like the power

January 23, 2020

I participate in BDSM, but I wasn’t abused as a child. I don’t hate women, or particularly enjoy hurting women. Sometimes I make them feel pain, but it’s consensual, it serves a purpose — to get them off — and they can indicate that they wish me to stop at any time. I do like the power I get from total submission, and the trust that my partner puts in me to give me everything, from her mind to her body, while expecting nothing in return — except the understanding that I won’t violate that trust.

Nenia Campbell
Bound to Accept

Harbour

January 21, 2020

sometimes i can’t help it
i’m down and i want to stay down
but then you hug me, your ample
breasts snug under my smaller
ones like an art sculpture
of a puzzle piece, and i feel
my spirits lift against my will
damn happiness i think, it’s just
her breasts, they have nothing
to do with how things will turn
out between us, and i try not
to be pulled out of the treacherous
moment, out of the safety of
nothing can get worse than it
already is, but there i am, helpless,
elevated by your breasts

Ann Tweedy

they have no fear

January 21, 2020

Witches, like saints, are solitary stars that shine with a light of their own; they depend on nothing and no one, which is why they have no fear and plunge blindly into the abyss with the assurance that instead of crashing to earth, they will fly back out. They can change into birds and see the world from above, or worms to see it from within, they can inhabit other dimensions and travel to other galaxies, they are navigators on an infinite ocean of consciousness and cognition.

Isabel Allende
Paula

love always hurts

January 19, 2020

You said, “There’s still time – time to change your mind.”

Remember…?

Your voice was little more than a husky whisper beside my ear. But going back wasn’t an option for me then. What was to happen was fated…inevitable. Like the sunrise or sunset.

I said, “I love you.”

And you said, “Move forward…just a little more…little more. There. I’m going to hurt you now…Hurt you a lot, because I love you. And love always hurts.”

The pain that followed my slow movement against your long body was unlike anything I’d experienced before. Hell fire would touch me less.

Agony.

And, yes, ecstasy too…

You said, “You can cry out if you wish. It’s alright. No one can hear.”

And then that exquisite, excruciating torment eased, slightly. I couldn’t breathe; couldn’t draw breath; but then I could and took short, shallow gulps of air. I realised my mouth was filled with blood where I’d bitten the right side of my cheek and my tongue.

You bent forward to look into my face and smiled. You saw the blood on my lips. Your tongue flicked over my mouth, lasciviously.

“First blood,” you whispered. “Relax for now. It’s going to be a long, long night for you…”

P

Looking Glass

January 18, 2020

I want to be the woman
who pokes her fingers
through a canine
skull in the woods
and can divine
what killed it,

how long
it was panting blood
before its heart pulped,
how acute the teeth
that skinned it.
I want to be

the lady who presses herbs
on open wounds, knows
which tree to lick
as antiseptic.

I want to come
clean,

not this tuft of fur greying,
picking bourbon mid-shelf
not because of cost,

but for a hue that
holds a hint of rabid.

Megan Merchant

When she does not find love, she may find poetry. Because she does not act, she observes, she feels, she records; a colour, a smile awakens profound echoes within her; her destiny is outside her, scattered in cities already built, on the faces of men already marked by life, she makes contact, she relishes with passion and yet in a manner more detached, more free, than that of a young man. Being poorly integrated in the universe of humanity and hardly able to adapt herself therein, she, like the child, is able to see it objectively; instead of being interested solely in her grasp on things, she looks for their significance; she catches their special outlines, their unexpected metamorphoses. She rarely feels a bold creativeness, and usually she lacks the technique of self-expression; but in her conversation, her letters, her literary essays, her sketches, she manifests an original sensitivity. The young girl throws herself into things with ardour, because she is not yet deprived of her transcendence; and the fact that she accomplishes nothing, that she is nothing, will make her impulses only the more passionate. Empty and unlimited, she seeks from within her nothingness to attain All.

Simone de Beauvoir
The Second Sex

They turned her around, and the heat of the fire was against her back. A hand seized one of her breasts, a mouth fastened on the tip of the other. But suddenly she lost her balance and fell backward (supported by whose arms?), while they opened her legs and gently spread her lips. Hair grazed the insides of her thighs. She heard them saying that they would have to make her kneel down. This they did. She was extremely uncomfortable in this position, especially because they forbade her to bring her knees together and because her arms pinioned behind her forced her to lean forward. Then they let her rock back a bit, as nuns are wont to do.

