Surely it doesn’t have to be this way? Stretching up the hill ahead of me, I begin to see all of my future relationships, bearing me on and up like some escalator of the fleshly. Each step is a man, a man who will penetrate me with his penis and his language, a man who will make a little private place with me, secure from the world, for a month, or a week, or a couple of years.

How much more lonely and driven is the serial monogamist than the serial killer?

Will Self
Grey Area

The Idea of Entropy at Maenporth Beach
“C’est elle! Noire et pourtant lumineuse.”

A boggy wood as full of springs as trees.
Slowly she slipped into the muck.
It was a white dress, she said, and that was not right.
Leathery polished mud, that stank as it split.
It is a smooth white body, she said, and that is not right,
not quite right; I’ll have a smoother
slicker body, and my golden hair
will sprinkle rich goodness everywhere.
So slowly she backed up into the mud.

If it were a white dress, she said, with some little black,
dressed with a little flaw, a smut, some swart
twinge of ancestry, or if it were all black
since I am white, but- it’s my mistake.
So slowly she slunk, all pleated, into the muck.

The mud spatters with rich seed and ranging pollens.
Black darts up the pleats, black pleats,
lance along the white ones, and she stops
swaying, cut in half. Is it right, she sobs
as the fat, juicy, incredibly tart mud rises
round her throat and dims the diamond there?
Is it right, so she stretches her white neck back
and takes a deep breath once and a one step back.
Some golden strands afloat pull after her.

The mud recoils, lies heavy, queasy, swart.
But then this soft blubber stirs, and quickly she comes up
dressed like a mound of lickerish earth,
swiftly ascending in a streaming pat
that grows tall, smooth brimming hips, and steps out
on flowing pillars, darkly draped.

And then the blackness breaks open with blue eyes
of this black Venus rising helmeted in night
who as she glides grins brilliantly, and drops
swatches superb as molasses on her path.

Who is that negress running on the beach
laughing excitedly with teeth as white
as the white waves kneeling, dazzled, to the sands?
Clapping excitedly the black rooks rise,
running delightedly in slapping rags
she sprinkles substance, and the small life flies!

She laughs aloud, and bares her teeth again, and cries:
Now that I am all black, and running in my richness
and knowing it a little, i have learnt
it is quite wrong to be all white always;
and knowing it a little, I shall take great care
to keep a little black about me somewhere.
A snotty nostril, a mourning nail will do.
Mud is a good dress, but not the best.
Ah, watch, she runs into the sea. She walks
in streaky white on dazzling sands that stretch
like the whole world’s pursy mud quite purged.
The black rooks coo like doves, new suns beam
from every droplet of the shattering waves,
from every crystal of the shattered rock.
Drenched in the mud, pure white rejoiced,
from this collision were new colours born,
and in their slithering passage to the sea
the shrugged-up riches of deep darkness sang.

Peter Redgrove

strip you stark naked

December 10, 2017

whip girl by hdy9108

Yasala made no reply. She crouched, watching her captor with eyes baleful as those of a basilisk. Stubborn silence always fans anger. Valeria turned and tore a handful of cords from a near-by hanging.

“You sulky slut!” she said between her teeth. “I’m going to strip you stark naked and tie you across that couch and whip you until you tell me what you were doing here, and who sent you!”

Yasala made no verbal protest, nor did she offer any resistance, as Valeria carried out the first part of her threat with a fury that her captive’s obstinacy only sharpened. Then for a space there was no sound in the chamber except the whistle and crackle of hard-woven silken cords on naked flesh. Yasala could not move her fast-bound hands or feet. Her body writhed and quivered under the chastisement, her head swayed from side to side in rhythm with the blows. Her teeth were sunk into her lower lip and a trickle of blood began as the punishment continued. But she did not cry out.

The pliant cords made no great sound as they encountered the quivering body of the captive; only a sharp crackling snap, but each cord left a red streak across Yasala’s dark flesh. Valeria inflicted the punishment with all the strength of her war-hardened arm, with all the mercilessness acquired during a life where pain and torment were daily happenings, and with all the cynical ingenuity which only a woman displays toward a woman. Yasala suffered more, physically and mentally, than she would have suffered under a lash wielded by a man, however strong.

It was the application of this feminine cynicism which at last tamed Yasala.

A low whimper escaped from her lips, and Valeria paused, arm lifted, and raked back a damp yellow lock. “Well, are you going to talk?” she demanded. “I can keep this up all night, if necessary.”

“Mercy!” whispered the woman. “I will tell.”

Robert E. Howard
Red Nails

A woman with bangles

…The black woman was clad as she had been when he had seen her on the throne, and the coloured armlets and anklets clanked as she closed the door… She moved with the easy sinuousness of a she-leopard and in spite of himself the watcher was struck with admiration for her lithe beauty. Yet at the same time a shudder of revulsion shook him, for her eyes gleamed with vibrant and magnetic evil, older than the world…

…Nakari halted by the couch, stood looking down upon her captive for a moment, then with an enigmatic smile, bent and shook her. Marylin opened her eyes, sat up, then slipped from her couch and knelt before her black mistress — an act which caused Kane to curse beneath his breath. The queen laughed and seating herself upon the couch, motioned the girl to rise, and then put an arm about her waist and drew her upon her lap. Kane watched, puzzled, while Nakari caressed the white girl in a lazy, amused manner. This might be affection, but to Kane it seemed more like a sated leopard teasing its victim…

Robert E Howard
The Moon of Skulls

the dead live faster

December 10, 2017

Do you remember the chain store magnate? I cured him of premature ejaculation. I couldn’t stop him from coming in two minutes, but at least I could make it seem longer when I had taught him hypnosis with my Oscilloscope! It may be the dead live faster than we do, streaking from molecule to molecule in their flux of changes. It may be that they live very slowly, like a mountain range. Hypnosis will enable you to travel these deeps, these accelerations in your human form. Set up the machine.

Peter Redgrove
The Sleep of the Great Hypnotist

naked witches

December 9, 2017

Mine are the lusts of hoofs and horns,
Of the he-goat and the loon
And the naked witches that demons deflower
On the dark side of the moon.

No common sin may fire my eyes,
Glutted with excesses fell —
My lust is stained with the dung that stirs
On the stinking streets of Hell.

Robert E Howard
Letter to Tevis Clyde Smith September 1930

Naughty Reading

December 9, 2017

This one might have confused Simone de Beauvoir…?

blossom into flesh and fire

December 3, 2017

I used to have this thing where I’d phone friends while my lover of the day fucked me from behind. I’d have a mundane conversation with this friend or that, while my lover’s cock was thrusting in and out of me. Sometimes I’d cum mid-call, and have to bite down hard on my bottom lip to prevent my crying out…a dead giveaway, that’d be.

One time my step-dad called me and as he rambled on about a trip he’d taken for his work, I guided my lover’s cock between my legs. It felt like a touch of midnight when it went up me. Moon fire deep in my cunt, and I felt myself blossom into flesh and fire; that man’s voice in my ear all the while, like the monotonous buzzing of a fly. My lover’s cock became a part of me. Became me. Cumming was like dying and being reborn again.

I have to engage in these forbidden activities, you understand, otherwise my soul would suffocate on vanilla porridge and ear wax –

Sharon Oliver
Confession of a kinkster