wolf

There are wolf thickets.
There are culverts full of bears.
There are alpine hares
that were lost children.

Do not talk to strangers.
Do not cross the road.
Make a ring of fire.
Do not play with matches.

There are migrant birds
that shouldn’t be here.
There are people listening.
There are ill considered
consequences. There are
no answers to your liking.

There are precautions
you can take. Switch off
the lights. Remove
sharp objects on entering
the liferaft. Suck fish eyes
to stave off thirst.

There are many things
that do not come alive
except in the small hours
before the day makes it.

Wolf thickets.
Half silences.
The distance
between lovers.

Sandra Greaves

Song For A Red Nightgown

December 17, 2015

womanandcloud

No. Not really red,
but the color of a rose when it bleeds.
It’s a lost flamingo,
called somewhere Schiaparelli Pink
but not meaning pink, but blood and
those candy store cinnamon hearts.
It moves like capes in the unflawed
villages in Spain. Meaning a fire
layer and underneath, like a petal,
a sheath of pink, clean as a stone.

So I mean a nightgown of two colors
and of two layers that float from
the shoulders across every zone.
For years the moth has longed for them
but these colors are bounded by silence
and animals, half hidden but browsing.
One could think of feathers and
not know it at all. One could think of whores and not imagine
the way of a swan. One could
imagine the cloth of a bee and
touch its hair and come close.

The bed is ravaged by such
sweet sights. The girl is.
The girls drifts up out of
her nightgown and its color.
Her wings are fastened onto
her shoulders like bandages.
The butterfly owns her now.
It covers her and her wounds.
She is not terrified of
begonias or telograms but
surely this nightgown girl,
this awesome flyer, has not seen
how the moon floats through her
and in between.

Magic as a Path to Freedom

December 17, 2015

trees

For years, I have pondered the role of magic in the development of spirit in the human quest for knowing. Ultimately, spirituality, mysticism, and magic are approaches to relating one’s own spirit to the spirit of all life. As I have looked deeper into the practical and occult roles of magic, I have found that magic appears to be a partner with the nature of spiritual freedom, which I define as the right to hear the voice of our own spirit and to create a life that is satisfying and meaningful in a cultural and planetary context. Magic liberates the seeker from being force-fed a diet of adherence and allows him or her to directly engage, encounter, and exchange with the forces of creation and life from the inside in an aware and co-creative manner.

Magic makes its face known where emotional, physical, or spiritual oppression attempts to chain the spirit of humanity. Consider the legendary roles of magic in the exodus of the Jewish tribes from Egypt (i.e., the parting of the sea, turning a staff into a serpent, and so on), the use of Voodoo in the Haitian slave revolt of 1791, or the mythic slave revolt of the Italian people led by Aradia through her Dianic Witchcraft. Whether magic played a role in these events—or whether they even occurred at all—is not the point. The fact remains that magic appears in urban myths, mythic battles, fights against oppression, or rebuttal against enforced norms.

Magic is a fire that destroys the fetters that bind the spirit. It is a gift to life and humanity that allows us to consciously shape our lives through direct engagement with the spirit inside life and inside ourselves. I believe that magic, specifically the magical practices of the common folk, has always been and always will be associated with human freedom and the quest for a good life.

Orion Foxwood

Candle and Crossroads

coming a third time

December 17, 2015

rubbing

Sam responded to my mental request, his leg tensing and relaxing, and then coming up against my sex, repeatedly, pounding, as I dropped onto him with furious desire. I pulled Sam to me, as I tensed every muscle in my body in one last spasm of agony, and found my glorious release. Then, I came a second time. I held Sam’s head and kissed him, coming a third time as Sam slowed the motion of his leg, and I finally collapsed against him, breathing heavily, fully spent.

Simone Freier
European Experience: Subspace and Love on a Visit to Europe

give a woman money

December 17, 2015

sexofmoney

In a prostitute’s life, she is taken by surprise over and over and over and over and over again. The gang rape is punctuated by a money exchange. That’s all. That’s the only difference. But money has a magical quality, doesn’t it? You give a woman money and whatever it is that you did to her she wanted, she deserved. Now, we understand about male labour. We understand that men do things they do not like to do in order to earn a wage. When men do alienating labour in a factory we do not say that the money transforms the experience for them such that they loved it, had a good time, and in fact, aspired to nothing else. We look at the boredom, the dead-endedness; we say, surely the quality of a man’s life should be better than that.”

