You are my
as in sacred
I shall be
all the words
in your ear.
the song of shadows
on the mountainside,
we passed by a riot
purple and gold.
and the lips
between your goat
legs grew damp
as dew, watching
shadows dance on
is still etched
upon my flesh,
come and see.
just as He
of the Black
of the Winnowing
Fan, told us
to do. Tonight
In 1964, Japanese film director Kaneto Shindo made a samurai-era horror film called “Onibaba,” about a mother and daughter-in-law who lived in a swamp and murdered passing travelers. In a world that fears women’s sexuality these two took on the personification of female evil, of Onibaba, a character from Japanese mythology. Traditionally, in Noh and Kabuki theater, Onibaba appears as a shriveled old woman with a somewhat maniacal appearance, wild-looking hair and an over-sized mouth full of sharp teeth. She is an Yokai, which generally gets translated into “spirit” or “demon,” and, much like the classical opinion of Medusa, even when she is minding her own business, the male protagonists of these stories have no qualms about trying to kill her.
I am a hairy barbarian, a Gaijin, a foreigner, one with only the slimmest grasp on Japanese culture, and I tend to root for the underdog, especially when it comes to erotic fantasies. As a translation note, the word “Okaasan” that Iriai uses is simply the informal term for “Mother.” Cheers!
* * *
“I know that perversion is the most important thing between heaven and hell. Greater than uninspired love, greater than sterile death, greater even than the wisdom both bring about. For without transgression, there can be no insight. Without debauchery, there can be no compassion. Without the drunken revelry there can be no sobriety. And without any of these, all of life, and indeed, all those who have ever lived it, are a tedious lot of old men, indeed.”
— Kasannoin (Japanese courtesan, 1477)
In the city Hiroshima, in the latter half of the seventeenth century, there lived a curious musician. We shall call him Tatsuo Soga. He was an artist of great genius, though, truth be told, not of popular genius, by which I mean that most people could not stand his music. There was, it was said, something in all his work that was both offensive and fantastic, and as Ludwig van Beethoven will attest, the ticket-buying bourgeois loath all that is both offensive and fantastic. Soga was too fond, his critics claimed, of introducing unfamiliar subjects into his tonal poems. One should not listen to music to discover new terrors, they claimed. The names of his compositions suggested their queer natures: “Tsukuyomi: death of a moon god,” “The Oni at Fukuoka Bridge,” “The Descent of Emperor Jimmu into Hell,” “The Hungry Ghost’s Climax,” as well as many others, all that pointed toward a powerful imagination that delighted in the perverse, the supernatural; an artist that often executed odd, airy, delicate melodies, crafting passages of exquisite beauty, but always formidable, always unnerving.
Tatsuo Soga believed in the decadence of the ancient union between Drama and Song, and brought that decadence to such a fevered pitch in the Kabuki and Noh theaters of Hiroshima, that his Magnum opus, his grand infernal, unpublishable, unperformable composition, “Onibaba, My Love,” an audacious, darker, far more sinister take on the old Shinto tale surrounding the legendary female demon who visited lovers in their sleep. It was in vain that he had struggled to get it performed before the stage. Even the non-judgmental, open-minded dramatist, Sawamura Zenji, master of Saruwaka-cho-style Kabuki theater shook his head when Soga favored him with a sample of one of his most thrilling passages. For, as he explained, the more ribald and obscene the music became, the more the general public who attended the Theater would sneer at it, especially a general public whose ears had grown lazy, some might even say indolent, on the tawdry melodies of mediocre composers of the day. Hiroshima has never been on the cutting-edge when it comes to music, even in those heady days.
Tatsuo was not only a composer, however, he was also an excellent performer as well, especially on the high pitched bamboo flute called a Nohkan, heard in concert halls throughout all of Japan. By that instrument alone he earned a decent livelihood as a member of the troupe of music-hall musicians that performed at the Great Theater of Chiyo. Here formal, harmonious scores by respected composers kept his lewd and gonzo-freak fancies in check, though it was recorded that no less than five times had he been kicked-out and banished “forever and ever” from the troupe for shocking his fellow musicians with his ribald performances, throwing the whole company into confusion with impromptu variations of so vile and diabolic a nature that one might have well imagined that the mountain ogres, the Oni, who had inspired so many of his compositions, now had somehow gotten hold of his instrument as well.
The impossibility, however, of finding anyone his equal — which is to say, his equal during his more lucid, chaste moments — had forced his reinstatement, time and time again. He had now, for the most part, resigned himself to the narrow world of performing the assigned ‘Debayashi’ and ‘Gidayubushi,’ those traditional, drab parts that Nohkan flute players were excepted to perform. But at home he would make amends for his loathing donkeywork that paid the bills, and, wide-eyed, panting, grasp the rigid, throbbing bamboo with ferocious fingertips, pouring forth all night, often until the dawn, sending his chaotic, lascivious melodies out into the street, startling the early morning shop keepers just opening up with superstitious glances at the sky, as if the noise of that high-pitched flute foretold the arrival of some cataclysmic tsunami.
