• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: masturbation

ahoo

26 Thursday Jul 2018

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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ahoo, erotic poetry, love alone, masturbating to emily dickinson, masturbation, pink milk that rises slowly like someone masturbating between their knees, shlick, sonnet

Death leads me to these acts done in flagrance.

“After great pain” – Shlick – “a formal feeling” –

 

Shlick – “Cums.” Twitch. Petite death. There’s no science

to what stirs first. Vortex wakes, quakes. “Shlicking,”

 

you said. “Soft, sleek and fine,” you said. “Watch this:

my lit clit.” – Such bliss can only be sensed

 

along the edges: blood cycle, dawn piss,

star dust, love alone. That moment: hips tensed,

 

spine arched, knees flung all ahoo. I am full

of blessed sin, sacred sparks, every taboo

 

role that I know. In that blind moment cracked

-lips-crush-down-tongues-fail-to-pull-

 

away … But no. Of course. I (like you)

are alone in these solitary acts.

ravenous

03 Friday Nov 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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erotic poetry, masturbation, orgasm, petite morte, ravenous, ravenous depravity, sonnet, The Book of Mama Clit and the Gospels of Cunnilingus, The Book of Misfits, why can't masturbation be a solution

The Book of Misfits mentions you. So does
The Book of Mama Clit and the Gospels

of Cunnilingus. Love, you have itches
never scratched. You’re shy and call them scruples

when it comes to exploring the carnal
parts of knowledge. But here you are, your soul

incandescent, finger at work, knuckle
buried. Let the, “petite mort,” makes us whole;

it’s a little death then resurrection.
Only the most ravenous are welcome

in these books and you, love, are copious,
dripping, some would claim, with needs that no one

has met. Do not say that it’s strange to cum
for me, just embrace this divine strangeness.

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quote unquote

29 Sunday Oct 2017

Posted by babylon crashing in quote unquote

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childe harold's pilgrimage, Lord Byron, masturbation, ocean, Poetry, quote unquote, wanton with thy breakers

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
  Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
  Borne like thy bubbles, onward:  from a boy
  I wantoned with thy breakers—they to me
  Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
  Made them a terror—’twas a pleasing fear,
  For I was as it were a child of thee,
  And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.

Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, CLXXXIV

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quote unquote

29 Sunday Oct 2017

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haiku, Jane Reichhold, masturbation, ocean, Poetry, quote unquote

squirting water
between old rocks the ocean
plays with itself

Jane Reichhold

lowland: prelude of things to come

01 Tuesday Oct 2013

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fingers sticky, hands, masturbation, poem, Poetry, small death, sonnet

I am in love with your hands, your fingers,
they have brought you more pleasure than I will
ever. Swift movements in the night where blur
and swish is called for, touch and stir, until
a coast of flesh, repeated broken beat
your chants, your prayers, bombastic solitude
when no one else would have you. Your discreet
pleasure, because it always is. Prelude
of things to come – like you. Show me your hands,
let me praise what you do effortlessly.
Grasped at length stroked, stroked – liquid gasp, your breath
in twos, threes, fours. Downs. Down in your lowlands,
where no one goes, I call that mystery.
Show me how you pray. Show me your small death.

the road to enlightenment has many paths

08 Monday Apr 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

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enlightenment, masturbation, orgasm, prayer, sonnet

 

“… loveroot, silk thread, crotch and vine.”
— Walt Whitman

I’m not interested in who suffered more,
just those who mastered pain’s blood alphabet.
Trust joy. If what you long for is a door
that will lead you to love do not forget
that the door is here. What other purpose
could the orgasm have but to let me
talk to gods? At the moment of climax
when I leave behind ego and body
I call that act enlightenment – no hate,
attachment or pain – only bliss. Only
pilgrims working hard at their nightly prayers,
at blood’s loveroot. Don’t trust those who dictate
the path to wisdom. They are not holy
like you and all of your sticky fingers.

 

 

 

 

your witching spot

20 Tuesday Nov 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry

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floating, masturbation, ocean, sex magic

your witching spot

your witching spot

Yesterday
I salted
your mouth.
Today there is
a warm, briny
sea
between your legs
as you float,
soothed
by the kiss
of ripples
across
upturned nipples.
Your thatch
of hair a bed
of kelp.
Skinny dipping
near Santa Cruz,
the sea
shimmering
through you,
waves lapping
at your clit
just like I did.
And at each silk-
like stroke
you thrust
your ass up,
heave your hips
out of the water,
as if I were still
with you,
guiding
my tongue
to your witching
spot, as if
you were a sea witch
and all the ocean
your lover.

the statue of a crimsoned succubus

08 Wednesday Aug 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, story

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Buddha, crimson, ghost, historic, Japan, Lady Leiko, masturbation, Mistress Fuyu, Nagasaki, Onna bugeisha, sculptress, story, succubus

the statue of a crimsoned succubus

In a large room of an artist’s studio, somewhere lost within one of the many suburbs of Kyoto, a boy watched an older woman, red paint up to her elbows, in the act of crimsoning a succubus.

The studio looked out on the courtyard which the building itself was built around. The sun, at that moment overhead, blazed down upon the mossy wet vines that clung to the brick work, sending their red reflections glowing into all the sombre nooks of the work room.

The succubus, rudely cut from lecher’s wood, rested at ease upon her tail, her curled-ram horns pressed against the wall, her legs obscenely sprawled open. The sculptress sat before her creation on a low stool, hard at work. The silent boy sat nearby, gazing fondly at both.

