darling

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , ,

I.

Even after Su’s first encounter with the xenomorph the family’s shop continued to smell like an abattoir, since that was exactly what it was.

For over ten years Su’s mother had spent her waking days amongst butchered meat from every animal that could be chopped, cut or diced upon the island of Taiwan: Sika deer, Chinese pangolin, clouded leopard, mountain dog, flying squirrel and even the tiny lesser horseshoe bat, at one time or another, all had hung, suspended from their haunches, in her display window. When her mother would come home at night Su’s little world would become saturated with the aromatic stench of primeval blood. The older woman would leave streaks of crimson slime everywhere she went; on the bathroom walls, in the rice bowl, even on the front page of the People’s Daily featuring the picture of that decadent wastrel, J. F. Kennedy, getting inaugurated as the 35th President of the United States. To Su’s mother, all that blood and butchery was simply part of the natural way of life. Indeed, 1961 was the best of all years to be alive and to be a Communist Party member, her mother would often say, always adding, unless you are a peasant living on the mainland, then you’re probably just dying from the Great Famine.

It was true that Taiwan had many advantages over mainland China at that time; for example, a lack of famine was always considered a good thing; as well as not having any of those feisty re-education camps where villagers would beat college students with sticks until they forgot everything they had learned. Rote memorization, indeed. In comparison, Su and her family were relatively affluent. They lived above their own shop — her mother and her sister Jia — in three small rooms that were perpetually saturated with the odor of their livelihood.

When Su was little she had been apprenticed to the trade of butchery and slaughter. She had become a professional meat handler at the age of sixteen and by eighteen knew everything there was to know about cutting short loins and sirloins, fingering flanks and shanks. The day the first spaceship appeared, a burning derelict that, spiraling down out of a gray cloud bank, crashed into Taipei’s famous Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall, destroying everything in its path, Su was up to her elbows in macaque’s viscera, grasping after choice monkey bits. Jia had just returned to the shop, a little out of breath, holding a smoldering, honeycombed clod of metal in her hands, wrapped up in a steaming cloth.

“And what do you have there?” her mother asked, putting down her hack-saw.

“I don’t know, it fell out of the sky.”

“Out of the sky?”

“Yes, the crash has set the buildings in the Zhongzheng District on fire,” Jia explained, mentioning the neighborhood that was once home to all the city’s governmental ministries.

“On fire?”

“Yes, didn’t you hear that great explosion followed by all those people screaming?”

“Screaming?”

“Yes, um, why did you think I ran out into the street just now?”

“O, I don’t know,” her mother answered, smearing red and steaming bits across her cheek. “I thought that you had heard that the local kennel was having a half-off sale. That’s usually the only reason I go out into the street nowadays.”

Wiping her hands on her apron, the girls’ mother took the clod of metal in one muscled palm and brought it up to her nostrils, inhaling deeply. Her eyebrows furrowed.

“What does it smell like?” Su asked from across the room.

“How the hell should I know? Years of working with splattering body fluids has ruined my sense of smell. Here, catch! What do you think?”

“I’m not going to put that under my nose,” Su laughed. “You have no idea where that thing has been.”

“You say it fell out of the sky?”

“Yes, mama. It crashed and set everything on fire.”

Su’s mother shrugged, letting the handle that had once belonged to an off-world containment cage — inscribed with the words, “Warning! Dangerous Specimens!” — fall with a clunk-clunk upon the cutting board.

“I wouldn’t worry. Comrade Kao-En will see to it, the Party always does. Now then, back to work, we have racks to side.”

II.

No one spoke of the strange, alien metal for the rest of the evening until it was time for bed. The girls’ mother had left the clod sitting where she had dropped it, less out vexation and more because it simply didn’t interest her. Her daughters, though, were of an entirely different mind.

“I can’t help but wonder if this metal is part of that spaceship that crashed into the city this afternoon?” Jia mused. “I wonder how far through outer space it went just to get here?”

“I can’t help but wonder why there is nothing in the newspapers or on radio about this?” Su replied. “You’d think more people would notice something like a great ball of screaming fire setting all the governmental buildings ablaze, plus that eerie pulsating glow to the west accompanied with that rhythmical humming noise, as if we were listening to the engines of some wild alien war machine.”

“I am sure the Party simply wants to downplay the accident in the event it is only some new weapon being developed by the capitalist Yankees,” her mother answered. “But don’t go making things up. Outer space? We all know there is nothing up there. Didn’t the Chairman say that outer space is nothing more than death wrapped up in darkness and silence? I am sure he did, at some point during his many, many speeches. I say we just wait until the Party declares what happened and go along with that. It will be in the People’s Daily tomorrow morning, I am sure.”

Su noticed that, unlike earlier in the day though, her mother did not speak with her usual off-handed frippery that was her way of dealing with things she did not understand. There was almost, one could say, a nervous twang in her voice.

Weird, the girl thought, settling herself down in her bed. Everything outside her little window was unnaturally dark, as if the night was nothing more than a disembodied spirit that wished to smother the city, if only it could get inside. From where she lay, naked, Su could see no city lights, no stars, nothing. She idly ran her fingers through her hair. It was as if the world had become an empty void or the the moon had been blotted out and shadows pressed themselves against the window glass.