And yet– and yet, his music, his inspirations, his nightmares, did not come to him during the long hours of sleep, like so many wretched souls experience them, they were born during his waking hours, hours spent with his wife, Iriai. Often, on dark nights, she would wait at the theater door with her paper lantern and blue umbrella, to help Tatsuo with her steady arm to lean on; otherwise, in his day-dreaming reveries, who knew where her poor musician husband might stumbled to? He would, after all, follow his “darling Onibaba” anywhere. Neighbors thought it cruel of him to use such an unpleasant nickname for such a beautiful woman. In the legends, Onibaba, the “night hag of Adachigahara,” appeared as a shriveled old woman, dried paps, an abyssal cunt that would literally suck a man’s essence away with a Mephistophelian hunger for flesh. Iriai was, on the other hand … well, if not always respectable in her dress and appearance, then she was at least saucy in her personality and obviously loved the poor man. Which was odd, because she made most men uncomfortable when she stood too close to them. Her hair was wiry and dark like onyx, which she brushed back from her temples into two magnificent braids. Despite her modern charms there was something slightly queer about her, though it was a challenge to say what, exactly, that was. Perhaps it was that she smiled slightly too widely, giving her neighbors the alarming notion that she was about to sink her teeth into their jugular. Perhaps it was that her eyes didn’t blink often enough, so that when a local Casanova or one of the big-cock merchants down in the market talked to her for any length of time their own eyes began unwillingly to blink on her behalf. Regardless, the reason that Tatsuo referred to his wife as his “darling Onibaba” was that, in fact, that she was a yokai, a night demon.
If Tatsuo’s wife caused heads to turn when she entered a room, it was nothing compared to his mother-in-law who lived with them, Raikou, who caused stoic monks to break out in sweat and erections simply by breathing in the same air she had recently exhaled. Of course, living with such a family caused problems of one sort or another. Raikou rarely went out into public, for most human males, driven as they are by simple hormones and a disregard for women, found they could not help themselves with such otherworldly pheromones lingering in the air as she passed by. Still, demonic Alpha females are nothing to trifle with, and more than one merchant and self-styled rake found himself nursing a black eye and broken nose every time he tried anything that was remotely indecent with the strange older woman.
What this meant, though, was that Raikou, accustomed to a randy and libidinous love-life, was stuck at home most days, moodily masturbating over memories of mountain god cocks she use to know, and how, during a thunder storm, a 100 million volts of lightning, if it struck you just so, was much more satisfying than those lame-ass leather and wood dildos the Christian nun missionaries with their unhygienic ways kept swearing by, damn all hairy foreigners.
Of course, Raikou wanted her daughter to be happy. It was the whole point of why she had pushed Iriai into marrying Tatsuo in the first place. Most human males made puny lovers, the sort that had bones that would break during the climax of a good, hard fuck. If a man can’t hold an erection for nine and a half hours at a go then is it really her fault that she had to grind his pelvic bones to jelly just trying to ride out the last of her orgasm? Such disappointments. But not like her son-in-law, though. Often Iriai would be shuddering in orgasm as Tatsuo worked her cunt and clit over with his tongue. He was one who knew the worth of a gentle lick. Soon his wife would be trying to jam his boyish face deeper into her drenched swampland, her back arced as she climaxed, literally flooding the bed for a good five feet in every direction. Then the two of them — she, blurry-eyed from cumming; he gummy-eyed from her cum — would blink and realize that Raikou had been sitting nearby the entire time, watching with something close to religious rapture on her face.
“Okaasan!” Iriai would cry at her mother, trying to disengage her husband’s face from between her thighs, always with little success. Oni cum, it has been noted, especially in the process of drying, becomes something akin to glue. In fact, as the haiku master Issa notes, more than one samurai has met his fate in post-coital bliss when he was not quick enough to wipe his face clean.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” Raikou would grin and blush. “After the first eight hundred years sex doesn’t embarrass you like it once did when you were a kid.”
Time passed. It was a difficult peace between Raikou and Tatsuo. Publicly his mother-in-law tolerated him, though she claimed she could not stand his music. He, on his part, found her obsession with her daughter’s sex life a bit troublesome. One night over sake Iriai and her mother were reminiscing about their earlier years, during the heady years of Empress Jingu, when people weren’t so hung up about sex.
“I mean, look at me,” Raikou cried, pink-cheeked from inebriation, her breasts ready to fall out of her kimono as she leaned forward to drag her daughter toward her, to whisper-slobber into her ear. “I’ve done it all — boys, girls, octopus demons from Mariana Trench — and after all that fucking what did I get?”
“You mean, besides me, right?” slurred Iriai.
“O! My darling daughter!” cried Raikou, smothering the younger Oni in her cleavage. “Of course, besides you! I know you are happy. I know you cum every night–”
“Okaasan [mumble-mumble]” Iriai’s words were lost for a few moments until she was able to pull herself free from her mother’s warm embrace. “I, uh, yes,” she said, tossing her long hair back over her shoulder and downing the remaining sake in her cup. “But you know, Tatsuo has such a lovely–”
“–way with me. What did you just say?”
Then Raikou blurted it all out. “It’s not fair that you get to fuck Tatsuo-chan all the time. I knew him back when you were only a three hundred year-old virgin. And he took your cherry.”
“Well, he took more than just one of my cherries.”
“Shame! My Iriai-tan-tan is not sharing, and here I am at the prime of my life. I’ve haven’t had an orgasm since the Kenmu Restoration.”
