I called you, because there is no one to tell. More exactly, no one else really cares. For they are saturated with their own grief.

But you cannot help, for you are still trapped at her graveside, that cold Spring day.

Bifurcated, you stand there, heart breaking, while you body stumbles through the present.

In this present, I need you just to meet my eyes, to give me a glimpse of your mind..

You see her, when you see me. I feel you when I hold her necklace to my cheek, bury my face in some piece of clothing of hers.

“Now , now, now,” I say to you softly. Just a puff of air, a tendril of breath that won’t return to me.
You inhale it but it dissipates.

You can’t give me anything now. Which leaves me twice as burdened as before.

How do we survive, two shells? Covered in flesh, filled with bone, blood moving, giving semblance of life.

But nothing really is here.


Image: Maddalena Penitente, 1809, Canova. Via: stone-art.tumblr










They don’t fit. They have some things in common, in the way that both frogs and fish needed water. Or that seaweed and sunflowers need light.

Yet…yet…it is not enough. A stumbling block that would not become a stepping stone upon which she could rend his flesh and mend his heart.

He needed cruelty;  hot, simmering rage that blew the lid off her pot every so often. What was being whipped, if her eyes were blank or dreamy, during the exertion?

She tried. But it become a labor, barely filled with lust than a labor of love.

She left him a note, on the black-edged stationary he gave her for Valentine’s day. It read, in her neat cursive, “I  fervently hope that you do find the flower that will bear gorgeous sharp-edged blossoms, for you to finger like the rosary beads you need in your carnal worship. Farewell.”

She could not be his sadistic rose, his poisonous peony. Her nectar did not sting his throat and burn an eventual hole in his gullet.

The arrows from the quiver do not always strike the right targets, at the right time.



A drop.



Trickling down her forehead, easing towards her right eyebrow. Changing its path as she cocked her head to the left in concentration.

The sweat always derailed her,  slowed her down.

This time, as she worked the lock, spinning numbers, trying to solve the combination to free herself, sweat was not just a bother.  Sweat was becoming a malicious enemy.


A soft rug, scores older than her . A fire softly crackling in the old marble fireplace. Candles burning in sconces bolted to the walls. Assorted treasures from far-flung corners around the world, displayed artfully in corners.  Books carefully cataloged by subject, gleaming in heavy mahogany shelves.

But she was the treasured centerpiece, set off by all those things.


The creak of the leather chair. The tiny minute sounds of the dark leather of Master’s boots–sounds like the beast which gave its hide for them was still alive, forced to obey and protect his feet.

Forced– like her. To do his bidding, to shape herself into whatever form pleased him.

Her arms. Her mouth. Her hair. Her skin. Her cunt. Her ass.

All made to accommodate him.

If only her fingers, coated with slippery sweat from her palms, would obey her this time.


The two locks. One held her wrists together by a chain, the other her feet. First solve the combination, free her arms, then the lock at her ankles would be a breeze. Least that is what Master said, as he sipped his warmed brandy and settled in to watch her.

Master did have a perverse sense of humor, so she was not counting on the ‘breeze’ to be an easy soft one.

For now, it seemed that she would not find the combination soon.

Her eyes glanced at the clock on the pale stone mantel. Time was running thin.

Guests would be arriving soon.

Awkwardly using one wrist to brush her hair off her damp forehead, she doubled her efforts.

Then a gentle click, as the heavy door opened and closed. A pair of measured footfalls reached her ears.

Suppressing an agitated sigh, she kept her eyes on her task.

The first guest had arrived.


That morning in bed, Master whispered in her left ear that he wanted to play a game.

She would have two locks to solve, to free herself. The first 15 minutes that passed would have penalty. But every 15 extra minutes that ticked by, would bring a guest.

Ones that she would have to service, in whichever way he pleased.

For as long as he  liked.

It was to her benefit to solve the combination as soon as possible.

She only had three holes. And they were sore, after a lengthy session with Master the night before.


Time seemed light and weightless. Until she was racing against it.

Now, time was like a heavy, smothering blanket. She could not push it away.

It settled on her bare shoulders and no matter what she did, she could not shrug it off.

Time sending invitations out to the willing.

One man. Then a second. A third.

Finally, she heard the much-needed click of the tumbler releasing the hasp.

Another guest was just stepping in. With a tight grin, Master invited him to come in, for she had not solved the lock before he opened the door.


Three strangers, watching her. Master conversing with them handily, as if they were all just having a drink and admiring his latest painting picked up at an auction in Paris.

But she was real, not a flat piece of inanimate art. Breathing, sweaty, excited, scared. Trembling, ache in her fingers.

Two more guests arrive.

She is free, lock falling away, chain dropping to the ground.

Struggling to contain her joy and ragged breath, she crawls to Master and kneels, cheek resting on his knee, her eyes closed.

A momentary respite.


Then Master softly tells her to assume the position on the rug. And to make him proud.

She thinks that she always does. But to say it would result in a punishment she would not enjoy.

The next hour or two or however it would take to satisfy the five strangers waiting for her was punishment enough.


It was more than an hour. Had to be. Yes? Right?

Starting off with using her mouth on each man’s cock as a sigh of her servility.

Then being fondled roughly, as two men filled her at both ends. Surprisingly, they found a quick rhythm and slipped right into it, until one filled her mouth with his hot cum.  The one buried in her cunt lost his stride but redoubled his efforts until he too, was grunting, filling her.

Next, she was riding another man in reverse cowgirl, as she had another cock forced in her mouth. Master’s voice, full of happy laughter, as he told her how beautiful she looked, being used like that.

She did not feel pretty or beautiful. She felt precious and loved, because she was obeying Master’s command.

Abruptly, she was pulled to her feet. Told to kneel, present her ass in the air.