On the table in front of the open window stood a row of Oni, rough mountain demons, modeled from river-bed clay. Beside that project were piles of washi parchment covered with drawings in the woman’s own hand, done in blues and reds. By the door a figure of Inari, the trickster fox god of rice, sake and prosperity, sat upon its haunches, a sacred minashigo key hanging from its mouth.

The woman was dressed in simple browns, she had a round, dark face and straight black hair. From the globs of scarlet-red paint spread out at her feet she carefully, with only her fingertips as tools, crimsoned the succubus into life. The effect was less of a statue being given a second skin with an ox-tail brush; rather, it was as if life was slowly seeping through the cold dark hues of the wood through the miraculous use of the succubus’ own menstrual blood. From her thighs on down she appeared to have spurted and spouted sticky rivulets that coated her goat-legs; while, from her navel upwards, the artist’s red-soaked fingerprints could be seen upon the naked wood, fondling each intrinsically carved breast, the thick neck, the bulbous lips.

Once in a while the woman would say the boy’s name, “Shijo;” but it had less to do with starting a conversation and more in a childish, sing-song voice, as if his name were precious to her and she simply enjoyed saying it for the sake of hearing the syllables roll off her tongue. Whenever she did say it, though, the boy would look up from whatever he was doing and smile to himself. He was use to her moods, had seen all of them in the last two years. She was having a mood right at that moment. He could tell. The studio was utterly silent, a perfect hush enhanced by the heat of a noonday sun beating down. Presently the woman rose, crossed to the window, her arms sticky with paint and looked out into the heat.

From where she stood she could see the sparse flowers edging the neglected pathway, the building opposite her with its broken windows, the scandalmongering vines climbing up the tiled roof that cut the violet-blue of a July sky into fragments.

In the center of the courtyard was an ancient, dry fountain; some tall red sayuri lilies grew there, the pure cherry of their hearts bright as the paint the woman had been applying to the succubus reclining wantonly behind her.

The boy stood and walked to stand behind the woman, to see what had caught her attention. The sculptress rested her elbows on the sill, it was so hot that she felt it burning through the paint that was quickly drying on her hands. She had the air of one routinely use to being by herself, the unquestioned calm that arose from a life of long silences. Her face was reserved, even sombre; her lips, well shaped but pale, were resolutely set; there was a fine curve of strength to her chin. She had wide, black brows, smooth dark skin, nebulous mahogany eyes. Her throat was full, she had the sort of muscles sculptors called beautiful.

After a time of gazing at the sun-burned garden she turned back into the room. Standing in the center of the studio, with her teeth worrying her red middle finger, she looked questioningly at the half-crimson succubus. The boy smiled, waiting patiently to see what she finally would say. Some times it would take her hours to form a single comment, but they were observations he always found endlessly interesting. Instead, with a sigh, she took a curiously wrought key from her belt, swung it about in her fingers and left the room.

The building was built without connecting corridors or passages. Each room opened onto another, the upper ones were reached by short wooden staircase built against one of the outer walls. There were many apartments on the second floor, each one boasting imperial designs from at least fifty to sixty years ago. As with all the windows on the first floor, the ones on the second were set facing the old courtyard.

Many queer and exquisite objects could be seen in those long deserted rooms; carved chests full of Korean silver; paintings from China full of erotic terror; furniture made by long-forgotten hands. In one chamber hung several gold-silk tapestries depicting the Eight Devils of Kimon, all done in shades of ruddy brown. As she walked lightly from one room to the next her footsteps caused little clouds of dust to billow up, marking her slow passage.

Passing these things without a glance the woman unlocked a door on whose rusty hinges it took all her strength simply to turn. It was a store-room, one lit only by one low window looking down upon the street. Like everything else in the building, it too was full of dust as well as a sallow, moldy odor. About the floor lay many bound-chests, untouched and before one of these the woman knelt, fiddling with the lock.

The smell of rust filled her nose as the lid swung open. The chest contained a number of cut gemstones. She selected two of more or less equal size, each a crystal pink in hue. Then, after locking the old door behind her, she silently made her way back from where she had come, returning to her studio. When she saw the hollow eye-sockets of the succubus, she placed what looked like living liquid fire into the wooden skull. Watching her statue’s eyes sparkle she finally relaxed, standing for a long while contemplating her handiwork. Finally she washed her hands and arms, putting away her orphic paints.

By then the sun had changed position as it crept across the room, casting hot brindled shadows, cast from the dappled vines hanging from the window eaves over the river-clay Oni, dazzling the colors in Inari’s psychedelic robe.

For the second time that day the woman left the room, venturing into the hall, opening the door that exited upon the street. She shaded her eyes, gazed across the July dazzle, the shadow of her slack, slim figure was cast into the square of hot sunlight issuing from across the hallway and through the open door.

It had been almost two years since the Siege of Kyoto. The section where her studio stood had been devastated. Now, newer suburbs were being built, but that left her neighborhood’s ruins neglected. It was hard for her to imagine a city as vast as Kyoto containing ghost towns, but wasn’t that what this was? She looked at the barren market-place, surrounded by abandoned buildings. Everything was falling into decay. Beyond those shells she could spy the squat roof of the local Shinto shrine jutting upwards across the scarlet sky. Brown grass grew between broken cobbles. There was not a soul in sight.

Under the rusted iron bell that hung against the door beam to her building hung a basket. Her mysterious patron had been by it seemed. She fished out of it bread, a flask of plum sake, some old vegetables wrapped in a linen cloth. The sculptress took these with her and closed the door upon the outer world.

Carrying her loot back in her arms, she crossed the hallway and came out into the opposite end of the courtyard. The tall red sayuri lilies seemed to be nodding their heads to her, as if the two of them were in on a secret no one else knew. Entering by a door next to the fountain the woman found herself in her workshop once more.