Finally it all made sense. Iriai giggled and said it must be the sake talking. She made tsk-tsk noises.
“Come on now, Mama-chan. You have had lots of lovers over the years.”
“After the first eight hundred and two you realize that not one of those bastard ever made me cum.”
“Come on, not one of them?”
“Generally speaking, mountain demons are too rough and the ghosts of drowned sailors refuse to go down again.”
“You’re saying you’ve never gotten off by being licked down there?”
“Look, idiot child, I even hooked up with a Leech god once, you’d think of all the men in the world a Leech god would know how to suck. But what did he say? He had no problem with a male Oni, but when it came to girls, ‘ugh, the taste.'”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Daughter, my sex life is in your hands! You are failing your filial duty by cumming before your beloved Okaasan!”
“Well, what do you want me to do, give you my husband?”
Raikou’s eyes grew to massive proportions and Iriai thought she could see an endless rainbow of gold reflected in them as her mother, clutching her hand, said, “Oh, daughter, you read my mind!”
Tatsuo, who, as everyone knew, was a total lightweight when it came to alcohol, burnt himself terribly by snorting his sake up through his nose in surprise. Spluttering, he gazed at his mother-in-law in amazement.
“I have three decades of sexual frustration ready to come out, son-in-law!” Raikou slobbered, her drool burning small holes in the wooden table top.
“It’s never too late, Mother-chan,” Iriai giggled drunkenly. “I bet he could give you an orgasm.”
“You think so?”
“Don’t– don’t I get a say in this?” Tatsuo asked, wildly. The female Oni is, as folklore will avow, insatiable. The fact that the heroic Mitsuyoshi Jubei, one of the most famed and romanticized samurai in Japan’s feudal era, imploded through an eyeball-shattering orgasm while he was jowls deep in Oni cunt remains common knowledge, at least to those who can read. Even Yosa Buson, one of the masters of Edo poetry, wrote about it: “Entering the Oni’s cunt/ like a fish drawn up from deep fathoms/ the Man’s cock implodes.” It was not one of his better verses.
“Tell you what, Mother-chan, we’ll bet on this. I’ll let him suck you to an orgasm, and if you don’t cum, you win the bet.”
Raikou raised one eyebrow and licked her lips. Somewhere someone was beating a taiko drum but at this news it was suddenly silenced. It had been a long time since she had been on the hunt, back when she once ran naked through the northern mountains, eating the enemy’s marrow and having the Ainu tribes worship her like a god. She loved the Ainu tribes, they were good folk. It would feel good again to get her wicked mojo on again.
“Let’s not be silly,” Raikou made a pouty face and pressed her trigger fingers together, the erogenous dark brown of her areola peeking out from the corner of her kimono. “Daughter of mine, soul of my flesh, there is no bet, besides what would we bet upon?”
“If I win … Tatsuo’s mountain of a cock gets to fuck you up that squishy asshole of yours, passageway to the heavens, and I know how you mumble in your dreams about how much you like it. If you win, I’ll take you to the Aizen-Myoo Onsen mountain hot springs and mercantile establishment.”
“Public baths!” cried Raikou, tossing her cup of sake helter-skelter. “Either way, I win!” Then, turning her blood-shot eyes upon Tatsuo, she cried, bearing her breasts, “Son-in-law, service me right now!”
Raikou laughed. “O! I wasn’t finished mother; I get to watch. I’ve always wondered what it looked like when my husband fucks me pell-mell in my tender little cunt, it’s a shame we higher creatures don’t appear in mirrors. So this time I get to watch!” Iriai was grinning wickedly, as if she was already witnessing her husband’s nine and a half inch-long cock standing potent and rigid before her.
“Er, I really think I should say something here–” began Tatsuo.
“Daughter of mine, you are shameful and I love you!”
Tatsuo cried silently into his cup. These women’s sake talk were always so rude and always led to such violent excess. The idea of anal sex with his mother-in-law frightened him. Iriai’s ass was inhumanly perfect, round and with a sucking action that defied the laws of physics. Indeed, when they were dating Iriai use to joke that all Oni orifices were like black holes, they led to other dimensions that not even light could escape from. Braver men than he had literally been sucked into that dire void, their bodies, starting from their imbedded cocks, seemed to elongate as they disappeared into that howling black portal. Legends tell of divine, ear-splitting crashes as their heads went through, their shoulders hitting the edges. Then, as if the their bodies were toothpaste, slowly, foot by foot, they were sucked, with a terrible whistling noise, into the gulf. Lustful mortal life is so cheap, yet we dream of being sex gods, regardless of the price.
“Think of me, son-in-law,” Raikou purred, slowly raising the hem of her kimono to her hips, “as a supernova about to explode.”
“I’d rather not. How about a game of Cat’s Cradle?”
“Mama-chan, get your koshimaki off,” her daughter cried, referring to the traditional wrap-around underwear, popular for all of the female species at the time. “I think we have a bet. Only, just to make it a bit more exciting, if I win not only does he get to fuck you in the ass, but you have to eat my cunt while I suck on your milky pillows. Marriage can get so boring. If only I could get Tatsuo to grow large breasts like yours, Mama-chan, I think I could be happy.”
“I’m happy with what I have,” sobbed Tatsuo.
“And we still get to go to the Aizen-Myoo Onsen mountain hot springs? That’s where I want it to be.”
