Commentary
by Guillermo Bosch
e are late this quarter because we have gone back to, and redesigned Sauce*Box in, a pure HTML format. This redesign was in response to many faithful readers (faithful at least to reading the e-zine) who found the Adobe Acrobat .pdf format hard to load onto their computers. We hope you enjoy this new format and feel free to comment .
We also want to wish everyone a Happy New Year, and hope that all your dreams and fantasies either cum true or remain fulfilling in their fantasy form. Our unfortunate prediction is that the cumming year is going to be rather depressing and sad for those of us who believe life, joy and pleasure rather than death, pain and suffering are the highest pursuits of our lives.
We are, as a species, seemingly embarked on paths of war and confrontation. This makes no sense. Clearly, our biological imperative is to propagate and multiply to ensure the success of the human race, not destruction and elimination of the species so that this earth is held in dominion by cockroaches and ants. We really can do better than this, and I wonder if a US President more interested in sex than killing isn't preferable to one who seems obsessed with his own inadequacies and shortcummings.
We are pleased to welcome back old friends in this issue: our Asian corespondent - Modeste Balthus; New York's finest - Sean Farragher; the San Diego Siren - Terrie Relf; and the exquisite exhibitionist - Lil' Eve. And of course, we are always happy to add new writers, especially when they are as talented as Basil Riverdale.
So, let's go forward with some courage and hope despite the dark clouds on the horizon. If we continue to promote pleasure over pain, love over hate and life forces over death forces, then at least some small portion of the world may be abetter place…
Rise Olympus!
By Basil Riverdale
basil99@earthlink.net
had walked all morning from the little village across seldom-used trails to arrive at the lip of a chasm overlooking the lower slopes of Mount Olympus. The midday sun beat like a forge upon my brow. Thickets of cactus had torn my jeans as I traversed the rocky slopes looking for a path that might lead me to the ancient temple. My arms and legs bore numerous small cuts, and my tongue felt thick in my mouth. I stopped under the shade of an olive tree and took a swig from my canteen.
I could see the ruins of the temple from my perch above the chasm. Was it possible that the priestess still lived? If so, how did the witch survive with no pilgrims to make offerings in the temple? Yet the goatherd insisted that he had seen her recently on at least two occasions. He said the old crone was bent and gnarled like the trunk of an olive tree with hair that fell to her waist in disheveled strands the color of fine white sand. She still had the power of divination, or so the townspeople claimed. I found it difficult to believe that anyone could survive alone in such a wild and desolate place.
The sun was dropping below the horizon by the time I had picked my way through the chasm to the steps below the temple. I placed my hands on my hips and took a deep breath before the ascent into the sanctuary grounds. The odor of decay assailed my nostrils, a smell like dust and old parchment. I pulled myself up the steps carefully, not wishing to cause a rockslide. The stones were still loose. No one had come to repair the place since the last earthquake had toppled the great staircase. I took the last step into the temple sanctuary itself. The night sky brooded above me in quiet expectation. The hoot of an owl warned the witch that a visitor had entered, but no one stirred inside.
I found her frail body leaning against a pillar. Deep furrows carved a face like old mahogany. Her white robes were stained where they were not otherwise torn to tatters. Her feet were black as soot and cracked like the chasm slopes where she must have gone foraging for roots and thistle. But she was breathing. I could see her thin shoulders move ever so slightly with each shallow breath.
"Go away," she said in a hoarse whisper. "I wish only to die."
I took a kerchief from my pocket and soaked it with a little water from my canteen. I dabbed at her face and carefully removed the crust that had formed around her eyes. There was a flicker of recognition in her face.
"Grandmother," I said, "I have come seeking your divination. I have brought you figs and pomegranates, as is the custom. I must speak with you."
Her voice was barely audible, "I seek fruit no longer. The old gods are asleep. They do not answer my petitions. No one remembers the Olympians or makes sacrifice as in the old days. I seek only the one who will deliver me. Would you be the one? If you can sing me a verse in the old way, I will answer your questions. You would be the one to release me finally from this place."
"I will try, grandmother," I said as I sat down to compose a verse.
It’s said the pythoness will speak
to mortals still inclined to seek
for wisdom far beyond their ken,
though vanity will rule most men.
Alexander fought Tartaris fate
his dominions spanning Marmaris Strait
The edifice of man is made
a defiant dream consigned to fade.
Delphi fell in a fearful bow
as Gaia shook a mighty brow
Even gods fear to speak of she
the Bitch they call Necessity
Though the oracle is silent now
still come a few to take a vow
to a moon who sighs in wisdom terse
and stones that speak Homeric verse
I wonder much of Macedon
and other empires come and gone
of things that were and yet to be
of birth and life and mortality
The ocean sings in ebb and flow
of things reborn again to grow
from Gaia’s loins life springs anew
as night brings on the morning dew
When dawn’s rosy fingers scatter night
I will meet the witch upon that height
She’ll bow to me with wisdom modest
My words to hear and know me hones
Her head moved as I finished my verse. "What do you wish to know, my son?"
