My fantasy, wish, dream, whatever you want to call it, is of two leather-clad bitch-women force feminizing me one rainy afternoon. After they finish, they invite in half-a-dozen randy studs and tell them to have me as often as they want. ‘Use and abuse,’ they say, ‘to your heart’s content.’

I’m restrained, handcuffed, and these dudes start stripping off my panties. One of them grabs my head, forces my face to his lap. ‘Suck on that,’ he says.

Another behind me thrusts into me roughly. There are cheers and laughter. I’m like a helpless ragdoll as they have me over and over again. They cum inside me, no condoms, cum on my face and in my lipstick smeared mouth. My ordeal lasts most of the afternoon, and when they’re finally finished with me, I’m left as a cum-covered ruin, rolled in a ball on the floor.

SOURCE

Escape was quite impossible.

September 29, 2019

There was a platform in the centre of the square of each village, and when the Queen went inside the house of the Lord of the village to drink a cup of wine with him, I was left on display.

But I was not to stand gracefully as I might have hoped. And the villagers knew this, though I didn’t. When we reached the first village, the Queen went away, and as soon as my feet hit the platform, a great roar went up from the crowd who knew they were to see something amusing.

I had my head down when Princess Lynette removed the phallus from my anus. Of course the crowd cheered at this. I was then made to kneel up, hands behind my neck on a turntable.

Princess Lynette operated it with her foot. And telling me to spread my legs wide, she turned the turntable. I was perhaps more afraid in these first few moments than ever before, but never once did the fear of rising and trying to escape come to me. I was helpless. Naked, a slave of the Queen, I was in the midst of hundreds of common people who would have overpowered me at once, and cheerfully for all the sport it would have given them. It was then that I realized escape was quite impossible. Any naked Prince or Princess fleeing the castle would have been apprehended by these villagers. They would have given no shelter.

Now Princess Lynette commanded me to show to the crowd all my private parts that were in the service of the Queen, and that I was her slave, and her animal. I did not understand these words, which were spoken ceremoniously. So she told me politely enough that I must part the cheeks of my buttocks as I bent over and display for them my open anus. Of course this was a symbolic gesture. It meant I was ever to be violated. And nothing more than that which could be violated.

But my face aflame, my hands trembling, I obeyed. A great cheer went up from the crowd. Tears slipped down my face. With a long cane, Princess Lynette lifted my balls for them to see, and pushed my penis this way and that to display its defenselessness, and all the while I had to hold my buttocks apart and display my anus. Whenever I relaxed my hand she commanded me sharply to pull the flesh wider apart and threatened me with chastisement. “That will infuriate her Highness,” she said, “and amuse the crowd immensely.” Then to a loud approving cry, the phallus was shoved securely back into my anus. I was made to press my lips to the wood of the turntable. And I was led back to my position beside the Queen’s coach, Princess Lynette pulling my bridle over her shoulder as I trotted with my head lifted behind her.

A. N. Roquelaure [Anne Rice]
The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty

women in porn

September 14, 2019

In film theory everything has meaning. Everything is symbolic. Similarly, in pornography, as Dworkin points out “everything means something.” Gender means something, bodies mean something, body parts mean something, the acts done to women mean something. Getting a facial in your bedroom doesn’t necessarily have the same meaning as a woman getting a facial in a porn movie does and, in fact, the relevance of whether or not the individual actress in the porn appears to be ‘enjoying’ the cum shot to her face is less important than the larger meaning of the image on screen. I am not at all surprised that “the majority of porn shows women basking in and positively loving receiving a facial” or that “a lot more straight porn features women happily accepting facials than reacting with disgust and evident humiliation” because women in porn are presenting a fantasy and that fantasy is that women enjoy being objectified, cum on, gang-raped, called whores and bitches, whatever. Porn is about male fantasy. The fantasy is that women like everything you do to them, as man.

Megan Murphy
Facials, feminism, and performance: On f**king men in a patriarchy

half-erased dream

September 6, 2019

Especially at twilight one lives in the fullest fantasy, a half-erased dream.

Federico García Lorca
August 1921 letter to Adolfo Salazar
Trans. P

inspired me to write

May 30, 2019

When the American fantasy writer Tad Williams first met Game of Thrones author George RR Martin, Martin growled at him: “Get the hell out of here.”

This was not yet another egoistic literary beef; Martin merely wanted his fellow author to get home and finish the next instalment of his Memory, Sorrow and Thorn series, which Martin had been patiently waiting to read. Perhaps this was a bit hypocritical coming from the famously slow-writing author of the series A Song of Ice and Fire, who is loved and moaned at by fans furiously awaiting his next book. But while Williams, who turns 60 in March, might not be quite the household name Martin is, he deserves wider cultural recognition: without Tad Williams, there would be no Game of Thrones.

“The Dragonbone Chair and the rest of his famous ‘four-book trilogy [were some] of the things that inspired me to write my own seven-book trilogy,” said Martin in 2011. “Fantasy got a bad rep for being formulaic and ritual. And I read The Dragonbone Chair and said, ‘My God, they can do something with this form, and it’s Tad doing it.’ It’s one of my favourite fantasy series.”

David Barnett
Tropes, trolls and Trump: the fantasy writer who inspired George RR Martin
The Guardian 17th January 2017

Her ivory hands on the ivory keys
Strayed in a fitful fantasy,
Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees
Rustle their pale leaves listlessly,
Or the drifting foam of a restless sea
When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze.

Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold
Like the delicate gossamer tangles spun
On the burnished disk of the marigold,
Or the sun-flower turning to meet the sun
When the gloom of the jealous night is done,
And the spear of the lily is aureoled.

And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine
Burned like the ruby fire set
In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,
Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,
Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet
With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.

Oscar Wilde

waves

The eye is not isolated in its perception of the world. Rather its connections to the brain and the support of our senses in experience heat, cold wind, noise, smells and so on create an extraordinarily compact image of the world, whose plasticity and density are perhaps intensified by a particularly appropriate emotional state. Photography reduces this colourful world into a black-and-white rectangle. It is obvious that this most unpretentious of art forms requires the greatest reliability of taste, ability for abstraction, fantasy and concentration.

Albert Renger-Patzsch
Meister der Kamera erzählen wie sie wurden und wie sie arbeiten

inward dreamings

September 6, 2018

All life is only a set of pictures in the brain, among which there is no difference betwixt those born of real things and those born of inward dreamings, and no cause to value the one above the other.

H.P. Lovecraft
The Silver Key

afraid of fantasy

August 25, 2018

For fantasy is true, of course. It isn’t factual, but it is true. Children know that. Adults know it too, and that is precisely why many of them are afraid of fantasy. They know that its truth challenges, even threatens, all that is false, all that is phony, unnecessary, and trivial in the life they have let themselves be forced into living. They are afraid of dragons, because they are afraid of freedom.

Ursula K. LeGuin
Why Americans are Afraid of Dragons

ELFIN CHILD

February 22, 2018

I watched you dancing in your garden,
Elfin child;
threading your silver tears through
sunlight strands of your laughter.
And the pearls of your wisdom
hung about you in a shining radiance.

I felt the enchantment of your star studded music,
rippling through the aching contours of my being;
felt each quivering note peel away layers
of the mask I had moulded about me,
making me as naked and free as you.
Elfin Child.

The curtain of light
that hid your face fell away
and I saw my own face.
You held out your hand in silent invitation,
your eyes beseeching jewels of love,
and together we danced as one…

Stephanie Wilson