Raikou looked into Iriai’s inhumanly large eyes, then at her son-in-law, who made little puppy-dog moaning noises of fear, then took a long drink of her sake, emptying the cup.
“Fuck it. Either way is going to be fun. Lick away, son-in-law, lick away.”
She pulled her kimono open, exposing her naked thighs, peeled her koshimaki off, sat on the edge of the table. Iriai grabbed her husband by the back of his skull, thrusting his head down to get him encouraged. Once Tatsuo was properly placed against her mother’s girl-lips she moved so she could watch. Raikou spread her legs in ways that should be, for one who possessed the mechanics of a pelvis, impossible, and yet when the older Oni flipped her kimono up, Iriai was surprised to see her mother clean shaven between her legs.
“Oooo, you’re a baldy, too. Like mother, like daughter,” the younger demon quipped.
Abandoning himself to the Buddha’s mercy, Tatsuo caressed Raikou’s legs, working slowly from her knees down to her inner-thighs. Soon he was brushing the backs of his fingers across her pussy lips, which threw sparks against his face, causing her to sigh. Blowing gently across her cunt he kissed her down one thigh, gave the lips a gentle lick. She moved about on the table and as Tatsuo bore down on his task Iriai knew would win her bet.
The long evening passed. Tatsuo licked, nibbled, tracing with his tongue the entire Japanese alphabet upon Raikou’s clit. He sucked on it, prayed to it, fingered her pussy, probing everywhere. She flooded like high-tide on the delta, and he used some of her copious Oni cum to paint sunflowers around her anus’ rosebud, tongued her anal triangle, which she clearly liked. Raikou became wetter, salt-spray splattering in his dark hair, her her wild mountain breathing becoming quicker and quicker. Iriai pulled Raikou’s breasts free, began to play with her mother’s tits, her preternatural nipples. Tatsuo suspected his wife and mother-in-law had completely forgotten their plans of who was to win this bet.
Then it came; an Onibaba orgasm. Raikou shuddered as Tatsuo drowned himself in her, kept at her clit even when she tried to suffocate him between her thighs; pushing him further and further in as she climaxed. He could feel her nails becoming claws, leaving scar-worthy wounds in his scalp. Her human visage was slipping, slightly, like wind momentarily blowing up the skirt of a modest woman — revealing an inner-nature kept in check, but only barely.
“Fuuuck — Fuck Me, son-in-law, I need your cock in me. Now! Please. Fuck me.”
A thousand different melodies ran through Tatsuo’s mind at those words. Who cared if you had to be fucked to death to get your inspirations? If he could simply capture that essence of that experience in song, be it in one of Iriai’s blowjobs or the deepest reaches of Raikou’s ass, that was worth risking immortality for.
Now Iriai was helping him strip out of his own kimono as quickly as possible. “Tatsuo-chan, just ram it in, start fucking her for all you’re was worth,” she whispered huskily in his ear. He momentarily wondered about the second bet. It would be interesting to see his wife being pleasured by his mother-in-law. After all, the whole world is bisexual, when you got down to it, just in varying degrees.
Raikou was panting as she moved closer to her thirteenth orgasm in the last ten minutes. Her eyes were practically black ink wells, he had never seen her in such a demonic heat. Tatsuo thrust faster as she began to hit peak.
“Don’t — pull — out — darling — don’t pull out.”
“Why — would — I?” he grunted between strokes.
“My cunt can reach temperatures of a hundred and four — but only when I — O! O! O!”
At that she ran out of breath for words, uttering a low rumble like a springtime thunderstorm, rolled her eyes up in her skull and wrapped her legs around Tatsuo.
“Faster, boy. Faster, faster!”
Iriai moved around, positioned her face right above Raikou’s. She placed one hand on side of her cheeks, pulled her mother’s face to her, kissing her, then pulling back to gaze down.
“Okaasan, isn’t this so much better? Why have we been denying ourselves for so long?” Iriai kissed her again, pressed forward, letting Raikou open her mouth, accept Iriai’s tongue, gifting her daughter with her own. Tatsuo simply kept his pelvis-grind-fuck going, leaning down to suckle at her breast, feeling waves of cum wash over his hips as Raikou shuddered in another tsunami-size orgasm.
Iriai broke the kiss, quickly striped out of what was left of her clothing, reclining herself on the table as well so that she was open to her mother, ready to collect on the second part of the bet.
Tatsuo slowly disengaged, helping Raikou to sit up. The older Oni then knelt on a chair in front of her daughter’s open pussy. She moved her face towards Iriai’s deluge, started with a tentative kiss, then slowly started to work her tongue to the bone.
Raikou’s ass was now in the air and Tatsuo had yet to cum, so he positioned himself behind her, slipping back in, giving her a slow, leisurely orgasm as she worked her magic on Iriai’s clit. Iriai was clearly enjoying herself, mewing, flashing the ceiling her happy smile as they settled into a three-groove rhythm. Just as his wife was about to cum herself Tatsuo eased out of Raikou and, rounding the table, came up to her, offering Iriai his cock to suck.
“Mmmmm,” she said around her husband’s cock, then, after a deep hard suck, indicated that Tatsuo should go back to fucking her mother.