"Grandmother, if I climb the mountain to Olympus, will the gods give me a hearing? Will they grant my petition if I please them?
"Yes, son of Olympus, for you they might do that, if you can wake them first. What is so pressing that you have come so far?"
"I seek counsel in a matter of love," I answered in all earnestness. And then the old witch died. I cradled her head in my hands and gently closed her eyelids. Her desiccated body was light as a feather. I carried her without effort from the temple and placed her body under an olive tree below the temple steps. The light of a full moon illuminated the night sufficient for my task. I gave a brief incantation to Olympus calling on the gods to witness the ritual. The stone cairn went up quickly. The moon had reached her zenith as I finished and wiped the dust from my hands. I wrapped myself in a blanket and fell into a deep dreamless slumber.
I woke early the next morning. The sleep had done me well despite the ordeal of the evening before. I washed down some dried fruit before preparing the ascent to Mount Olympus. The trail was choked with low vegetation, but easy to follow. The sandals of a thousand pilgrims long dead had polished the stones to a smooth luster. I walked through the morning ever higher. By noon I could see the ocean spreading away to the west. A wind whipped up the breakers and gave me the impression of a great blue quilt laced with white feathers. I rested for a time and took some more fruit and a swig from my canteen.
The sun was setting on the horizon when I finally ascended the summit. Apollo had left a patchwork of red and gray on the loom of the sky. The temple rose up before me. It was clearly not built for mortals. The great doorway to the building rose to the height of three ordinary men. This was a place for giants. Did the Olympians still reside here? The pythoness had said that the gods were asleep. But where?
I made my way to the door of the temple. I put my hand on a large brass ring above my head and gave the door a pull. The portal gave way easily, catching me off guard, and sending me stumbling backwards. I caught myself before falling over a boulder and into a thicket of spiny cactus. Now, how does one announce himself before an assembly of gods? The voice of the witch whispered in my ear, "Go forth, my son, and know that the blood of Olympus flows in your veins. Be bold and demand your birthright."
I stepped forward and found myself in the great hall. It was empty except for the thrones of cut stone spread in a semi-circle around an empty fire pit. "Announce yourself," said the witch in my ear.
"Rise Olympus!" I called at the top of my lungs. "It is I, the fire-eyed poet, come to claim my birthright. Wake yourself, Zeus, Father of Heaven, your son demands an audience. Rise, Hera, my stepmother and Queen of Olympus, I have come to plead with you. Where is Hermes? I need your counsel, my cousin. Your words will lend strength to my petition. Hercules, my elder brother, wake up, come greet your little brother. Where is Aphrodite, Goddess of Love? Come forth my sister, for I am here to speak of love. Where is Eros? Where Apollo? Why does Hestia not guard the sacred hearth? Hephaetus wake and fire the forge of lust and love. I come seeking audience with Olympus!"
"Who dares disturb the slumber of Olympians?" came a voice like low thunder reverberating across the horizon.
I staggered back on my heels as the giants came forward into the great hall. Each was easily double my height and three times my mass. I suddenly felt small like a child. They peered at me with the indifference of a lion regarding a mouse.
"I need a drink," said Dionysis to no one in particular.
"You’ll get drunk," said Hera with a sneer.
"I’m always drunk," quipped the god of the vine, "it’s my prerogative, you know."
"Shut up," said Hera.
"Oh, give him a drink," said Apollo. "Otherwise, we’ll have to listen to his whining
"Yes, wine would be just fine," said Dionysis by way of a pun.
"How would you like a spear in the ear?" barked the god of war. "I know what you’ve been doing. You’ve been sleeping with my sister again."
"Oh, pooh," answered the other with an effeminate lilt in his voice. "That was Eros’s doing. I am completely innocent."
"Liar," growled the warrior. "I shall put you on a skewer and roast your balls over the hearth. Then I’ll feed you to my dogs."
"Silence!" roared Zeus.
"You all give me a headache," said Hera. "Now what do we have here in front of us? Hmmm, it appears to be a mortal. That is if it’s a man at all. Kind of puny don’t you think? Let’s have Zeus lash him to a lightning bolt and pitch him toward the setting sun."
Zeus looked me up and down before he spoke, "not one of mine, dear queen, no resemblance at all. At least I don’t remember him."
"And how would you know, dear philanderer husband of mine?" said Hera.
"The fruit of your loins is spread from sea to sea. You couldn’t possibly recognize them all; much less know their names. Let the mortal speak. I could use some amusement. "
"Very well," said Zeus. "Well, mortal, have you come here to embarrass me in front of family, or do you have something to say?"