Andrea Dworkin
Prostitution and Male Supremacy

Christmas gift idea for her

December 17, 2015

christmasgiftidea

Christmas gift idea for him

December 17, 2015

act

Bare Bottom Spanking

December 17, 2015

spank

Memory maps.

Light and dark entwining. Shadows in the small back parlour persist, despite the lamp with its rosette shade and the coal fire burning in the hearth. Beside that fire, her armchair with its pattern of rambling roses and its old-fashioned red and white antimacassar. She stands beside the chair, Aunt Deborah, in a plain cream dress, front buttoned…like the wife of some Reverent gentleman whose hobby is the collection of butterflies, which he kills in a bell jar kept for that purpose in the study. Her expression is severe; she’s a typical Christian matriarch, today judging our misdemeanours and dictating punishment.

It’s a weekly ritual. Friday night is punishment night. Aunt Deborah keeps a hard-covered ledger where she notes down any little “naughtiness” during the week. On Friday she adds up these childish wrongs, and pronounces sentence on the guilty party.

Angela has been good and is dismissed. Tansy, on the other hand, has two bad points. Aunt Deborah sits in her armchair and takes Tansy over her knee. She lifts the girl’s skirt and tugs her knickers down to below the curve of her buttocks.

‘Ten hard smacks,’ she says. For this she uses her hand, slapping first one cheek of Tansy’s backside, then the other. This bare bottom spanking happens in front of me. The sound of her hand slapping Tansy’s backside is unforgettable. Imprints itself on your psyche. When punishment is completed Tansy stands, adjusts her underwear and thanks Aunt Deborah. She is then dismissed.

‘I don’t just discipline for actions,’ Aunt Deborah tells me, ‘but for attitude, too. At times I find you a very wilful boy. The only solution to this, in my experience, is very strict discipline.’ She glances at the side table: here lays a paddle, a hairbrush, cane and belt. ‘Heavy punishment is the only antidote. And I will not shirk my God-given duty. No, I will not. Whatever corrective is necessary, I will apply, young man. Do you understand?’

The atmosphere in the parlour is heavy, close. I can smell coal dust and lavender furniture polish. Aunt Deborah tells me to recite the ten commandments. I manage six of the ten.

‘After your punishment here,’ Aunt Deborah says, ‘You’ll go to your room and copy them from your bible forty times. You’ll make sure you memorise them. I shall ask you each day to recite them. Any error will earn you ten hard strokes of the cane. Understand?’

‘Yes, Aunt.’

‘Good,’ she replies. ‘For now I’ll be lenient with you. Forty hard smacks with the hairbrush. Lower your trousers, please.’

Watching Tansy’s punishment, her bare bum, had aroused me. As I pull down trousers and underpants I’m still tumescent. Aunt Deborah notices (how could she not?) and I blush.

‘Come here, young man.’

I advance, face on fire. Uncooperative cock jutting to attention beneath my shirt.

‘That,’ she says, ‘is disgusting. Exercise more control, if you please – now over my knee.’

And so I lower myself across her lap, but in the process my stiffy ends up trapped between her closing legs…wedged, tightly enclosed. Aunt Deborah’s expression is ferocious as she raises the brush. I’m aware of my cock crushed between her legs above the knees. Then the burning impact of the brush on my backside.

‘Count off the strokes,’ she ordered.

‘…two, three, four…’ Fire flaring across my buttocks. No softening or slowing of the blows. The awful stinging is almost unbearable. But each fresh smack of the brush sends a delicious tremor through my stiff, trapped cock.

‘…fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…’ My backside is now splotchy red, burning. Still Aunt Deborah strikes, aiming at the cleft, then the right cheek, the left. Hard, harder, hardest.

I groan aloud with sudden realisation of what is happen. ‘Oh, Aunt Debor…’ I try to say her name, but too late. The stiff pencil of my cock jerks involuntarily, once, twice, three times…Head spinning, spunk spurting –

‘Beastly boy,’ says Aunt Deborah. No let up in the blows she’s delivering to my raw bum. ‘Keep counting.’

Eventually my punishment ends. However, because I’d ejaculated between her legs, she makes me bend over a chair. She mixes oatmeal and baking soda together and adds enough water to moisten the ingredients, enough to make a paste and this she applies to the bare red skin of my backside. It stings like hell on the freshly spanked skin.

‘That’s for being totally disgusting,’ she says. ‘It’ll teach you a good lesson. Now clear the puddles of your muck off the floor and go to your room. You’ve got some commandments to learn, young man.’