The three of them tried several different positions before Iriai stopped in mid-finger fuck, repositioning herself and her mother so they were laying belly to belly, cunt to mouth, with herself on the bottom, ordering Tatsuo to “bring the Devil’s cock here.”
She gave it another wild suck, then inserted it into her mother once more, was lapping away at her clit, licking the underside of his cock as Tatsuo ground into Raikou. The three of them were slowly building up into an universe-shattering climax. The first to go over the top was Iriai, quickly followed by Raikou. Tatsuo finally exploded himself, soaking the Onibaba’s cunt with his own sexual satisfaction, his perversions finally catching up with him. He stayed inside Raikou as long as possible, until he had emptied his reserves, pulling out to his mother-in-laws mewls of disappointment, only to be immediately sucked clean by his wife.
Once she was done Tatsuo sat down to watch as Irai tenderly licked her own mother clean of his mortal cum. Raikou gave Iriai’s pussy one last festive lick, then contented herself by sitting next to her daughter’s head, stroking her cheek.
“I have only one question,” Raikou asked dreamily. “Why didn’t we try something like this ages ago?”
“We did,” her daughter replied. “Back in 1369.”
“O piff, you know I can never recall anything prior to moving in next door to lovely Tatsuo.”
“You’ve only known him for six years, Okaasan.”
Raikou started to laugh and Tatsuo saw a deep down smile that he had not seen for a long while. It was the true form of the ancient Yokai; Raikou the Widow Maker.
“I don’t know,” her mother chuckled. “I had too much built-up sexual tension, I suppose. You just took five hundred years off me, I feel like a new woman! Thank you, thank you both for this.”
They chatted for a time, Iriai admitting that it was the best possible way to draw the three of them closer.
“Who knows? While we’re at the Aizen-Myoo Onsen hot springs it might give my husband the motivation to finish that dreadful score he’s been working on for ages and ages.”
“Dreadful?” squeaked Tatsuo, deflated in one corner of the bed.
“Do you think, daughter, that if we waited for another ten minutes that Tatsuo-tan-tan would be up for another round of rumpy pumpy? I still want my rump pumped and all this fucking has made me horny.”
“Ten minutes?” squeaked Tatsuo.
“Of course, Okaasan. If you think Tatsuo can’t handle the two of us, you weren’t paying close attention just now.”
Che un sogno sono stati i miei musica.
“What a dream my music was.”
The celebrated Armenian cellist, Tsovinar, was rambling adventitiously about the city, on a bright, chill afternoon in late October. She was to perform, once again that night, at one of the great concert hall which brought the city so much artistic acclaim. According to her usual fixed ways she was amusing herself with people watching, gazing into shop windows, thinking of anything but the approaching dull work that her job had turned her passion into. Not that she was nervous, but she found she came to her work all the fresher for an hour or two of blissful self-indulgence, turning off her mind the way a drunk finds release in the first highly anticipated drink of the morning, or the onanist her middle finger.
Wandering away from the busiest street of the city, she found herself in a quiet thoroughfare, throwing away the lipstick-stained butt of one stubby cigarette and produced yet another. She has been bothered by a trouble with deep breathing all her life, now her doctor had recently recommended a curious new medicine, smoked, in the form of New World tobacco. “Cigares de Joy cure Asthma,” the tin box the cigarettes resided in declared, “Joy’s Cigarette’s afford immediate relief in case of asthma, wheezing, winter cough, hay fever, and, with a little perseverance, effect a permanent cure. Universally recommended by the most eminent physicians and medical authors in France and Britain. Agreeable to use, certain in their effects, harmless in their actions, they may be safely smoked by ladies and children everywhere.” Ladies and children certainly were and it did seem to not only help her lungs, but at times, steady her hand. Tsovinar marveled at the age she lived in, modern medicine could do anything.
No, not everything. Of late she had been having what her doctor referred to as “female night hysteria;” waking from mystifying dreams full of nervousness, a curious wetness between the legs, muscle spasms, shortness of breath. No one could explain what it all meant, though they did agree she should refrain from too many mentally taxing tasks, avoid thinking of anything indecent and pray before bed. Perhaps it was the indecent part that troubled her so. Even while wearing eyelet, closed-crotch drawers under her skirt, having to open her legs so obscenely wide simply to rest the cello between them made her feel … vulgar.
But today she would not think about that. Today she was out for her afternoon constitutional, a dawdling walk. As it was part of her rule, she tried to avoid any music shops she might pass by. She had already ignored three or four without doing more than barely glancing at their plate-glass windows. One though, walking by a large music emporium, brought her to stop, retracing her steps and standing, her head cocked to one side, remaining motionless for a few moments, then went straight to the window and peered in.
She had not seen anything when she first passed by, indeed, she had merely determined, out of the corner of her eye, that one of the forbidden shops was nearby. Why, then, did she feel encouraged to return?
The window was stocked, as all such windows are, with instruments, with sheet music, with such paraphernalia as resin, bows, chin-rests, mutes, strings, bridges, pegs. An old Hakhnazaryan, valued at several hundred rubles, lay alongside a set of wooden spoons, an ocarina, a saxophone, all gracefully grouped upon a gilt-edged copy of “Basasael in E Major.”