After Su was done and closed her eyes and rolled over to one side, her fingers cum-sticky, the monstrous shadow that had been peering in at the girl all this time silently moved away, allowing the pale stars in the sky to fill up the pane of glass once more with desolate, cold-hearted light.

III.

Su muttered in her sleep. Her restlessness had left her only half covered, the more interesting half, for it was a hot night. Her breasts slowly rose and fell, her nipples were bewitchingly dark and erect. Sweat ran down her thighs, pooled around her ass, reflected in the moonlight. The soggy patch of black curls between her legs gave off the sex-stench of a wild finger-fucking. Something motherish and loverish called her name. Su opened one blurry eye.

A figure stood at the end of her bed.

No one was ever going to mistake it for a human; it glimmered in the dim light with its bio-mechanical exoskeleton, with its cylindrical skull. It was as naked as Su and shockingly mammalian; a dozen curious, small breasts ran down either side of its pitch-black chest, its ass was huge and curved, its hairless cunt puffy, large and brilliantly green — a wet sort of poison — glowing phosphorescent in the dark.

Su wanted to scream but no air came out. She heard a slow, shrill hiss as the thing swung — its? — hers? — a great, elongated head toward the girl. Su didn’t know if the thing — it? — she? — yes, anything with a cunt that glowed must be called a she — was peering at her, but the star creature had no eyes. Perhaps she could smell female blood? smell menstrual blood? or was it the blood Su continually worked in? Perhaps all. Perhaps neither.

The xenomorph reached out with a talon-tipped finger, touching Su’s exposed thigh. It regarded the warm flesh with a cocked head to one side. The human was emitting an odd scent, one that intrigued her. Leaning over the bed, she opened her mouth, revealing a huge, silvery maw, sampling the air that floated about the young woman, tasting it, emitting soft mewling-hisses of approval.

The thing — the abomination — whatever it was, seemed almost to smile, leaning forward even more, her face inches from Su’s. Cool breath, like the air from a desert cave, hit Su’s face. The star creature inched closer still, curling back her lips to brush them across Su’s. The girl opened her mouth to scream, to call for help, to do anything but was silenced as an otherworldly tongue, segmented and gleaming, forced itself between Su’s lips. It was long and wicked, probing, squeezing, pulling at the root of Su’s own tongue, forcing its way deeper into her throat.

Su felt herself begin to gag as the xenomorph wrapped one hand around her skull, the other grasping the small of her back, pulling the human closer as Su thrashed about on the bed. The thing pushed more of herself into Su’s mouth but found her tongue was too big to fit easily. In and out the queer tongue went, slowly at first, then as the star creature built up more speed, she went deeper; exploring Su’s uvula, licking around the insides of the girl’s throat in a way that made her stomach convulse. Su choked once, twice, three times. She held her mouth open as wide as possible. Over and over the xenomorph continued to explore the human until Su had spittle running down her chin and onto her breasts. The suffocating pressure was just too much, tears welled up in her eyes. The xenomorph sniffed at Su’s tears, sighed and slowly withdrew.

The human turned on her side, coughing, bringing up bile and that night’s dinner, while the star creature’s tongue once more reached out, wrapping itself gently around Su’s neck.

Su felt long, cruel fingers glide across her ass cheeks, felt something dripping into the cleavage of her ass while the tongue trailed down her back, savoring the taste of her skin. The taste of flesh was fantastic. The smell of Su’s fear was intoxicating especially since it was mixed with the xenomorph’s own excitement. She reached out with her silvery lips and kissed Su’s flesh, delighted that Su’s anus twitched as her cool, wet tongue slid over it, continuing on. She parted the human’s cunt lips and Su gasped, unable to hide something that wasn’t fear, afraid that the thing might stop. Su dug her fingers into her pillow, making low, uneven hiccoughing noises.

The star creature lowered her mouth, kissing the entrance to Su’s hair-soppy cunt. Her long tongue snaked out once more, entered the girl. It went deep, deeper, flexing, probing the magma-hot walls of her vagina. Su felt an orgasm building — she didn’t want it but couldn’t stop what this thing, this seraphine, had started. The xenomorph’s fingers played with her clit, evoking up no fear now, focusing only on making the human groan with pleasure at this crude extraterrestrial cunnilingus. We mean to please. When Su finally orgasmed, a pitiful noise from a soul so hungry, her hips buckled, her cunt contracted, a silent scream that took in the whole cosmos and she arched her back, touching the xenomorph’s carapace with both hands, wrapping her thighs around the thing’s oblong head, holding that incredible tongue firmly between her own legs, locked in place the way any lover would do in post-orgasmic bliss.

As the tongue withdrew from Su’s depths the star creature crawled up, over the human’s body, so that her own row of small, mammalian breasts brushed across Su’s open lips. It purred at the first contact, began to move its obsidian-black tits over the inviting face.