"Father, you know I am your son," I began. "It is the fire in my eyes you see that confirms my lineage. I am the youngest of the family, and the only one who still walks the earth willingly. Mankind has forgotten you. Your priestess, the pythoness, is gone to Hades. There are none left to make sacrifice in your temple. But I would offer you a pact, if you would hear me out?"
"Go on," said Zeus with a non-committal shrug.
"Father, I seek a woman. She is so beautiful that you would think her a child of heaven. If I could be joined with her, the two of us will rebuild your temple. Together we will remind humanity of your intentions for our future. Men can become god-like if only they will try. Give me the woman, and I will start a new race to honor the old ways."
"What is so important about this woman?" said Hera with obvious disdain in her voice. "You are a flea. Why should I consider your small ambitions? Answer me, little man; tell me of your love for this woman. What do you mortals know of love?"
"Dearest stepmother, I will tell you about this woman. I have seen her in the Forest of Artemis. Her hair is radiant like red-gold flax shining in the sun. In her eyes is the fire of Olympus, deep and smoldering like the hearth of Hestia. Her mouth is warm, but succulent like a ripe plum spiced with cloves. Her shoulders are smooth and supple. On her back she carries the mark of the phoenix. Yes, it is a promise of rebirth, a perfect symbol for motherhood. And what can I say of her breasts? It is a place where a man can sleep and dream tender thoughts of love. I would have her mind, body, and soul. Together our love will show the race of men a thing or two. Do you know the power of two joined as one? Can I speak of Eros? Can I speak of how I will love her? No, for even gods will blush. Or would you like a hint? Should I tell you how my tongue will dance in the forest tangle below her waist as my mouth is drawn to kiss the maiden’s rose? Would you like to hear how my lips would nuzzle the soft, pink petals, and sip her sweet nectar flowing like a fountain? And all this before we couple like thunder and lightning crashing in the heavens. "
"I told you that mortal men know nothing of love?" said Hera. "All you know is lust. I will transform your lover into a mare and have her flee before you. Let you pound out your lust alone on the barren slopes of Mount Olympus. That is a fitting judgment. Now be gone, little man, before you provoke my wrath."
"Ask your husband about lust," I responded. "It was he who fathered me on the body of a mortal woman. Do you not see that I am part Olympian? I aspire to my birthright. I have powerful magic of my own. I shall transform myself into a stallion and pursue the mare. My love will give me wings to follow her to the Pillars of Hercules and back again. My strength will be greater than even Pegasus, and my endurance will outlast the wind. Such is the power of love. You cannot stop me, you bitch, the stallion will have his mare."
Hera only laughed: "If you try to mount the mare, I will transform your mistress into a wild Bacchante with fangs and talons to tear your flesh. Nothing would please me more than to see you ripped to pieces. You will be fodder for my crows."
"That will not stop me, Queen of Olympus, I will turn myself into a Minotaur and carry off my priestess to your temple hall where she will spread herself willingly before me. I will pin her legs behind her and bull her on your altar. Let her claws rake my back; it will only stoke my lust. I will place both hands behind her rump and pull her even closer. Let her fangs bite deep into the thick muscles of my neck; it will only drive me deeper. And when the two of us are ready to release you will hear her wild cry of passion. The bellowing of the Minotaur will reverberate across mountain peaks and reach your throne on high Olympus. The effort of our coupling will soak your altar like a waterfall and leave your temple steps slick with morning dew. Let the heavy musk of two mortals joined as one perfume the temple like rare imported incense. The priestess will consecrate your sanctuary with soft sobs and plaintive moans for more."
Hera’s eyes burned with malice as she spoke. "I tire of you mortal man. You are too clever by half. I will turn your lover into a mountain stream and summon my brother, Neptune, to carry her off to the bottom of the sea. Then I will destroy you. My birds of prey will rend your flesh and carry off the bits to feed their brood in high mountain aeries where mortals cannot go."
I met Hera’s gaze with mine and saw her flinch as I continued, "Stepmother, you cannot stop me. I will cast my spells again and turn myself into a great trireme to plow the ocean waters. The wind will propel me toward my lover on a sail lashed to a great mast of polished timber, tall and rigid, and hard as the cedar trees of far off Lebanon. My mistress with wine-dark lips will kiss the prow and draw her lover onward. She will pull me into a secret cove where I shall rest within her. If Neptune should send a storm surge then so much the better. He will provide us with renewed pleasure on waves that ebb and flow. We will pitch together slow at first, letting our passion build with the storm. And when we crash together it will be like the waves that pound the shores of Naxos. I will erupt as a mighty geyser and drench my lover like sea foam that falls upon a rocky shore. And then I shall have her back. The two storm-tossed lovers will lay naked on a beach of soft, white sand. We will breath together while the storm recedes on a rhythm of two heartbeats joined as one. I will thank her with gentle kisses on her eyes, mouth and neck. I will sleep with my arms bound around her waist as she pulls my mouth gently toward her breast. "
"Destroy him!" screamed the Queen of Olympus as she clawed at her face and stormed from the temple. I could still hear her wrath as she whipped her chariot horses and fled the mountain peak.