Amongst the carefully-arranged violins and cellos was a curious old instrument, the likes of which the virtuoso had never seen before. It was this that she now stared, an ugly, squat cello, of heavy carved patterns, ancient in appearance. The maker, whoever he had been, had displayed obvious lewdness during its construction, a perverse pleasure, but more especially in the work upon the upper scroll, which, owing to some freak sense of humor, he had carved into the semblance of a hideous, bloated phallus. There was something horribly repulsive about this strange work of art, yet it also possessed a subtle fascination in her eye. The cellist, staring at the queer instrument, a tool which seemed to pulse with infernal life, slowly edged her way to the door, then entered the shop.
The attendant came forward, an old, broken tea kettle of a man, knowing the celebrated musician by sight, bowing low.
“That is a curious string bass in the window,” began the artist, at once, with a wave of her hand in the direction of the monster.
“Which one, ma’am?” inquired the attendant. “Oh, the one with the, er, unfortunate scroll-work, you mean? I’ll get it for you.” Drawing aside a little curtain, he opened the window-bay, brought out the instrument, whose erect life force seemed to be pulse more lewdly than ever.
“A fair tone, ma’am,” added the man, producing a chair for his guest to sit upon, “but too scandalous to suit you, I’m sure. You could never play this in public.”
As soon as Tsovinar touched the neck of the cello she gripped it quiveringly, fairly raised her voluminous skirts to her knees and nestled the debauched thing between her thighs, resting the bestial neck against her cheek. Then, for a few moments, she held her breath, firm as a flint, her eyes fixed upon the amazed attendant, evidently without seeing the man.
“A bow,” said the musician in a low, raspy voice. She stretched out her free hand, took it, without moving her eyes. Then she touched three strings with her long fingers, drew the camel-hair smartly over them with one rapid sweep, producing a rich chord in a queer minor key.
A slight shiver passed over her frame as the notes were struck, a look of concentration writ upon her face, changing to one of craving, but she did not cease playing. Slowly dropping her gaze, the artist felt the rhythmical pulsation of the scroll-head next to her ear. It spoke to her. Though her own countenance flushed, her lips tightened, as if to suppress a cry, the bow was raised again, the cello spoke.
Did the incubus whisper to her moving, nervous fingers? He almost seemed to be doing so, surely such a melody as came from the instrument was born from no human soul. It was slow, measured, but no solemnity was suggested, it thrilled her frame with desire, never dread, it was a chain of sounds, like a depraved woman’s wet dream, slipped out of recollection as soon as it was evolved, a tune incapable of being recalled.
Slowly, as the last note was lost, the great cellist dropped her arm to her side, sitting motionless for a few moments, grasping cello and bow without speaking. There were drops of perspiration on her forehead, she was pale, weary-looking. When she spoke, it was with a faint voice, she seemed to address herself to someone invisible.
“I can endure that,” she whispered. “I will play it again tonight.”
“Do you wish to play on the instrument at this evening’s concert, ma’am?” queried the dealer, aroused both at the heinous choice, as much as how the performance had physically affected him.
“Yes — yes, of course!” was the reply, given with some emotion, the speaker having apparently roused herself up from oblivion.
As the dealer took back the instrument, he chanced to turn its back upon his customer. It was a curiously marked piece of wood, but now there was an iridescent, opalescent dribble, a stain spreading down the neck of the cello, throwing a grotesque blur upon the otherwise exquisite wood.
“See!” gasped the artist, pointing a shaking finger at the stain, clutching at the dealer’s cuff. “Cum!”
“Heavens to Murgatroid!” blurted the other, shrinking back in alarm. “What a thing to say. Are you ill, ma’am?”
“Sins of the flesh!” cried the half-demented virtuoso, hobbling out of the shop, her hair undone.
It was night, the concert hall was crowded to overflowing. The musicians were upon their seats, familiar as they were to such views, they couldn’t but gaze with interest at the restless field of animated, desirous faces stretching out before them.
That curious noise, a multitude of hushed murmurs, accompanied by the discordant scraping of strings, tuning of reeds, the stray cough, was at its height, once or twice a loud trombone would momentarily assert itself, an oboe’s plaintive wail would rise above the tumultuousness, in short, it was the moment which foreshadows the entrance of the maestro to start that night’s performance.
All of a sudden, the long-continued babel ceased, for an incalculably long second, silence reigned in the ancient hall. Statues in the dark corners looked down, waiting. Then a storm of deafening applause burst forth, necks were craned, eyes strained, all in attempts to catch a single glimpse of the regal soloist who was to open the concert by playing a difficult ‘Concerto di Azazyel’.
It was noticed in the crowd that as the virtuoso followed the bent, bald conductor to the center of the platform, all could see she was unusually pale, those who were seated nearer observed as well that she carried a curious cello instead of the expensive Guadagnini upon which she was known to perform.
A tap from the conductor’s baton, a short, breathless silence, then — the first note, the sweet strains of the opening bars issued from the instruments from seventy-six musicians.
The cellist, with a sinking the heart, an emotion which she could scarcely account for, brought the cello between her thighs, saw, for the first time that it had been re-strung. Normally, as was her habit, she left stringing and tuning to others, yet now it had a strange effect upon her. Again the shudder that had passed through her body at the europium passed through her again. She unwillingly ran her hand over the wood of the scroll and — almost with a cry — flinched at the touch of sticky, seminal fluid that appeared to be oozing down its side.