Slowly, as if waking from some horrible dream about smothering Su began suckling, her tongue twirling around each strange nipple that was offered. Purrs from the xenomorph were so strong that the bed shook and the nipple quivered under her tongue.

IV.

For two whole weeks Su was able to keep her secret lover secret from her mother and sister and for two whole weeks the Communist Party played along with the idea that the derelict spaceship had simply been an American satellite that dropped out of orbit accidentally. The mayor of Taipei, Chieu Kao-En, made speeches and the People’s Daily ran cryptic headlines about: “The Monochromatic Nuisance” and “Decadent Yankee Parasites That Do Nothing But Get In The Way Of The Workers’ Work.” Sometimes there were sightings of xenomorphs down in Gongliao Park, for the creatures appeared to enjoy hiding in the shadows of the ancient trees, but once the reconstruction of the Memorial Hall began in earnest the citizens of Taipei turned their attention elsewhere.

It was odd what different people’s impulses were when confronted with new things. Knowing her mother’s nature, what worried Su was the prospect that if her mother ever did learn about the xenomorphs she would want to know what they tasted like …

Su had asked herself the same question, except it hadn’t run along the lines of “… in a heavy cream sauce with carrots and potatoes?” but rather “… at the point of cumming?” Su wondered whether she was the first human to ever taste xenomorph cum? Perhaps.

Every night the xenomorph needed only to glimpse Su’s body and desire raged through her once again. She liked it best when, after the orgasms and fucking, the human female curled up in her amazing, double-jointed arms and sang softly to her. They were mainly political Party songs — “March of the Young Pioneers,” “CCP Is Our Mother,” “Going To The Country For Re-Education” — and the like, but the low tunes made the star creature happy and gave Su a chance to run her fingers across the xenomorph’s brilliant carapace, her scars and tattoos adorned with mystical patterns from her home planet.

“What are we going to do when mother finds out?” Su asked, one night, almost in a whisper, in what she judged was the star creature’s ear.

The xenomorph could not respond — the purring and the hissing were the nearest it could get to human speech — but it stuck out its dildo-shaped tongue, the same tongue that had brought Su so much pleasure in such a short time, as if to say, “your fate and my fate are forever joined, lover of my mine,” and pressed her cheek to Su’s, amazed that such a small creature could generate such lovely body heat.

* * *

A Note From the Author:

XENOMORPH (noun): Latin-derived phrase meaning, “alien shape” or “foreign body.”

I love science fiction but have very little patience with the question, “is there anyone out there?” Since we’ve yet to establish any proof that extraterrestrials exist most people seem to fall into one of three camps. The first are the fence sitters, folks like physicist Enrico Fermi who talk about the “Great Silence of the Cosmos,” or, as he puts it: “[Since] the apparent size and age of the universe suggests that many advanced extraterrestrial civilizations should exist why is it that there is no observational evidence to support this theory?” Call it, “I want to believe but show me proof first.” Then there are folks like the Greek thinker, Aristotle, or the religious philosopher, Thomas Aquinas, who assert that human beings are alone in all of this wild, hairy existence, fulfilling some sort of vague, “divine programme”-thingy that requires God to be a carbon-based, bipedal life form. Finally, you have Art Bell, but out of respect the less we talk of him, so much the better. None of these groups are very sexy, which might be why astrobiologists and theology students so rarely get laid.

For me a much more interesting question is: “Who was the first person who saw Ridley Scott’s 1979 movie ‘Alien’ and thought, ‘I want to have sex with that star creature’?” Because you know somebody did, it’s why freaks of the universe rule, “gonna wave my freak flag high.” Or, to be more exact, since everything in that film was bloated, Freudian symbolism for cocks and cunts, who was the first person who saw the xenomorph’s little mouth (“I wants to play, tooo!”) and thought that it would work marvelously as a bio-mechanical dildo? It would take tongue-fucking to a whole new level. I reference Scott’s movie simply because I use the term xenomorph to describe the extraterrestrial in my story and would like the reader to know I’m using the broader term here, that this is simply an unknown creature, in the same way that using the term “E.T.” doesn’t necessarily mean we’re talking about something that looks like a scrotum and flies.

I set the story in 1961 Communist China because most alien invasion stories take place in either NYC or Los Angeles and nothing in-between. You never hear of aliens attempting to conquer the world in places like Finland or Saskatchewan, which I think just shows a lack of imagination on the part of the aliens. Plus, after listening to a CD of modern Chinese folk music, “Ode to the Communist Party: 1921 – 2001” (Dang de Song Ge Te Ji: Yi Jiu Er Yi – Er Lin Lin Yi), it’s my firm belief Dr. Funkenstein and the P-Funk Mothership could have landed in Beijing and most locals would have just shrugged their shoulders and said, “ah, more Western decadence.”

Hurrah for Western decadence! Cheers!

lilith’s flamenco nuevo

12 Thursday Apr 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Feminism, Lilith, Poetry, sonnet, video

≈ Comments Off on lilith’s flamenco nuevo

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Poet’s Note: Lilith was Adam’s first wife, an equal, kicked out of Eden for refusing to be man’s inferior. Flamenco is a style of music, song and dance from Andalusia in southern Spain, if Grief chose a style of dance, it would be the Flamenco. Duende is a Spanish term, the poet Federico Garcia Lorca described it as the artistic power everyone feels but no science can ever explain. In Jazz it’s called Soul.