“You’ve never tied her up?”

“No, never.”

“And never whipped her?”

“No, never whipped her either. But as a matter of fact…”

It was her lover speaking.

“As a matter of fact,” the other voice went on, “if you do tie her up from time to time, or whip her just a little, and she begins to like it, that’s no good either. You have to get past the pleasure stage, until you reach the stage of tears.”

Then they made O get up and were on the verge of untying her, probably in order to attach her to some pole or wall, when someone protested that he wanted to take her first, right there on the spot. So they made her kneel down again, this time with her bust on an ottoman, her hands still tied behind her, with her hips higher than her torso. Then one of the men, holding her with both his hands on her hips, plunged into her belly. He yielded to a second. The third wanted to force his way into the narrower passage and, driving hard, made her scream. When he let her go, sobbing and befouled by tears beneath her blindfold, she slipped to the floor, only to feel someone’s knees against her face, and she realized that her mouth was not to be spared. Finally they let her go, a captive clothed in tawdry finery, lying on her back in front of the fire. She could hear glasses being filled and the sound of the men drinking, and the scraping of chair. They put some more wood on the fire. All of a sudden they removed her blindfold. The large room, the walls of which were lined with bookcases, was dimly lit by a single wall lamp and by the light of the fire, which was beginning to burn more brightly. Two of the men were standing and smoking. Another was seated, a riding crop on his knees, and the one leaning over her fondling her breast was her lover. All four of them had taken her, and she had not been able to distinguish him from the others.

They explained to her that this was how it would always be, as long as she was in the château, that she would see the faces of those who violated or tormented her, but never at night, and she would never know which ones had been responsible for the worst. The same would be true when she was whipped, except that they wanted her to see herself being whipped, and so this once she would not be blindfolded. They, on the other hand, would don their masks, and she would no longer be able to tell them apart.

Pauline Réage
The Story of O

We walk in darkness with phantoms and spectres we know not of, and our little world plunges blindly through abysses toward a goal of which we have no conception. That thought itself is a blow at our beliefs and comprehension. We used to content ourselves by thinking we knew all about our world, at least; but now it is different, and we wonder if we really know anything, or if there can be safety and peace anywhere in the wide universe.

Donald Wandrei
Strange Harvest

Ordered to lift your skirt

December 29, 2019

During the day you will therefore be dressed, and if anyone should order you to lift your skirt, you will lift it; if anyone desires to use you in any manner whatsoever, he will use you, unmasked, but with this one reservation: the whip. The whip will be used only between dusk and dawn. But besides the whipping you receive from whoever may want to whip you, you will also be flogged in the evening, as punishment for any infractions of the rules committed during the day: for having been slow to oblige, for having raised your eyes and looked at the person addressing you or taking you —you must never look any of us in the face. If the costume we wear in the evening – the one I am now wearing – leaves our sex exposed, it is not for the sake of convenience, for it would be just as convenient the other way, but for the sake of insolence, so that your eyes will be directed there upon it and nowhere else, so that you may learn that there resides your master, for whom, above all else, your lips are intended.

Pauline Réage
Story of O

Every time Hans Christian Andersen had a wank, he would put a mark in his diary. “Today I had a visit from such-and-such a person, they’re so sweet,” he would write. “When they left, I had a double-sensuous ++.”

In Denmark, Andersen is regarded as a national hero with a whiter-than-white image. His fans argue that the reason he never married or had sex was his desire to remain pure. Most biographies about him are very boring. But there’s one, Hans Christian Andersen: The Life of a Storyteller by Jackie Wullschlager, that is fantastic. Wullschlager approaches aspects of his life that have never been discussed frankly and openly – not only sexuality but other shady sides to his character.

When he visited Paris, for example, he would go to brothels in the Porte Saint-Denis area, not to touch the women, but to speak to them, return to his hotel and wank off. Then he would write about it in his diary.

Robert Lepage
Bedtime stories