Setting her load down on a corner of her work table, the woman proceeded to prepare her meal. Above the wide tiled hearth hung a metal chain and attached to that was an iron pot. She lit a fire under the pot, filled it with water, then put the vegetables in. Then she took down a heavily bound book from off a shelf. Bending over it, huddled on a stool, she began to read.

It was a book filled with drawings — strange, horrible, erotic artwork — as well as curious stories that had been written in a black-blue scrawl. As the woman read she uncrossed her legs and her face grew hot. She flushed while resting her cheek on one hand, turning pages with the other. The heavy volume felt cumbrous on her knees. Not once did she look up but with parted lips pored over the midnight-blue drawings.

Outside the vines curled against the sun-kissed brick, the empty sky looked down upon the dry fountain, it burned the dead grass, the tall red sayuri lilies. The sun sank on the other side of the building, still the woman read on. The flames leaped on the hearth, the vegetables seethed in the pot unheeded.

All alone the woman leaned back on one elbow looking at the drawings. She reached down with her free hand and raised the hem of her kimono, revealing the cotton thong of a man’s fundoshi that she was in the habit of wearing. She ran one long fingertip along the front of her cunt and moaned. She looked up at the window and then back at the book, an anthology called “Kinoe no Komatsu / Languishing for Love”. She let her knees fall open wider and pulled the crotch of her fundoshi to one side as she turned the page. The glorious mound of her pubic hair was already wet and sticky. She plunged two-fingers inside her girl-lips and began to grind, leaving a wet cum-smear on the stool’s seat.

The woman groaned. There it was, the famous print known as “Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife” a prime example of the “aesthetic of the grotesque” in the erotic age of Hokusai. The body of a woman, head thrown back in either carnal abandonment, or drowned and swaying this way and that in the inky green water, allowing Tako no Kami, the octopus god, access to her cunt. It was a curious new form of 8-tentacle “kun’niringusu,” as the Kyoto poets once called the ancient art of clit licking. Her fingers plunged in-and-out of her soaked pussy.

“I’m going to cum–”

The woman’s eyes were screwed tight, her mind lost in the approaching orgasm. She was finger fucking herself so red-hot and hard that her tiny breasts under her kimono were shaking. She knew exactly how that fisherman’s wife felt; she’d fuck a devil-god if the opportunity presented itself. That need to be filled up with something otherworldly, that need to cum all over something impossibly hard.

“O! O! O!”

She was making soundless noises now, feeling the wave over take her. She slipped a third finger into her cunt as she brought herself to the brink. Closer — harder — closer — faster — clo–

With that, without warning, a heavy clang from her old rusted doorbell broke the spell. The woman dropped the book, sprang to her feet, gazing in horror and bewilderment, one hand still buried between her legs as the long awaited orgasm … faded away.

Again the bell sounded.

She picked up the book, put it back on the shelf, licked her fingers, feeling ambivalent.

For a third time the iron clang, insistent, impatient, breaking her quiet once and for all.

The woman frowned while readjusting her clothes, pushing back her hair from her sweaty forehead, fingered her clit through the fabric of her fundoshi, then went, with cautious steps, across the courtyard once more, back through the dark hall and up to the door. For a second she hesitated — was it really worth it? — then drew back the bolt and threw open the door to world outside.

A woman stood waiting for her.

She was younger than the sculptress, but not greatly, gorgeously attired, a lady no doubt from the emperor’s inner court. A concubine? No, a warrior, even though her carefully pleated and folded dress was stunning. Her coiffure was just as stylized, with not a hair out of place.

“You cannot want me,” the sculptress finally said, surveying the stranger for a couple of moments. “And there is no one else here. Sayonara.”

“If you are Mistress Fuyu Tsukiko,” the splendidly-dressed stranger answered, “then I certainly do want you.”

“Want me?” The sculptress opened the door a little wider. “I am Fuyu Tsukiko, but I do not know you.”

“Perhaps,” the other answered. “But I have questions that only you can answer. I am Lady Leiko of Nagasaki.”

“Leiko of Nagasaki!” repeated Fuyu softly. Then, as if she had come to a conclusion, she stood aside, motioning for the lady to enter. When she had passed into the hallway she carefully bolted the door, then turned to her with a grave expression.

“Will you follow me, my lady?” she said, walking before Leiko to her studio.

The sun had left the room by that time, but the air was still bathed in a reddish warmth. There was a sense of great heat that lay trapped in the ancient bricks and grass.

Fuyu Tsukiko offered a seat to her guest, who accepted in silence.

“You must wait until the supper is prepared,” she said. With that she placed herself on the stool by the pot, stirring its contents with an iron spoon, openly studying the woman.

The material of Leiko’s semitransparent kimono did nothing much to hide her curves, although most were hidden by layers of silk. Her beauty mesmerized Fuyu until she forgot for a moment what she was suppose to do.

Leiko, for her part, returned Mistress Fuyu Tsukiko’s steady gaze.

“You have heard of me?” she said suddenly.

“Yes,” was the instant answer.

“Then you know what I am here for?”

“Perhaps,” said Mistress Fuyu, frowning.

Leiko turned and stared at the half-crimson succubus with great interest, even, Fuyu mused, a little fear.

“My mother is the Lady Miyuki of Nagasaki,” Leiko finally answered in a manner one might have called arrogant. “The Emperor made me a warrior, an Onna bugeisha, when I was fifteen. Now I am tired of Nagasaki life, of castle life, of my mother. So I have taken to the road.”