* * *

And the jackals knew that a new woman
was in town. How could they not? The snakes dreamed
of the deep well of souls you keep hidden
between your legs. Our home, this wasteland, gleamed
like a song; where each hand-clap was a scream,
every heel-smack … an act of revolt. Eve
never danced the Flamenco; her bloodstream
never ran this lewd. Let the crude fools grieve;

the moon, La Luna, listens to me sing.
I have no Duende, yet still I .. i ..
i .. i .. i, mi corazón, my heart-string.

We dance as outcasts under promised sky.
We are the owners of nights of freedom
from which blooms the blood-blossom orgasm.

(I love this video soooo much! ¡y un coñazo!)

future little ghost

27 Tuesday Mar 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on future little ghost

Tags

, , , , ,

Day and night, each passion has its haunted
future, its mysterious bedsheets, cum
dripping down the walls. Passion, like acid
in the blood, hints at what could be. Welcome
ghost — urge I did not act upon — sleeping
inside me like one who died upon life’s
threshold, never wept for, smiled at, haunting
me with what might have been. The good housewife’s
low moan, the saint’s climax, the moonlit mile
where the nastiest of our spirits reigned.
Even while asleep, your perverted smile
tells me that you’re dreaming about the stained
knickers of the dead. What could be lewder
than our future, little ghost, my sister?

banshee, mo ghrá

24 Saturday Mar 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on banshee, mo ghrá

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Note: The Irish phrase “mo ghrá” translates
as “my love.” The Banshee is from Irish mythology;
Bean si, meaning, “a woman of the side” or “a woman
of the fairy mounds,” usually seen as an omen of death
and a messenger from the Otherworld.

* * *

On a midnight walk I spied a shadow
with long white hair, sobbing at Bane Reilly’s
doorstep. They say that a Banshee’s sorrow
knows no end. Yet, it’s said that, “a fury’s
lust is the twin of a furious grief.”
And I, who traffic with spectral lovers,
sat down near. What is the point of belief
if we don’t act on it? There are monsters
in this world, but they wear skins of humans.
Only a man could make such a spirit
so sad. You and I, we are both orphans,
in one form or other. I’ve kissed kismet.
I’ve slept with death, Banshee love. It’s my faith
to share my love with you, my white-haired wraith.

thirsty ghost

23 Friday Mar 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on thirsty ghost

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

Even ghosts get thirsty. Come, share with me
a bowl of shaved mango ice and sweet bean.
I have the gift. I have proficiency.
I can traffic. I am the boy between.

Thirsty ghost, will you taste my love? my kiss?
will you taste my blood? I have more to share.
I can make you weak, small ghost, make you hiss
when you cum. And you will come. This nightmare
called thirst — suck greedy baby, greedy shade,
drain me dry — nightmares make us strange bedmates.
Loose your wild hair. Go down, lover. I prayed
for a thirsty love. Who said sex stagnates
after death? Take me deep inside — my breath,
my love — fill yourself with this little death.

nune: the sky maiden

22 Thursday Mar 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Feminism, Humor, story

≈ Comments Off on nune: the sky maiden

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

A note from the author:

Gender and sexual politics are powerful things, though I’ve yet to see a good example of the two being combined successfully in erotica outside of certain niche stories. After all, the person who enjoys your smut today might not be the same person who you’d want to vote for in the town-hall election tomorrow, though the same could be said about most of our friends and lovers who make up this collective family.

Still, no one lives inside a vacuum; it would be a lie for me to say that the erotic world which I write about is not influenced by events in my own life. The BBC recently ran an article entitled: VATICAN ORDERS CRACKDOWN ON ‘RADICAL’ NUNS IN THE US. The article went on to say, “[that] the Vatican has ordered a crackdown on a group of American nuns that it considers too radical. In a statement from the Pope it said that the group is undermining Roman Catholic faith on issues concerning homosexuality, sex education and promoting ‘feminist theories incompatible with the Catholic faith’ …” As someone who highly values both sex education and feminist theory I’ve been giving this a lot of thought; but I do not want to single out one ideology as being more repressive than others — the truth of the matter being that almost all male-ruled societies look upon feminism as incompatible with their world views. I would never go so far as to call for the American nuns who are currently facing persecution from within their own church to separate themselves from those who seek to silence them (they are obviously on a much different path than my own) but I’ve been pondering what lesbian theorist Professor Marilyn Frye once asked: “What is it about separation, in any or all of its many forms and degrees, that makes it so basic and so sinister, so exciting and so repellent?”

Indeed.

