Christmas Orgy

December 18, 2019

Surrounded by women smelling of wildflowers. Daughters, mothers, wives in various stages of undress. In this place, like a shark-filled moat, expectation is running high – but disappointment lurks around every corner.

‘Why do you do it?’ a friend once asked me. ‘Sex with total strangers? Why?’

‘I desire more,’ was all I could answer. ‘Perhaps I’m seeking Narnia, trying to find the right closet door?’

Sweet woman all shapes and sizes in this huge, mattress-lined room. They are full of grace and naughty thoughts. Naked males with hard bodies, some with pot bellies, cocks swaying as they move, offer drinks, cocktails to the women they most desire.

Always, to begin, there is this hesitation. The desire to couple with someone who is the wife, husband, lover of another. Passions held taut beneath loose bellies. Everyone wanting more out of today than yesterday, or the day before that.

A woman with a strawberry birthmark on her thigh kisses me. Our tongues become two snakes making love. Gentle fingers stair-stepping in descent to stiff cock. Teasing swollen head and balls, mercilessly. We crumple together on a mattress and she spreads wide for my face; for my greedy tongue. On the next mattress I see the jutting hip bones of some boy thrusting, his partner old enough to be his grandmother. Perhaps older.

I wonder how many of these women fake their orgasms? Many are here because their husbands are here; it’s expected of them. To give themselves to strangers.

Slow, fast, gentle, rough, naked bodies entwine. The mattresses become swamps to roll in. Constant tugging on my cock as I lick between spread legs – I feel myself stretching and fear I may come loose in her terrible grip –

Saturated with desire so many bodies are now barbarously connected around us.

Tantalized by her soft flesh I drive into her, become one with her. Become a rattle of pleasure deep in her throat. She stretches her white neck back and takes a deep breath once, twice, three times, her hands like small animal claws on my back.

A fiery bubble explodes deep inside my head – the rhythm of her breathing in my ears is all I hear, her face brightening from that moment of bliss is all I see. But I know too she is a simple spark about to go out – it is always this way.

Always, this voracious feeding on vulnerability, this cannibalising of naked souls. We are a room full of Vampires. That and nothing more –

honest fantasy

June 1, 2019

The fantastic literature of my childhood centred around two authors: Tolkien and Lewis. Anyone more than familiar with both men will know their religious history, that Lewis was an atheist who, under Tolkien’s guidance, became first a theist of no particular affiliation, and then a good Anglican whose works on Christianity, while touted by modern American Evangelicals, were radical enough to place him well outside of the conservative mainstream in this country even now. Tolkien was a devout Catholic, very conservative, to the point that when Vatican II changed the liturgical response from Latin to English, he refused to make the transition. What has always interested me about these two is how that religiosity impacted on their primary works. I always knew Narnia was a thin metaphor, even as a child. It wasn’t until I was much older that I met people who read the books as honest fantasy, and were surprised when shown the undercurrents. I think that says something about how thoroughly the core themes of religious metaphor have penetrated the expectations of our collective genre narrative. Tolkien, on the other hand, did not write didactically. I’ve had more arguments with earnest Christians about this than I care to think about, but Tolkien is on record as saying that he despised didactic writing, chided Lewis for the thin veil of metaphor that he employed in the Narnia stories, and insisted that his Middle Earth wasn’t a secret instructional manual for anything. He did, however, say that The Lord of the Rings was a “fundamentally Catholic” story. That’s because Tolkien was a Catholic, and anything he produced was going to be coloured by that thought system. And yet these two imaginations, both men professors and therefore prone to instruction, both men devout in their belief, both wonderfully creative in their storytelling, these two writers produced very different sorts of stories, especially when viewed as religious works. It’s always fascinated me, and confounded my father. It’s something we talk about a lot.

Tim Akers
Faith in the Fantastic

I hope you do this too

December 3, 2018