The orchestra, which had swelled out to a loud forte, now dropped to a pianissimo. The moment had arrived. Tsovinar raised her bow, commenced to play the lovely adagio.
What had come over her? Where were the concert hall, the orchestra, the anxious crowd of people? What sounds were these? This was not ‘Concerto di Azazyel’, this sweet melody so like, yet so unlike, the weird music which she had played in the dealer’s shop. What subtle magic had enacted upon those strains that their banality, their deadening scoff had entirely vanished, leaving behind sweet, pure harmony?
It seemed to the Armenian that she stood within a small, but comfortably furnished room. Two figures were near by, those of a beautiful young man sprawled lazily upon an ottoman, and an exquisite, foreign-looking woman with hair of moon-lit silver.
“Arcangelo,” the older woman said in a low voice, as she crouched between the young man’s open thighs, “tell me tonight that you have not dismissed me forever. I can wait for your love.”
“Semajaza, my love, even if you were the Devil himself, I could not love you any less.”
The older woman, older by Tsovinar by some good ten years, shifted, moved her skirts around and lo! Tsovinar gasped, for the young man’s trousers were undone and his rigid cock, still gleaming wet from the woman’s open mouth, stood rigid and alive for all the world to see.
Semajaza’s hand slipped over his manhood, and Tsovinar watched in amazement as it slip effortlessly through the other’s clenched fist. Arcangelo released a deep moan from somewhere in the deepest recesses of his chest as Semajaza caressed him again and again with long, slow strokes. The older woman watched exultantly as his thickened member grew harder and harder still, his knees weakened a little from the glorious sensations.
Semajaza released his cock, winked at him playfully, turning round, leaned against the ottoman with her arms out, pulling her dress to her hips and pushing her ass high up in the air. She wore drawers with an open slit and peeking between the fabric she showed off her plump, plum pussy lips, the little brown eyelet of her arse, all for his twitching cock to delight in.
“Put it in my ass, Arcangelo, I want to feel that thick cock inside me.”
With a smile the young man ran his fingers between the cleft of her cheeks, massaging around her puckered hole as he pushed the tip of his spit-wet finger into her. Slowly Semajaza began to moan as the tip of his finger sunk down, down, into her, up to the knuckle.
“I think you like finger fucking, Semajaza, as much as you like my cock.”
“I’m ready for you, Arcangelo,” moaned Semajaza in response. “Put your cock in me, petite amour, fuck my ass.”
Arcangelo eased his finger out, using his hands pulled her firm, exquisitely rounded ass cheeks apart a little more as the tip of cock pushed against her slickened puckered entrance, paused, then pushed some more. Taking his velvety cock’s head in one hand, he fed the tip into her hole, allowing her gentle rocking movement to ease more of his cock into her.
“Oui, Arcangelo, more, give me more. Dieu, fuck me in my ass.”
The young man pushed a little harder as he felt her tight opening yield only the merest of fractions as his cock took her, Semajaza took one hand off the ottoman, though the thin membrane that separated them he could feel her fingers slide into her cunt. He began to rock his hips slowly, making ever larger movements as Semajaza began to let out little whimpers. Feeling emboldened he began to build up the tempo, the length of each pistoning thrust grew, becoming a blur in, then out, of her taut, almost unyielding cave. Semajaza’s fingers were flicking over her clit, dipping back into her pussy as the sounds of her grunting, that feminine animal sound, ricocheted off the wooden floors and ceiling. His hands gripping her hips, disappearing under her many layered skirts, firmly willing him to push his cock in ever harder, urging him on — oui, petite amour, oui — anything that would allow him to assault her with an ever deeper, deep stroke. Though she was not even aware of it at the time, blurred of brain, the cellist had reached the conclusion of the Concerto’s adagio movement.
Tsovinar did not hear the boisterous applause which hailed the fall of her bow, she knew nothing of the ardor of the orchestra, or the praise of the conductor, she heard no music, only animal voices, only the wet slap-slap of hips and bellies grinding against each other.
“Dieu, oui, you feel so good in there, so thick, oui, fuck me, Arcangelo.”
“Do you like that? You want more?”
“Oui — Arcangelo — please — oui, harder.”
Tsovinar could only think of her own fingers in her pussy, how her own ass would make the room for his cock, tightly gripping that massive shaft, throttling its last drop of blood and cum and as she watched Arcangelo begin to pound his cock into Semajaza, harder still, pulling her back with his hands in time to spur them deeper into her tight hole. Semajaza moaned, louder still, impaled forcibly at each toe-curling thrust, more, more, more onto his cock. The sight of Semajaza, her ass offered up to the young man as her hanging breasts — jolting, jiggling — at each thrust. Semajaza fingered her clit, making savage little sounds, as the squish of her juices squelched hot between them, filling the little room, the concert hall, the world.
Tsovinar watched as the young man’s cock sank back into his older lover, even deeper now, almost up to his root, leaving nothing of its massive length outside.
“O! D– D– Dieu! Arcangelo, cum in me, Arcangelo, cum in me now.”