Mistress Fuyu lifted the iron pot from the fire to the hearth.

“The road to where?” the sculptress asked.

Leiko made a large gesture with her hands.

“To wherever the road leads.”

“As an Onna bugeisha?” asked Mistress Fuyu.

Leiko tossed her fine head.

“As a former Onna bugeisha. Now I have other ambitions.”

Mistress Fuyu smiled, moving about, setting the food ready. She placed the little clay Oni on the window-sill; flung, without any ado, her drawings, paints and brushes onto the floor.

A queer silence fell on the room. The host did not seem to encourage comment. The atmosphere was not conducive to talk. Fuyu opened a cabinet in the wall, took out an elegant cloth that she laid smoothly on the rough table. Then she set on it earthenware dishes, honey in a clay jar, flushed pears cut thin, rice cakes in a plaited basket, steamed cabbage, radishes fragrantly pickled, the bottle of plum sake.

“Does anyone else live here with you?” Leiko asked at one point.

“I live by myself. I have no desire for company. I take pleasure in my work alone. Sometimes people come to buy my art, usually one of my sculptures for their shrines, but of late very few.”

“You are a good artisan, then?” asked Miyuki. “Who taught you?”

“Old Mistress Yoi, born in Higashimurayama village, taught in Edo. When she died she left me this building.”

Again the room sank into silence. Shadows crept about.

Leiko ate everything put in front of her. Fuyu, on the other hand, seated next to the window, rested her chin on her palm, stared out at the bright and fading orange sky, then at the broken windows, then at the sayuri lilies waving about the dry fountain. She ate very little. After a while the lady asked, almost shamelessly, for some of the sake. The sculptress rose and brought a sake cup to her.

“Why have you come here?” Fuyu inquired, placing the bottle before Leiko.

Leiko laughed easily.

“I am married,” she said, as an explanation, lifting her cup to her lips. At that Mistress Fuyu frowned.

“There are a lot of married people in this world.”

Leiko surveyed the mysterious swirling liqueur through half-closed eyes.

“It is about my husband, O my host; that is why I am here.”

Fuyu Tsukiko leaned back in her chair.

“Yes, I have known your husband.”

“Really? Please, tell me about him,” Leiko of Nagasaki requested. “I have come here for that story.”

Fuyu smiled slightly.

“But why would I know anything more about him than his own wife?”

Leiko flushed.

“Perhaps. Perhaps. But never mind, go on, what do you know? Tell me.”

Fuyu’s smile deepened.

“He was the only son of the Lady of Kobayashi, he hid himself at the cloister of the Red Brotherhood in Kyoto to avoid having to marry you.”

“I see you know that,” said Leiko. “What else?”

“Since you wish for me to tell you about your own life, listen to what I have to say, my lady.”

Fuyu spoke with an uninterested tone, staring the entire time out of the window.

“He desired, I think, to become one of the Order of the Red Brotherhood. But when he was fifteen his elder brother died, thus he became your mother-in-law’s only heir. Many families wished to align themselves with her, but in the end they agreed for him to marry you.”

“Without my wish or consent,” Leiko added, refilling her sake cup.

Fuyu simply shrugged.

“The feelings seem to be mutual. Your husband, who wished most passionately, I am told, to become a priest, fell ill with grief. In his despair he confided his misery to a local miko, a temple maiden, who lived in his neighborhood.”

Leiko’s eyes flickered, hardened behind their long lashes.

“Your husband was to be heir to a great fortune,” said Fuyu, “but it was through this miko that he became introduced to the Brothers. In his fear of marriage he promised them all his inheritance if they would save him from his mother’s iron will. So the priests, tempted by greed, spread the rumor that he had died. There was even a fake funeral and he was kept secret in the city’s cloister, dressed as an initiate. All this was put into writing, documented by the priests, so that there would be no doubt when the boy returned from the dead, as it were, looking for his inheritance once his mother had died.”

“Yes. I was glad to hear that he had died, at least at the time,” said Leiko. “For by that time I loved another and there is no honor in behavior like that, husband or no.”

“He lived for a year among the priests,” Fuyu Tsukiko went on. “But his life became bitter. He wanted to escape, I believe, yet he could not make himself known to his mother for then it would become known that not only had he lied about this death but that he had promised the priests everything.”

“Go on.”

“Is there more?”

“You know there is.”

“So, as life became more and more horrible for your husband he found a way to send a letter to his widow.”

“Yes. I have it here.” Leiko touched her breast. “He told me all about his dishonesty, begged forgiveness,” she laughed. “He asked me to come rescue him.”

Fuyu crossed her long hands upon the table. There was still red paint under her nails.

“But you … but you did not rescue him, though. You did not even answer his letter.”

“No, I did not rescue him. His mother had taken another husband, she now had a new son to inherit everything.” Leiko lowered her eyes moodily, “I was occupied, in love with a … dairy fairy. Plus, he had lied, my little foolish husband: to Buddha, to me, to the world. ‘It will be poetic justice,’ I thought. ‘For him to suffer as I once suffered’.”

“He waited for months for your answer,” stated Mistress Fuyu flatly. “Finally he fled from the cloister to here, to this very building. Again he wrote to his wife and again she did not answer. That was two years ago.”

“Did the priests make no attempts to search for him?” asked Leiko.

“By that time they knew that the boy was heir to nothing. They were afraid that the tale might reach the ears of the shogun and there might be … repercussions. But did it matter? Around that time the usurper, Tokugawa, lay Kyoto under siege and everyone suddenly had other things to worry about.”