* * *

On entering the pearl-gray sky cabin, which, evidently, had once been fitted for the use of a Guild lady, Nune saw, standing at the opposite end of the room, the duchess; a woman that she knew, every inch of her body, by sight. A lamp was burning near the large observation porthole and by its feeble light Nune could make out that her lady’s face was still pale from loss of so much blood. The wound she had received from the airship captain’s katana sword had been seen to, though; her bare shoulder now sported a magnificent bandage of many layers of blood-soaked cotton and gauze. Her robes were still torn, and yes, her hair was still in a disarray; she wore a look of grave alarm upon seeing an anonymous Yerkink pilot enter unannounced, swathed head to toe in high altitude, cold weather gear. Her mouth pressed itself into a firm line when Nune pulled off her silk helmet, allowing the cascade of her black hair to shake itself free.

“What is the meaning this outrage, ma’am?” the older woman asked with an arched brow, eying the young woman’s round face, almond eyes, blood-red lips. “Whoever you are, I warn you that the Marquise of Dzovig will take revenge upon this indignity.”

“Your highness,” Nune said, bowing, “you have no reason for further alarm; the villains who carried you off from the High Abbess’s fortress, conveying you to this, their flag ship, have been burned out of the sky. I am the hand maiden of the Prime Minister of the Guild, a devoted follower of our Marquise Siranush. Two days ago a plot against your person came to the attention of my lady. We were unable to gather our strength in time to prevent your kidnapping, but we lost no time in putting forth when we discovered that your kidnappers had taken to the skies. By good fortune we arrived here in time; a few minutes later and your enemies would have succeeded in their object, for the sky-studding sails meant to cross the Howling Stream were already being hoisted as we arrived. The vessel is now in our possession and heading back toward Berjouhi. I hope within an hour and twenty minutes that I might have the honor of escorting your highness to the fortress.”

The duchess paused, thinking about what young Nune had just said. Then, with a smile, she expressed her great satisfaction.

“Indeed? I am indeed indebted to you then, ma’am,” Yeranouhi said, holding out her hand to Nune, who, even in her bulky attire, as duty dictated, placed the fingers to her lips. “Believe me, the Duchess Yeranouhi is not ungrateful, should it be ever in her power to do anything for your lady, or even for yourself, my dear, believe me, she will see to it.”

“My lady, I see you are recovering from your wounds,” Nune began, eying the blood-soaked bandage. “As primitive as this ship is, it does boast a steam room, which we can make available for you as soon as you wish.”

“Really? Oh yes, I think if I have the time that a little hot water would be an excellent cure-all. Tell me, though,” she paused, still holding Nune’s hand, which made the young woman blush. “I have many enemies. Who commanded my abduction?”

“The leader, madam, was a certain Lady der Katar Vosgi, a Countess of Brabant, with whom my mistress had carried out a long-standing feud. It was she who has just been executed by the commander of our musketeers. There were others, as well, who have had an active hand in the matter. They too have been dealt with.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, m’lady.”

The young woman pulled her hand from the duchess’s, bowing to hide her intense emotions.

“M’lady,” Nune could not show her face as she stretched out her arm, indicating the doorway to the bathroom. “Hot water awaits.”

* * *

Lady der Katar Vosgi had certainly enjoyed bathing on top of the heavens. The tub the Duchess Yeranouhi found, when she entered the room and looked about her, was literally an observation port, a bowl of crystalline-glass, cut into the floor of the bathroom, filled with soapy hot water; allowing everything and everyone the war-ship passed over a fine view of the naked bather, sitting reclined atop an endless sea of churning clouds.

“I tend to dislike an audience when I bathe,” the duchess began, seeing what was expected of her.

“Oh,” started Nune, as if the idea of not wanting to exhibit herself to all they passed by was totally alien to her. “Er, in that case, m’lady, I can stay and wash you proper.”

“Well — normally I would say yes,” the older woman said, blushing in turn. “But I think today I would like to be by myself.”

“Why did I send her away?” Yeranouhi thought as she watched the valleys of clouds pass slowly between her naked thighs. “I am acting as if I was a vestal maiden myself, back when I thought even playing with slick mittens was a foul and sinister art.”

She was highly aware that, sitting as she was on the crystalline rim of the tube, she was spreading both her ass cheeks and her cunt wide open below her. Her old nanny would have said she was exhibiting her kunty-kussy. Whatever, the duchess snorted; exhibiting to a blind world, perhaps, all that is down there are clouds and they see everyone as the same and never comment on a royal asshole save for the occasional douse of heavy rain.

“Which is a shame, really,” she mused. “I would much rather know that a gale or hard, thick blow had occurred because the gods were turned on by seeing my puffy kunty so lewd and open as it is now, rather than hearing from some minister of weather that it’s just boring atmosphere’s moisture warming up and gravity having its say.”

As she spread her lips wider the sun streamed down on either side of the dirigible. Moments like these make her understand why people worshiped the skies since the primordial times; why her ancestors gave up their first orgasm to the high gods that protected them. She felt that if she were to cum right now — as her religion told her to do — that the divine priestesses would have been able to eat her offering up with a spoon.