The fifth guess, mounting her. Then pulling out her tender pussy, to stuff his cock in her ass. Resting in her. Then deep plunging, in and out.

Master coming over, fitting her mouth with his favorite gag-the black rubber ball softer than the others he uses.

It helped, so she could moan, gasp and scream without reservation. The guest was switching from hole to hole, taking her up the ass, then her cunt. Over and over, stopping just once to fill her with copious amounts of lube.

Hearing it squelch, grateful it was easing the way.

Eventually, he dug his fingers into her waist and ejected his seed up her ass.

Panting, leaning against her. Telling Master that he was right; alternating holes was just what he needed to do.

Of course, the previous guests needed to be satisfied, as they were stroking their hard cocks, eyes gleaming with lust.

Encased between them, she was the meat in the fuck sandwich. It hurt a bit but she looked through her tangled hair and saw Masters eyes soften with love.  She would bear any discomfort to see his eyes radiate his love.

Closing her eyes, she gave herself over to being used, to having a cock in her pussy and ass simultaneously.

Her drool leaked from her gag and dripped, as the men bucked and erupted into her, as they called her a dirty fucking bitch.

But Master said she was his sweetheart, his adored toy.


Lying there. Glad time was off her shoulders, that they were off her body.

Master was pleased, she knew. He would be paddling her harshly,  if he wasn’t.

Waiting. Knowing she was to stay still.

Master told her to stand.

Kissing the top of his shoes first, then crawling up his legs. Woozily coming to her feet.

Bowing her head, as he undid the buckle, wet spit-covered gag falling into his hands. Her mouth feeling strangely empty.

Leaning to her left ear, whispering she should go clean herself and be ready again for service in an hour.


Naked, walking past the men, as they discussed her.

Opening the door, slipping away from their eyes, their demands.

The pleasure she gave Master in her perfect obedience the only thing keeping her upright.



You fill me. My eyes consume you and my stomach is quieted.

Your mouth is dessert. I kiss you until I am stuffed.

My eyelids lowly fall shut, my head lolls forward onto your shoulder.

You hold a finger beneath my nostrils and count the space between each breath.



When you leave, I starve.

I cannot sleep.

Tossing. Turning. Pacing.

Return to me.

Kill my hunger.

Rock me to sleep.

Keep me in oblivion.


“Curiosity. Its oldest roots in cura, meaning care.

Over time its meaning has undergone a succession of metamorphoses, from scrupulousness to ingenuity to attention unduly bestowed upon matters of inferior moment (curiosity about meats and drinks, for example) to the desire to learn or know about anything, trifles or matters that are none of one’s business, such as a curiosity to know the faults and imperfections in other men…

Also, it killed the cat.”  p.182

-The Thin Place, Kathryn Davis



You caressed my cheek, rubbed my lips.

You said that the skin of my nipples was the same as the skin surrounding my puckered orifice.

In giving you the one, do you also have the other?



I eat bread.

You eat my ass.

I eat fruit.

You eat my cunt.

Your desire and devotion are treats sitting in my cupboard.

Who’s cravings in the middle of the night are going to triumph?



Lying there, quiet, waiting. Hair tousled, falling across your eyes.

A few strands fluttering with each delicate exhalation from your nostrils.

Drifting off, the only way to quell your fear.


His breath on your cheek, startling you. But his warms hands traveling across your  shoulders provides solace.

Pulled to your feet, shying away.

His fingertips brushing your hips, teasing the curve of your ass.


Digging in slightly, as he stares in your eyes.


Anxious, hair in your face. Braced on your hands, taking most of the weight off your knees.

If you were standing, you would fall.

But there you are.

Because you should be.

Because he asked for it.

Because no one has taken you there.

Because you are on your period, string neatly tucked into you, out of sight.


His fingers warmed the lubricant, before he slid in between your ass cheeks, before his fingers somehow pushed into your impossibly tight hole.

His cock was much warmer than his fingers or the lube.


Your brain says you are not dreaming.

Stifle the moan, for it drips with pain and all you want to do is give.


‘Tell me if I hurt you,’ he says.

But it hurts more to withhold, to deny, to refuse.

You have given your heart to him. That mass of muscle beats in time to his pulse.

What is a band of muscles, peculiar in tonic contraction, gateway to a tunnel that will take you deeper into submission?

Because he wants it.

Because you wish to give it.

Because so much lies beyond this opened door…


Exactly why?

Why are you writing? To stave off boredom? To impress others? To prove that all the money you paid for those overpriced English Lit classes wasn’t truly a waste?

Are you writing about things you love? Be it books, photos, skin, sweat, erections, trembling soft thighs?

Are you writing about things you fear? Be it loneliness, abandonment, rejection, humiliation, pain, searing cold, blazing heat?

Are you writing because you simply can? That is more than a good-enough reason.

In my case, I write because if I don’t, the words build up and leave my gut,  pressing upon my chest,  poking my lungs, eeking up my throat, tying my tongue. I pace the floor at night, mooning over how to express my words that have jumbled together so tightly, where others are wrapped around their lovers. Or running after them.

I look through the sheers on my windows at Luna and see what she thinks, about what I write. Sometimes, she winks at me, others she looks steadily yet blankly my way.

Writing is like breathing, often done half-consciously. I write on scraps of paper, back of envelopes. I make notes to myself that I lose, about what seems so important right then.

I look at paper with anticipation, the way a junkie gazes longingly at the next hit. Cracking open a new journal gives me shivers. The smell of ink is one of the sweetest perfumes ever created.

To fall asleep, book in hand, is more comforting than any lover’s embrace has ever been.

I close my eyes and dream of words, worlds and worlds of words.

Late at night, I reclining on the grass and watch the stars spin, feel the earth rotate under my back, all reduced to letters and symbols.






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