“Indeed. Had it not been that I was required to help mount a defense of the city I might gotten here sooner,” explained Leiko. “But I was occupied with fighting.”

“The cloister was destroyed, the brothers murdered or fled into exile,” continued Fuyu. “The boy lived here, learning many crafts from Old Mistress Yoi. She had no apprentices but the two of us.”

Leiko leaned back in her chair.

“That much I have learned. That the old woman, dying, left her place to you. What did she leave to my husband?”

Fuyu gave her a long, unblinking stare and then turned back to the window.

“It is not strange that you are here, now? You, Leiko of Nagasaki, after all this time, inquiring about your husband.”

“A woman must know how she is loaded down with other people’s responsibilities. As it turns out only you and I know that he had an existence of any sort after he faked his death. He might be a fool but he is still my husband.”

Dusk — hot, blood-red — had fallen on the chamber. The half-crimsoned succubus gleamed dully, the wet lips of her cunt spread vulgarly before the two women. Lady Leiko of Nagasaki felt a little chill pass through her, despite the heat, a little sullen chill, but she waited to see what the older woman had to say.

The sculptress rested her smooth pale face on her palm, her mahogany eyes were hardly discernible in the twilight, but the shadow of her lips moved when she spoke.

“Shijo died two years ago,” she said. “His grave is in the garden, next to the fountain, where those red sayuri lilies grow.”

a star to steer her by

22 Friday Jun 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, Illustration and art, story

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art, cosmonaut, historic, lesbians, masturbation, rocket, science fiction, Soviet Union, story, zero-gravity

Jun 22, 2012

“All I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.”
–John Masefield, “Sea-Fever” (1902)

I.
“Did they explain why?”

“Come to bed.”

“Did they say anything at all? A hint?”

“It’s exactly what you think.”

“O … fucking hell. And you’re going?”

“Yes.”

“When? How much time do we have?”

“Hours … minutes … they’re coming for me right now.”

“What?! ‘Minutes’? You don’t say ‘Come to bed’ when you only have fifteen fucking minutes left!”

“I thought you might want … a quickie.”

“Are you joking about this? You’re getting taken away from me and you think that the only thing on my mind is fucking? I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

“I know. When they told me I knew I was either going to laugh or cry. I want you to remember me laughing.”

Then she awoke, drifting above an October night sky full of other people’s passions, frustrated once more.

Lubusha had been floating, making little gasps in her REM sleep, releasing quivering bubbles of sweat that oozed from her pores and broke free, pearls free-hanging in zero-gravity, filling the cramped capsule with the fragrance of dread, regret and girl-cum. She had found that she could masturbate, in theory, while still dressed up in her bulky flight suit, but it was torturous affair; getting her fingers to shuffle, clumsily, down between the three protective layers that she wore, finding the zipper to the inner liquid cooling garment, designed, like everything else on this rocket, for men, and, by pulling the slit wide open at the crotch, she could just barely feel the cool, recycled air lapping gently at her perspiring cunt.

Framed in the small window set in the side of the capsule Australia slowly swam into focus below her. There wasn’t a close-circuit video in her craft, everything was linked up by radios; a realization that at first made her bemused her, then happy at the thought that no one would be watching her, but now it was just boring. Her only audience was the curved surface of the Earth and it wasn’t exactly as if the planet was going to stand up and cheer every time she pressed her round, curvaceous ass against the window. How many of those who were gazing up into the heavens right at that moment suspected that Major Lubusha Zhdanov, decorated Hero of the Soviet Union, had been entertaining herself for the last 42-hours with clit pounding, hip grinding, finger fucking orgasm after orgasm? Probably no one, not even her. That was a shame, letting all that fun go to waste. She loved being watched, showing off as her dripping, furry girl-lips clasped onto whatever huge plunging dildo she was using at the time. Without an audience cosmonaut pornography just wasn’t the same.

She fingered the O-2 hose that ran from her unzipped suit into a processor nearby; lay upon her back in the acceleration chair, closing her eyes as she heard, once again, her calling out her name. She loved that husky, Siberian accent, making all her vowels sounds like Billie Holiday crooning the blues. Reaching inside her suit Lubusha began to stroke her nipples, coaxing them, erectile tissue bloated with blood, to rise as bidden, hidden as they were, just then, under thick, thermal-mylar fabric. She slid her free hand down the slope of her stomach, imagining that it was her hand that was caressing Lubusha’s downy, moist mound. Between the lips of the zipper on her liquid cooling layer her hand played back and forth, rubbing calloused fingertips against her throbbing clit.

II.
“Are you afraid?”

“Afraid? It’s not about that, about fear. I had a feeling it would happen like this. A premonition of the future.”

“…”

“I have to go, you know. You understand that?”

“I understand you are going.”

“It’s my duty.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“And what is my duty? You make it sound like you’re the only one making a sacrifice here.”

“Your duty? Your duty is to let me go.”

She had always said that a woman who possessed three things could do anything she wanted in this world: a deep throat, a deep ass and a deep cunt. Lubusha had them all and more; she parted her legs wider strapped into the aluminum-framed seat. That night before her mission, she had stood by the edge of their bed, unbuttoning Lubusha’s trousers, removing her panties, looking at her lover’s naked body with lust in her brown eyes. Now Lubusha’s mind imagined Madame Comrade reaching to caress first one and then the other of her breasts. They had gone to Copenhagen that last summer, smoking hashish and bought a 16 inch strap-on dildo, smuggling it back behind the Iron Curtain in a diplomatic pouch. For a whole year Lubusha could make her lover grin simply by bringing that monster rubber cock to her lips. With eyes closed she licked her fingers, began to glide her fingers across her cunt, letting them graze her clit ever so slightly, teasing herself back into dream. She dipped first two, then three fingers inside, feeling her cum and sweat and despair begin to trickle down her thighs to her ass.