Feeling the warmth on her ass, she stretched out her legs to each side and breathed deeply, slowly, recalling the memories of the scents of the sky that she kept within her. One does not fly above an endless sea of clouds without realizing why, when the rain gods cum, that the earth, over and over again, is born anew. The duchess could smell the crushed leaves oak, sage, rosemary and thyme in the bath soap; the trees that sprung again and again from the earth, the tangy scent of what she imagined to be the wool from the baka sheep that were used to weave her wash cloth. She did not know how long she sat there — the brown, wrinkled O of her asshole pressed against the great, vaulted glass, the oblong circle of her cunt, the dash-mark of her clit — all her body breathing in the same slow movement as the clouds idly passing below her. She heard some faint rustlings in the metal fabric of the hull; heard the steam-song of the engines purr change slightly; occasionally, she dreamily mused, there came the distant fan-fare of thunder, far below her.

She raised her hands to her face, lightly pressing her hand against cheeks. She moved her fingers down her throat, playing her finger tips across the submerged mountains of her breasts. What priestess had not pressed her just like this? and — and then slowly as only the messengers of gods can — kneaded her very flesh? What truth could not be found in one’s own cock or cunt? ass or tits? The duchess enjoyed how her breasts responded to the heavenly touch of the hot water, lifting them off her ribs, squeezing them as the messengers of gods would do, forgetting the pain in her shoulder, the blood-spotted cotton, pinching the skin of her aureola between fingers that would one day control an empire.

“I am a creature that loves the roundness of my own flesh,” she thought, lifting one breast and then the other with both hands. Quickly the tip of her middle finger flicked back and forth over the elastic teat. She groaned as the tension built. We love to watch others masturbate, though we find ourselves embarrassed by the same act until an occasion beyond our control occurs, something titillating that compels us to let others watch. She threw back her head and used both hands to squeeze her breasts violently. Storm clouds gathered around her cunt. Gathering tension, like a furious gale, spread ripples across her skin and the dark sky. Her knees wobbled and she gasped. Tighter now, flicking her left fingers faster and faster over her buzzing skin, her brain finally bursting wide open as she moaned aloud, knowing that her young savior, the hand maiden Nune, stood guard on the opposite side of the bathroom door. The duchess squeezed her breasts; groaning in earnest as her hips convulsed. She knelt down in the tub, feeling the deep ocean moisture in the folds of her cunt, leaving a greasy smear against the observation glass, sending shivers all over her flesh. She took a long, deep, calming breath, her cunt spasming without once having to touch it.

A tapping on the metal door.

“Wha- what?” was all Yeranouhi could get out as she sloshed about in the hot, lathery water.

“M’lady,” came Nune’s muffled tone. “We are docking in ten minutes.”

The duchess cocked her head to one side, trying to make sense of what the younger woman had just said. A distant sound — music? — came to her ears. She looked around the empty room, unable to pinpoint where the noise was originating from. Something stirred under her ass. Slowly, she peeked between her legs.

Tower after imperial tower of the the great capital, Berjouhi, passed below her. Her citizens, in their gaudy colors of green and blue, had turned out to welcome the captured pirate airship home. On one tower, she was almost sure, she could almost make out her parents, an elderly couple in their nineties, checked in their exuberant cheering as the dirigible passed overhead, their daughter’s royal ass and quivering cunt momentarily exhibited for all the city to see.

* * *

The vessel had, by this time, been brought up close to the sky docks. The duchess, now wearing a robe and cowl that stretched from her head to her cloistered toes, was determined to wait on board until the sun was no longer seen in the charcoal-creamy skies; then, and only then, under the escort of her rescuers, she returned to the fortress from which she had been abducted only half a day previously.

It was not possible that a matter of this sort could be entirely hushed up. Not many hours passed before rumors circulated through the City of Arch-Angels of the events that had taken place, though none knew what those exact details were.

There were reports that an elderly hand maiden of the Duchess Yeranouhi had, at midnight two days before, discovered that her mistress’ bed was, curiously enough, unoccupied; that she had found signs of a bloody struggle, had picked up a blue-powder revolver flung on the floor; also, it was said, that the duchess had been rescued by an armed party of Yerkink pilots, that she was unable to obtain entrance to the fortress until one of the ladies of the Empress Mother had been fetched in order to command the mechanical sentries at the gate to allow the duchess safe passage.

It was generally known, however, that a priestess had come to the Marquise Siranush earlier that day, that their ruler had at once summoned a fixed-winged sky transport bound to the Abbess’s fortress. What had happened when their grand sovereign arrived there none could say, but there were rumors that the Marquise’s voice had been heard in furious outbursts of passion for hours on end. Her majesty remained at the fortress until the late afternoon. After the captured craft returned Siranush sent for the Prime Minister of the Guild.

When Nune’s ladyship arrived she found the Marquise, who had heard from her spies the details of what had taken place, sitting in the Hall of War.

“I learn, my lady,” began the Marquise, “that it is to you that I am indebted for the rescue of my duchess. I am told that, suspecting some plot, you sent the ‘Vika’ to the Abbess’s fortress, turning what could have been a disaster into a victory.”

