Writing…

February 27, 2015

writing

Fanyhills

Do you have a pet cat…?

February 27, 2015

cats

Hunting you…

February 27, 2015

Bigteeth

“Hunting you, I can smell you – alive
Your heart pounding in my head”

Evanescence
Haunted
(track 2 on album Anywhere But Home; written by Hill, Edward Monroe / Rochelle, Karyn.)

2woman

Give me a cubic centimeter of your flesh and I could give you pain that would swallow you as the ocean swallows a grain of salt. And you would always be ripe for it, from before the time of your birth to the moment of your death, we are always in season for the embrace of pain. To experience pain requires no intelligence, no maturity, no wisdom, no slow working of the hormones in the moist midnight of our innards. We are always ripe for it. All life is ripe for it. Always.

Jesus I. Aldapuerta
The Eyes: Emetic Fables from the Andalusian de Sade

oldbooks1

Books have their idiosyncrasies as well as people, and will not show me their full beauties unless the place and time in which they are read suits them. If, for instance, I cannot read Thoreau in a drawing-room, how much less would I ever dream of reading Boswell in the grass by a pond! Imagine carrying him off in company with his great friend to a lonely dell in a rye-field, and expecting them to be entertaining. ‘Nay, my dear lady,’ the great man would say in mighty tones of rebuke, ‘this will never do. Lie in a rye-field? What folly is that? And who would converse in a damp hollow that can help it?’ So I read and laugh over Boswell in the library when the lamps are lit, buried in cushions and surrounded by every sign of civilisation, with the drawn curtains shutting out the garden and the country solitude so much disliked by both sage and disciple.

Elizabeth von Arnim
The Solitary Summer

My idea of perfection….

February 27, 2015

Myideaofperfection

givethegameaway

Invading his mouth…

February 27, 2015

sittingcomfort

When she invaded his mouth, he heaved with nausea. For the first time, he understood the violation of rape. He fell backwards onto the floorboard with her on top of him. She weighed more than he did. Her hand slid into his pants.

As she touched him, he realized that it would be die or escape. No middle ground of surviving in the harem was acceptable to him. He hit her then, a killing blow to the throat. She gurgled and arced like a woman in orgasm and went limp.

Marilynn Byerly
Star-Crossed

Casting aside her facade….

February 27, 2015

Handstouching

When she’s abandoned her moral center and teachings…when she’s cast aside her facade of propriety and lady-like demeanor…when I have so corrupted this fragile thing and brought out a writhing, mewling, bucking, wanton whore for my enjoyment and pleasure…enticing from within this feral lioness…growling and scratching and biting…taking everything I dish out to her…at that moment she is never more beautiful to me.

Donatien Alphonse François, Marquis de Sade