“Are you afraid?”

“It’s my duty.”

“And what is my duty?”

Indeed, what was her duty? With one finger knuckle-deep in the slick groove of her girl-lips, Lubusha brought her other hand down from her nipples to stroke the little, pouting, engorged O of her ass. Pressing one finger and a thumb into her musky orifice, her breathing caught. She let out another cry, forced herself to stop.

Something rattled on the outside of her capsule; cosmic dust? the after-glow of her last orgasm still ringing in her ears? She did not know.

Earlier that morning Lubusha had used the rubber-end of a wrench to sate her hunger for a good, hard fuck; trailing it down between her copious breasts, teasing each jutting nipple, making a slow journey, parting her Red Sea, to her pulsing, protruding clit.

She spread her legs wider, the soles of her naked feet touching the capsule’s roof, then brought her legs down in front of herself, grabbing her ankles. Holding her self upright she arched her back, trying to bring her head forward, to raise her hips just enough to see if her tongue could touch, if she could make a zero-gravity circuit with her own clit. Like Uroborus, the ancient serpent eating its own tail. Muscles screamed. Tendons pulled. She could almost bury her own nose in her own pubes. The pace of her breathing quickened and grew shallow. She felt her own pelvis spasm and grunted and pushed forward just a little more.

Using her hands to guide her ass cheeks forward, Lubusha groaned into her own crevice. With a violent turn of her hand she thrust herself to the limits of her flexibility; found that she could now get her face good and cummy. She moaned as she came closer to climax, to that hard ‘K’ sound. In six minutes the vector of her orbit would take the craft right over the daylight side of the Earth. Soon — soon — soon! Her cramped abdominal muscles begged for release. Her cunt begged for release. Her soul, her name, her ego, everything that was Lubusha Zhdanov cried out to become part of something bigger, the way the moon forever longs to return to the earth from which it was born.

She filled the whole capsule with cum-fuck cries, little gasps, crying out her name to rescue her.

“Comrade Pilot!”

Mission Control’s deep male voice cut in through the capsule’s speakers.

“Comrade, you will be passing over the East China Sea on my mark at T-minus one minute and counting.”

Lubusha didn’t know whether she had accidentally left her com-link on or not. But what did it matter? No one could steer her where she needed to go. The first tremor of her orgasm rocked her spine, jolting her already flooded cunt still harder, her gushing juices shaped themselves into jewel-like globs that drifted about, spreading out like a rainbow between her legs. And as she came the capsule swung around and the blazing light of the universe filled every inch of her chamber like a question she could not answer.

“Will you remember me?”

“Of course.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I will choose to remember.”

“And if you die?”

“I’m not going to die.”

“That’s not even bravery you’re using. That’s … I don’t know. We’ve lost sixteen cosmonauts in the last two years. And you tell me that my duty is to let you become number seventeen?”

“Of course not, because I’m not going to die.”

“Yeah, right, whatever. Fine then, until we meet again.”

“Yes … until we meet again, Madame Comrade” … She … Mine … my darling Vetlya.

once upon the grave of a sinful nun

17 Thursday May 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, story

≈ Comments Off on once upon the grave of a sinful nun

Tags

grave, historical, lesbians, masturbation, nun, sin, story

I wonder why a little, why the gods
above me who must be in the know,
think so little of me, they allow you to go.

— Cole Porter

I.
The year before the Shogun banished the foreign missionaries from his lands, sending them back to Portugal, or whatever hell they had once arisen from, something queer happened. Far away in the unfashionable north, in a lonely village called Kawanishi, there lay an old, solitary churchyard. Because the missionaries who built it were hairy barbarians, no one interred in those grounds were ever cremated; there were no family graves, none of the ancestors left behind were remembered, fondly or otherwise. The churchyard’s low, curly grass now fed a few vagabond goats that daily struggled over its ruined walls, it was the sort of grass that hid little gray mice that roamed through the sad wilderness, all bordered over with glum willow trees. The rusty gate, because of course there was one, seldom opened to human touch, but shrieked in pain when the wind sang against its hinges. Only the lost souls, generations of the converted, condemned to wander in that desolate place until some vaguely explained day of reckoning occurred, which was always in the far, far distance, sang with the wind, shaking the tree boughs, wailing at their terrible imprisonment.

In this churchyard there was one grave unlike all the rest. The stone which stood at its head bore no name, even the ones spelled out in the odd Romaji lettering the strangers somehow understood, but instead carried a curious symbol: a plump, crudely carved calla lily, opening up above blood red waves.

The grave was, simply, different, covered with a thick growth of mourning band blossoms. No ordinary woman lay within, it was the grave of a sinful nun.

II.
Not far from the old churchyard a young woman lived with her old husband in a drab, wattled hut. She had been a dreamy, dark-eyed girl growing up, the sort who never played with other children, but instead loved to wander in the sun-kissed fields, lie by the banks of the boggy, soggy rivers, watch the thick water swirl this way and that, laugh with the lilies as they swung their heads on the naked breast of the east wind. As one might expect, she had grown up to become a dreamy, dark-eyed woman, the sort who continued to live a solitary life; for her elderly husband was a wild, wicked man who sat at home and drank all day, cursing the gods into the calm summer nights so that even the poor ghosts, those who were damned to wander in the churchyard under the brow of the hill, shook their shaggy heads sadly at the young woman’s plight.