“It is as you say, m’lady,” replied the prime minister, bowing, her heavy breasts hanging like pendulums inside her cloak; “but the whole merit of the affair rests upon my hand maiden, the girl Nune, that you might remember as having fought with and then conquered a whole Anatora legion. You may also remember that she escaped a further attempt of assassination by your own enemies. It seems that while working the ‘Vika’s’ short wave radio she accidentally overheard a few words spoken in a voice which she recognized as belonging to der Katar Vosgi. The name of your majesty was mentioned and my hand maiden discovered that a plot for carrying off the duchess. After consulting with me I ordered the ‘Vika’ to the skies.”

“For your own part, I thank you, my lady,” the marquise said, “and, believe me, you shall not find Siranush ungrateful. As to your hand maiden, bring her to me tomorrow, when the duchess will be here as well. I wish to thank her in person.”

And thus and thus and thus; the following day Nune, in great confusion, found herself at the center of the imperial circle. The marquise expressed herself to the bewildered air pilot in a most gracious manner, saying that Nune would be, if all worked well, one of her best of starlight navigators when the war was over. The duchess gave her hand to kiss and poor Nune, knowing exactly where that hand had been, found herself at once blushing terribly as memory of the duchess’s orgasm reaching her ears through the metal bulkhead, returned to her. The girl could make no more noise than a feeble “i..i..i..” until the marquise addressed her, not as a middle-age woman having her lover returned to her but as the ruler of all Dzovig, speaking as an absolute monarch to a mere Yerkink girl.

“Tell me, daughter, what does this mean to you?”

She parted her robes, bent her head forward to show what lurked at the nape of her neck, the spot where the hair had been ceremoniously cropped; showing the sacred image, the tattoo of Apollyon just peeking from inside her collar.

“What do you see?”

“M– my lady, I cannot speak about a mystery.”

“We are witnessing ancient hands,” the marquise said, letting her robes fall to her hips, letting the whole room see the tattoo, the sign of her power, a maze of inked lines and designs. Nune became instantly aware of the marquise’s mother-milk breasts, of the tempting nipples that would feed a nation. “Hands — three fingers and a thumb — shaping mud into a form, the first bipedal life form — forming a body, the first of these organic structures that we now call human, hands devising a mouth and nose and cock with heavy balls — breathing life into the lips, the nostrils, the hard column of the shaft — watching them all stir — creating a Golem, an Adam, the first mud-based organic structure — yes, within these lines sleep the DNA of you and me. But when Yahweh, with his dark arts, crafted Adam of the Blood, he said to the angels gathered near: ‘this human is a precious being created in my divine image, you will regard him with reverence’ — yet Morning Star, the only of the angels that called herself ‘She,’ defied him: ‘as a holy spirit I will not worship a diamon made of swamp gas and mud!'”

“Little one, we are the Morning Star’s children; the word ‘demon’ comes from the ancient Greek word meaning ‘spirit’ or ‘soul’ — as the ungodly religions grew so did they start calling all those that, like ourselves, did not concur with their plans for supremacy, ‘demons’. The sky became the refuge of the outcasts. The rebel angels did not fall, child, they simply forged ships of war to conquer the infidels who saw them as incompatible with their faith. I tell you all this now because we are going to go to war, against the empire of Anatora. Not because they are right and we are wrong – rather, because that as long as we exist those god-worshipers will not leave us in peace. Such is the burden one lives with when fanatics are at your gate.”

When the Dzovig fleet, numbering some two hundred dirigibles, finally set sail from the Castle of Fribourg, it was a grand affair; a warlike sight as they rose up, like hand-crafted, antique weapons of war, from their sky ports. From the mast head of each vessel flew the colors of Dzovig — the green of the sea and the blue of the sky — below these also ran the colors of the nobles who commanded each vessel; while the pennons of the musketeer squads — as well as the flash of their rifles in the sun — all made the decks alive with color and hope that this war, a war that only haunted and bewitched two nations, could one day be resolved.

The marquise’s dirigible advanced in the van, while, floating all around her were the vessels containing her principal followers. The Queen of Tatevik, as well as the Duchesses Yeranouhi herself and old Makrouhi, were all part of the great armada. Strains of royal music rose from the city’s towers as the fleet pulled away and filled the sky.

* * *

For two days the expedition sailed on seeing no resistance; then, on the third day as they entered the Howling Stream, disaster took place.

“What is all this chaos?” Nune asked to her best chum, the buxom Vaneni, coming up upon the observation deck of the Duchess Yeranouhi’s airship. “The luft-mariners seem to be running up and down the ladders all crazy, all I can hear is a great confusion.”

“I think,” began little Vaneni, the curves of her curvaceous cleavage barely constrained in her high altitude, cold weather gear, “that we are about to have a storm of some sort. A few minutes ago there wasn’t a cloud to be seen; now that priapic thunder bank over there has risen halfway up to the heavens. The luft-mariners are accustomed to these treacherous skies, though, so I’ll leave it in their hands.”

“Which is good,” smiled Nune, fascinating the silk binding of her helmet, “since your theory of ‘fly at the lighting’ instead of away from it has yet to prove successful.”

