The Well at Mylor

May 6, 2018

At Mylor
the water of the well

bears the armour of the light,
it hides and escapes

and stays still
under its hood of rock

amid a galore of graves
and green leaves,

spring of fresh water
beside the sea,

a find, a treasure,
a pedigree,

no idyll
but the essential source,

now retired
from its work of sole sustenance,

living among memories
of former fame,

a saint’s hand dipping in
like a taper unquenched,

coins splashing down
for reverence, not luck,

from time to time,
a self-baptism,

secret and quick,
for some

prefer their ritual
out of doors,

water understands this,
and loves the brow

fanned with its body
for reasons the water easily guesses,

for it is the one who blesses,
freely,

freely it runs
its long unceremonious

caress
through my fingers,

and on my lips
tastes ferriferous,

blood-hint at the periphery,
pell-mell mint at the heart.

Penelope Shuttle

trees and sky and night

It was New Year’s Eve and a cold damp day that penetrated while the elements ran wild across the landscape. Skeins of mist hung tenuously upon the high banks and draped the bare trees. My surroundings were white and hushed and I’d lost all sense of time as I walked. In places the ground underfoot was several feet deep with compressed snow from some weeks ago.

I had turned off the main path to follow an upward track which I knew led me to the edge of the forest. Here the ground was slushy underfoot, worsened by the water streaming down from the hills. Everything was so breathlessly still and silent. It was as if the mist had erased all sound as well as every contour.

I reached the outskirts of the forest and saw the dark conifers puncturing the mist. But then something made me stop. It was music. High piping music that seemed to resonate on many levels simultaneously. It flowed through my body and spirit, as if the chords were able to penetrate hidden doorways into my soul. I was porous, living and breathing somewhere between substance and time. Gradually I became aware of a presence, a feeling that I wasn’t alone.

I saw him first, a small bearded figure, half human half goat, dancing on a small hillock playing the pipes. I immediately thought of Pan, but he was much smaller, a faun in fact. He was no more than a metre in height. And then I saw that he was surrounded by animals of all kinds, in a circle. There were shy woodland animals, squirrels and foxes, and mythological ones such as satyrs and centaurs. It was some form of animal gathering.

Stephanie Wilson
Meeting with a Faun

an embarrassing

Waking one Sunday morning in a strange bed, a husband and wife deeply asleep either side me. The previous night’s party was a headachy blur. But I had obviously ended up in bed with this pair, both of whom had fucked me.

Now, I wished only to escape, to avoid unnecessary awkwardness by not disturbing them. I simply couldn’t face one of those hesitant, uncomfortable conversations over coffee and croissants with this pair of strangers.

Very carefully I slipped down the bed and out at the bottom. My bare feet sank into a beautiful shag-pile carpet. I quickly, silently gathered up my clothes and tiptoed towards the door. Then –

Catastrophe!

I stepped on a tube of KY jelly that had been carelessly discarded the previous evening. It burst spraying its glutinous contents in all directions – well and truly lubricating that shag-pile!

Oh, bloody hell!

I could do nothing. I dressed quickly in the bathroom at the end of the hall, then went silently downstairs and let myself out.

I was a coward. A very, very embarrassed coward. And I’ve never been back to their house again.

I love biting boy’s hips and thighs.

To give them a handjob, slowly building them to the edge, then abruptly stopping and squeezing hard at the base of their cock because – “who told you that you could come yet?”

And then, whilst I’m giving them a moment to gather themselves, before I continue, I bite down on their flesh…

I live for the way their body jolts in response to that, bite and how they suck in air through their teeth.

Domme Desu
Horny 24/7

i am reading ancient poetry composed thousands of years ago, and the words dance off my tongue like rain bouncing off of flower petals, filled with so much life for a language that so many have called dead. around me, the ghosts of those who lived long ago settle in beds of their own words, their paper blankets tucked up to their chins as they listen to their bedtime story. their happy sighs are the whispers as i turn the pages; their soft, sleepy breaths are the rhythm of the words that flow around us. a warmth fills my chest as i keep reading. they are content, and i know that i am not alone.

sarah thoodleoo
Concept

Loving more…

May 6, 2018

When I say I love you more, I don’t just mean I love you more than you love me. I mean I love you more than the bad days ahead of us. I love you more than any fight we’ll ever have. I love you more than the distance between us. I love you more than any obstacle that could ever try to come between us. I love you the most.

GREY WOLF