Often, very often, she would disappear out into the firefly-filled night, or wander the sun-dappled meadows during the day where all her husband’s hideous blasphemies could not reach her, where she could talk with the lilies in a low, affable voice, for they were her friends.

In this wandering way she came to haunt the old churchyard as well, much like the souls of those whom the missionaries had condemned to dwell there. Some of the dead were, understandably, far from pleasant to her, for death does not stop a person from being a tomfool or a hooligan. But most tolerated her as she roamed by their crumbling headstones, tracing her fingers over the foreign words, names that had been long forgotten.

There was one gravestone, though, that she did not like, for the ghost had been a terrible pervert in life and was no better later on. Nasty, old men were nothing new to her, and truth be told there seemed to be a little pervert in her soul as well. What happened was this: one evening, right as the sun was sinking behind the trees, bursting into a thousand flaming tentacles, she turned a corner and there he was. Standing still she tried to look at him out the corner of her eye, for someone had once told her that was the only way to see ghosts. But this gave her a headache and it didn’t really matter how she stood, the ghost was lost in his own little world.

Most ghosts didn’t bother her, except for the ones who had died in amazingly violent accidents. It wasn’t just their tattered bodies, they tended to put on pompous, la-di-da airs, as if no one else had ever gotten sucked under a millstone while grinding wheat. The martyrs were almost all insufferable assholes. Sometimes, she thought, it was as if they had been told that death was nothing more than a private club and had seriously believed it. The young woman had seen the dead pervert before, though she never had the courage to ask him what he had died from; while the words “Fellatio” and “Porcupine” had never once crossed her mind whatever had killed him had left him with a curious “whittled down” look, as if a samurai once had practiced on him day and night.

The young woman watched him, wanting to see what he would do.

The ghost was sitting against his headstone, wearily running his hand through his gore-encrusted hair. His fingertips left wet marks on his neck and traces of blood on his robe as he reached for belt tie that held most of his dismembered body together.

The dead pervert closed his eyes as he tugged the belt open. The young woman stared slack-jaw as he pulled his robes to his hips, exposing something bluer, thicker and more bulbous headed than a sperm whale’s tongue. The young woman bit her lip. This dead man’s cock hypnotized her; long, mottled, pulsing in his hand as if it were alive once again. She wondered what it would feel like insider her. What it would taste like? Sex with her husband had been torture at best, an endless world of disappointments almost all other times. But this: here was a man who could fuck like a bull-god — she blushed in spite of herself.

The ghost stroked himself, moaning with dreadful long gurgling noises. The young woman found that she was getting just as excited, simply by watching him, fascinated at how his hand tightened after each stroke. She could feel the dampness of lust deep in the core of her cunt awakening, the way an underground stream slowly burbles its way to the surface. She knew she was acting crazy just by watching him; fucking around with the dead never ended well, but right then she couldn’t help it. Her fingers slipped inside her kimono. Her fingers made a slush-slush noise as she ran her fingertips up and down her mossy lips. Her wetness intensified, a cum puddle already soaking the inside of her thighs. A flood that was about to break her wide open.

“I want to cum.”

His eyes opened briefly, staring straight ahead, his blood soaking into the ground, flooding the mound he was buried in, lapping at her feet: “make me cum.”

It was a sad sound, that particular pathetic request. The dead only ask for things they cannot do for themselves. The young woman rubbed herself furiously as she thought of him — one of an army of demonic cocks brimming over with sex magic, succubus spawn and lustful poltergeists, all the phantom lovers kept by anal-fuck witches — his ghostly lips sucking away her orgasm from deep inside her, as if life itself depended on it. “I want to cum,” he said again. The young woman knew exactly how he felt, so did she.

She closed her eyes, knowing she was on the cusp herself. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to help him but her body wouldn’t let her. Instead her legs trembled and she bent in half. A long, sad wail rose up all around her.

“I want to cum …”

His words brought her back as she climaxed with sticky, sticky fingers, glowing softly in the dusk. She opened her eyes and found that she was alone; even the blood-soaked grass he had been sitting on had been wiped clean. She felt bad for the poor ghost and said a prayer for such a thwarted soul. Sexual frustration for the dead really was a unique type of hell.

III.
The nun’s grave, however, nameless, uncared for as the rest, attracted her more than all the others. The strange device of the plump, crudely carved calla lily on a field of blood was to her a perpetual source of mystery. It came to pass that, whether by day or night, when the fury of her husband drove her from their home, she would wander to the dead woman’s grave, lie among the thick grass, talk to the one who was buried beneath it.

In time her love for the grave and the nun grew so great that she adorned it after her sensual nature she was only recently discovering.

She cleared away the mourning band blooms that grew so somberly above it, clipped the grass until it grew soft like desire. Then she brought primroses she collected from the green edges of dewy lanes; red poppies from the rice fields; bamboo from the shadowy heart of the forest. She planted them around the grave so that the sleepy nun, when she finally paid attention, would be happy. For when she died, the young woman knew, she hoped someone might make her little grave look as if it had been the resting place of a grand fairy queen.

As long as she could be near the nun then she was content. All summer long she would lie with her arms deep in its swelling mound of grass, rubbing her cheek this way and that, feeling the earth and sunlight warm her, letting her fingers caress the creamy tufts while the soft wind would come to play with her, boldly lifting up her skirt, encouraging her to part her thighs a little more, to let the sun see what no living man or woman had ever beheld except late at night while she was in tears. From the hillside she heard the shouts of the village men at work in the field. Once in a great while one of them would come, to spy on her, perhaps to catch her while she squatted to take a piss, as the other village women would do. But they always left, shame-faced, awed, hushed, stealing back to their companions, speaking in whispers about the young woman that loved a grave.