“You are so cruel, Nune-jan!” Vaneni cried, her thighs pressed together.

Even while they talked — with great rapidness — the sky-studding sails of all the dirigibles came down as the luft-mariners ran up and down their rope ladders; suddenly the storm engulfed them.

Some of the ships whose crews were slower and less skillful than others were caught by the tempest before they could fix everything snug; their great sheets of white canvas were blown from their bolt-ropes as if made from ox-bound paper; their hemp rings holding the fabric of the dirigible’s sides together erupted. In the sudden blackness which covered them the only lights that could be seen were the storm’s numerous lightning bolts, boiling away under the clouds. There was no longer any thought of military order. Each dirigible had to shift for itself; each captain having to do her best to save those under her charge, all without thought of what might befall the others of the armada.

In the dirigible which carried both the Prime Minister of the Guild and the Duchess Yeranouhi, however, discipline still prevailed. The prime minister’s mezzo-soprano voice could be heard above the sound of thunder upon wind, shouting to the musketeers to secure themselves below. Her royal standard was lowered, the bright flags removed from the sides of the craft, the shields which were hung over the bulwarks hurriedly taken below as well. From the minute the hurly-burly winds shook them, tearing through the skies at a tremendous speed, the dirigible’s gondola shook back and forth — like a divine fist rattling nuts or silver almonds in a cage. Four of the best hands were placed at the helm, their safety lines pulled taut. It was here that the prime minister and the captain of the ship took their posts as well.

The danger that they faced was now due to their comrades in the unnatural darkness; the captain worried that they might be blown into one of their consorts. Even in the chaos of the air they could hear from time to time crashes as of vessels struck against another and — with scream and shouts — exploded, momentarily cutting through the murk in ragged reds and yellow of flame. Once or twice from the darkness ships emerged, close enough to see the anxious faces of the crew, only to then immediately disappearing back into the murk. The steadiness of their captain, however, a woman who had twice sailed around the globe, saved their dirigible from destruction.

As the storm continued these glimpses of other vessels became less and less frequent; finally their dirigible was an isolated sliver of silver in the howling dark, the captain indulging in the hope that she was now clear of the rest of the fleet.

For two days and a night the tempest raged about them. The madness of primordial gods, emotions beyond human understanding, what is called the Howling Stream, refused to abate.

“What,” finally asked the prime minister to the captain at the end of the second day, “do you think is our position? Where are we?”

“I cannot say that with certainty, my lady,” the captain replied, bowing, “for the winds have shifted several times each hour during the last two days. I had hoped to gain shelter in St. Gallen, but the wind bore us far away from there. I much fear that from the direction in which we have been running that we must be very near the mountains of Aarau.”

“Brata!” muttered prime minister, then: “That would, indeed, be a speedy end to our venture if your prediction is true. Those Anatora pirates are cutthroats. Even should we avoid the risk of being shot out of the sky, we should end our lives as slaves oi a Grimstad galley.”

luscious fear

21 Wednesday Mar 2012

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on luscious fear

Tags

, ,

Note:

The strength of writing sonnets is that they are, by definition, short. You only get 14 lines to say whatever it is you want to say, each line can only have ten syllables in it (iambic pentameter) and there’s a rhyme scheme you have to follow (this one goes: ABAB CDCD EFEF GG). Because I’m more or less tone deaf I spend a lot of time counting out the syllables on my finger tips and trying to figure out how to make a sentence work that has whatever rhyming word in it the poem requires. Of course, sometimes you rework a line or sentence so much that while it might succeed as a correct line in poetry, when you reread it you think “damn, is that what I really think?” So, for the record, I’ll just say that love is more than the ability to cum or have an orgasm. There’s more to life than erections. It’s not that I advocate necrophilia, but rather, it’s hard to talk about a ghost lover without at least hinting at it. Oh yes, and I really like the word “luscious,” people should use it more in conversations. Cheers!

* * *

I love your lips, cracked; your eyes, all bloodshot.
Our lust is what gives luscious fear its life.
All night in my bed, we turned cold death hot.
Who loves you? Would just any man or wife
lick the grave dirt from between your cunt lips?
Cum for me. You came back for me. I came
inside you. The proof of our love now drips
inside you. When it’s love there is no shame.
Embrace the wicked light of a June moon.
Sing to me what the Dead know of the night.
And, my dark one, I want you to cum soon.
Cum like roman candles, burn like sunlight.
It was the way you slipped back into bed,
hungry, aroused, as if luscious fear led.

guilty passion

21 Wednesday Mar 2012

Posted by in Armenia, Erotic, Poetry, Translation

≈ Comments Off on guilty passion

Tags

, , , ,

guilty passion Armenian

My dear friend Arevik translated this poem into Armenian for me. It’s been many, many years since I was able to write Heyerin (as the Armenians call their own language) and I am just grateful to have the kind of friends who take time out of their crazy lives to help me out. The original went:

Come kiss me, my guilty passion. Suck the pain out of my blood. Come kiss me, kill me with love. Delicious, relentless, eternal poison. Feverish body. Wonderful cravings.