The presto movement had commenced for some time. Now a peculiar situation soon made itself known to the concert hall. Slowly to the horror of the conductor, the orchestra’s tempo had to be increased to match that of the thrusts of the cello, until a new prestissimo was reached. Still Tsovinar was not satisfied, there seemed no limit to her apocalypse flight, her fingers actually flew up, down, up the fret work, her bow shot backward and forward with incredible speed, yet as the music grew quicker, quicker, it grew until the exasperated conductor, who, with pure agony, dragged the miserable orchestra along for the ride, felt that only fiasco was inevitable.
“Oui, Arcangelo, I want it all.”
The young man’s body contorted again, again, his stomach muscles tightened, then released to deliver what all her cravings needed as his cock jerked repeatedly, like a ram getting ready to jam the lamb, he gave up all the cum he had for her. Semajaza’s tensed her bum muscles, gripping his cock harder, eager to milk out every last drop as she pushed against his softening shaft.
His lips kissed hers as her muffled cries signaled she was still there, panting, growling. His kisses were soft, gentle, sucking, kissing her neck, his fingers dancing over her stiffened nipples. As he knelt on one knee, he kissed her round belly as his tongue traced a line through her moonlit-hued pubic hair, using the tip of his tongue to caress each side of her girl-cunt lips. Savoring to take one whole fold into his mouth, he let his tongue play with each slickened fold, drunk on her divine juices.
Semajaza melted in a riot of moans, sighs, her hands in his hair. His tongue probing her, easing into her hole to fuck her with its tip, listening to her moans of approval. His fingers arrived to stir up her now hardened clit, using the flat of his thumb to rub over its swollen nub. As his tongue slowed to explore her blood-purple girl-walls, Semajaza began to whisper under her breath, lost in hazy world of rapture. He could feel her stomach rise, then tighten with every soft stroke of his fingers over her clit, her shallow breathing becoming noisier, he could tell she was very close.
His tongue left her wet opening as the thick middle finger from one hand penetrated her slick, cum-filled ass, as the fingers from his other hand slid into her cunt. Semajaza’s body seems to slump a little as his fingertips slick with her girl-juices, slowly fucked her tight opening while his mouth enveloped her clit, letting the tip of his tongue flick over like heat lightning. Semajaza’s hands gripped his shoulders, her nails pressed hard across his skin. Listening to her as she sighed, stopping suddenly, then moaning, releasing her tensed muscles in one wild go as his tongue backed off from pushing her over the edge into orgasm.
On, on, on rushed Tsovinar’s fingers, the bow — faster, faster — faster still: a few of the oboes and lutes fell off from sheer exhaustion, stared, horror-stricken at the woman, hair undone, breasts free, a cellist possessed. Some of the audience rose in their seats, many burst into loud, anarchistic cheering.
“O! O! Arcangelo, oui, oui. Your fingers–”
Semajaza’s muscles stiffened, her pussy contracting on his fingertips. Imprints. The next moment she was almost limp. Each licking-lap from his devil’s tongue seemed to only leave her further stranded upon an alien world, between intense arousal and the act of cumming, lost in her own private trance.
Arcangelo increased the tempo all of his tongue splayed over her clit, lapping the full length for a few seconds, then, with a grinning slurp, lingering on the deep shaft of her pussy’s well, a chasm into the heart of the volcano, once again, lapping in a quick stabbing motion, hoping for eruption, letting his fingers work for a more a sinister staccato tempo. Semajaza began to tremble harder, harder, O mon Dieu, hard with each lapping endowment of his tongue over her clit, her breathing making little O — O — O as the tremors began to build. Her body started to quake, reducing to a flutter as she clutched his back, her thighs wrapped around his neck.
Tsovinar could hear the older woman’s voice begin to build in rapture, like a tsunami crashing into the shore, Semajaza erupted, her blood-engorged pussy churning on his fingers, milk of the gods, as his hand was covered suddenly in brilliance. His mouth sucked in everything she had to offer, lapping at her to taste up her cum as she undulated madly under him, her poor muscles distraught as they released their tension, a vast gush. She growled as her body shook again with less force this time, releasing his back from her thigh’s grip as she shook again, again, again in ever diminishing convulsions.
Suddenly, with the loud snap of a string, the incantation was broken. The orchestra, unable now to proceed, stopped in utter confusion, a loud groan of release rose up from a thousand throats. Then the whole concert hall rose in sudden horror, as the cellist dropped her instrument with a crash upon the platform, stared wildly around, clasped a hand to her breasts and with a strangled cry, fell to the ground, writhing in ecstasy.
For weeks the Armenian cellist lay, veiled between life and death, a sunny land where no judging eye could spy upon her, far away from morality and all its hideous implications. Finally, one day, the breathing world reasserted itself, she got out of bed. But it was long, very long, before she could again appear in the concert hall, while the queer, mysterious cello never again played its strange, mysterious influence upon her. It had been hopelessly spent, shattered, in the climax of that last night’s performance, which had almost been fatal to Tsovinar as well.
Eu amo canções tristes
porque eles oferecem cuddling
e chantagem. Tudo é suave,
quando você os ímpetos meus doma.
O teu suspiro me transforma
em um gato, uma criatura da luz das estrelas
e poeira. Você refresque minha a raiva.
Durante todo o dia vodka e anal sexo.
I love sad songs because they offer cuddling and blackmail. Everything is easy when you tame my impulses. Your breath makes me into a cat, a creature of starlight and dust. You cool my anger. Vodka all day and anal sex.