In truth, she loved how the nun, the sinful nun, could bring such stillness to the churchyard; how she could make the odors of wild flowers so exquisite; cause dappled sunlight to fall through the leaves just so. The young woman would lie on her back for hours, leaving her blue-green kimono open to the world, gazing up at the summer sky, watching the white clouds sailing across it, tracing with her fingers in the air every fold and crease. But when the thunderstorms came up from the sea, which seemed to her nothing more than ancient gods bulging with uncontrolled rage, she would think of her bad husband, once again drunk on cheap rice wine, and turn over on top of the grave, laying her naked cheek against the grass as if it were a sister or a lover.

What do dead nuns dream of? All the pleasures of life that were denied to them? Drugs and waking nightmares and alcohol and cock and endless balls? Are they condemned to always wear those wooly, itchy robes and odd habits, a miserable costume party, whenever they rise from the ground? The dead only ask for things they cannot do for themselves and this nun had died unsatisfied as well, as all people who forbid themselves grace in life. The greatest spiritual gift humans possess is the orgasm, a door to the divine. The words “ecstasy” and “to breathe” come from the same root; when your ego steps aside and something from the outside fills you with a sublime rapture that gives freedom to the soul, who cares where that grace came from? The dark night of the soul is the grace of cumming. But those who have never experienced rapture know nothing about the divine. So the nun had lived and died and had a lot of fucking to make up for.

The summer wore on, passed into autumn. The trees grew sad, shivering as the time approached when the fierce sea winds would rise up to strip them naked once more. The little village was known for its cool summers and icy winters. A Kawanishi winter was not a time for lovers who could only meet under the blue sky, in the warm grass, pressing their bodies together on the rounded mound the nun was buried under. Often the young woman wet the little grave with more than just her cum, often her tears as the sadness of the season came over her and winter approached. She often kissed the dead nun as they lay next to the gray headstone, as if her lover was about to depart for years and years.

IV.
One evening towards the end of autumn, when the woods looked grim, the young woman heard on the east wind a fierce, wicked growl, as a dog gives right before the house is entered by danger. From her spot on top of the sinful nun’s grave she could hear the screech of the old iron gate swinging open. Hurriedly rearranging her kimono the young woman crouched in alarm behind the headstone with its calla lily on a sea of blood while the nun herself sighed and sank back under the brown grass, the taste of the young woman’s cum still alive on her tongue.

Coming across the churchyard were five foreign men. Two carried between them what appeared to be a long box, two more carried shovels, while the fifth, a tall stern-faced man clad in black, walked at their head. They smelled unwashed, their clothes debased, a fog reeking of rum and consecrated dust clung to their skin. As the young woman watched the men appeared to aimlessly wander back and forth, often stumbling over half-buried headstones, cursing in a curious, nasal language she did not understand; or, stooping down, they clawed back the moss and vines to examine half-obliterated inscriptions written in the stones. As she watched the young woman’s heart beat crazy-blood under her breast, saying a silent prayer that whatever god had sent these men to desecrate the graves of these poor ghosts it would also take them far away.

The men, with the tall one leading, hunted in the vines and long grass, occasionally pausing to utter blasphemes in Portuguese, German and Dutch that would have sounded at home with her old husband. At last the leader turned, walked towards the grave of the sinful nun. Stooping down he gazed at the design on the gray stone. The moon had just risen, its light fell on the plump lily. The tall man stood erect and beckoned his companions.

“I found it,” he said, in surprisingly good Japanese. “Here.”

With that the four men approached, all five of them stood by the grave. The young woman behind the headstone could hardly breathe.

The two men bearing the long box laid it down in the grass and the young woman saw a coffin of bright redwood covered with silver ornaments. On the lid, wrought in silver, was the device of the lily rising out of a red sea.

“Dig it, men, dig,” the tall man ordered. Straightaway the two that held the shovels plunged them into the grave. The young woman thought her heart would break; no longer able to restrain herself, she flung her body across the mound, cried out to the strange leader.

“Lord Priest!” she cried, weeping, “do not touch my grave! It is all I have to love in the world. Do not touch it; she who is buried here is more than my sister. I tend it. I keep the grass cut. I promise you, if you will leave it to me, that next year I will plant on it the finest flowers I can find in the meadows.”

“Idiot woman, what does a heathen know about the holiness of those buried here?” answered the startled, stern-faced man. “This is a sacred ground; she who is buried here was a young woman like you; but a bride of Christ, a saint. Now your ignorant Shogun has ordered all missionaries out of your country. It is not proper that the bones of a saint should be left behind in a country that refuses to be saved. Across the sea we have built a grand mausoleum for all the dark saints, I have come to take her with us. We shall lay her in vaults of gold and marble and pray to her until Judgement Day. Men, do your work.”

In the moonlight the four men dragged the young woman from the grave by her shoulders, tossing her into the brown grass and fallen leaves. Then they dug up the grave — through her tears she saw the white bones clotted with wet earth get gathered together — placed in the dark wooden coffin. She heard the lid being shut — saw the dark figures shovel the earth back into the empty hole. Then they took up the coffin and faded away into the night. The gate hissed once on its hinges, then the young woman was alone.

She sat silent, tearless, on the grave, listening to the shadows move about in the dark. An evening star came out and shown down the cliff to the sea far below, shown on a moving tide that appeared asleep. The young woman knew, though she was too far away to see, that somewhere out in the dark upon that boundless deep, a ship was crossing the horizon; that by the time that the sun would come up everything would be lost to her.

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