Zeus looked at me with a slight smirk on his face. "Little mortal," he said, "I favor your petition, but you have provoked my queen. It is I who must face her anger when she returns. I am sorry, but I must pitch you off this mountain top and give you to my brother, Hades."
"Father," said a soft voice from the shadows. A slight figure in purple robes emerged from behind a pillar. The beauty of that face held me transfixed. I could plead my case no more. "Father, I propose one more test. If the mortal can answer my question, you shall give him one request."
"Dear child, Aphrodite, you are always the one to take the lover’s side," said Zeus. "What question do you have? Will it be a fair test, enough to assuage the Queen of Heaven should the mortal answer rightly?"
"Yes, father. It is a question few mortal men can answer. Will you allow him to ponder and maybe save his life?"
"Very well," said Zeus. "Your petition is granted. Ask him the question that few mortal man can answer."
The goddess of love took a step forward and made an incantation to loosen my tongue. "Now little man, answer me this, to seduce a woman in love, what part of her anatomy is most sensitive to your ministrations?"
"I know the answer to your question," said I, "because my lady has instructed me well. You seek to trick me in the manner of Eros, but I know what you are looking for. It is the mind that is most important. Yes, to seduce a woman in love, you must stimulate her mind."
My answer was greeted by a howl of rage from a far off mountain peak. Hera had heard my answer from a distance. I was spared and would have my one request. Aphrodite flashed a smile. Zeus opened wide his eyes as the other Olympians nodded their assent.
"What will you have as your reward?" asked the king.
"I am a mortal and doomed to die. I ask of you only one boon; give me a normal lifespan with my ladylove. Let us age together for as long as the two of us might last. And when death comes at last with his clammy embrace, let the two of us expire as one. Let me take my lover’s last breath upon my lips, and she mine. And when we are cold and stiff, pluck out our eyes and hang them in the heavens. Make of us a pair of stars so that we might gaze back upon the Earth."
"And what shall mortal men call these new stars hung in the heavens?" asked the King of Olympus.
"We shall be a new constellation," said I. "We shall be known as ‘The Lovers.’"
Private Dancer
by Lil' Eve
itspk@aol.com
rivate dancer from my dreams,
touching all of my heart’s themes….
Little body becomes free
swaying there in front of me.
Moving slowly to the sounds,
touching all her gentle mounds….
There before me all in white, her
hands lost in passion’s flight.
Gentle fingers mingle
with soft hair,
in and out and here and there.
Those dark eyes intense with need,
and my body swells with love and seed.
Little private dancer from my dreams,
she is this and more it seems….
A little girl curled in my lap,
this dancer at my heart…..tap, tap.
photo provided by author
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The Visit
By Modeste Balthus
balthus@guillermobosch.com
he door to Brian's insurance office suddenly swung open, framing within its entrance a petite form, gloved snugly in a figure-hugging dress of shimmering white lycra. He gasped in utter disbelief, recognizing her immediately. "No, it can't be her, it can't be Modeste from the Frangipani Grove of his fantasies. I've been working too hard....my eyes are playing tricks on me. It must be the stress and exhaustion of all those late nights in the office he despaired. But, try as he might, he could not blink away that vision in dazzling white against the copper tone of her skin. "Had she come to soothe his battle-weary spirit he wondered, gazing momentarily at the pile of work on his desk, sheaves of paper, thick training manuals and the lurid glare of a computer screen. Without words between them, their eyes measured each other and he watched curiously as she ambled seductively to the couch facing his desk, an enigmatic smile upon her face. Modeste felt the weight of his stare as his mind continued to challenge, 'It can't be her, she's thousands of miles away, basking naked in the secluded moss-covered rocks beneath the canopy of her haunted frangipani grove. She started to approach him and he sank, defeated, into the heavily padded leather chair with his elbows resting lightly on the armrest.
Standing before him, she bent forward and planted a light kiss on his tired forehead. He closed his eyes, intoxicated by the unmistakable fragrance of her signature perfume, Vanderbilt, with its exotic base notes of patchouli, sandalwood and musk. Raising herself to her full height again, he watched as her hands, in slow, fluid movements, nonchalantly slipped the straps of her dress off her feminine shoulders. Her dark eyes smiled seductively as she peeled the clingy material past the firm mounds of her breasts, which sprang out from its confines in all its glory. Her rich brown nipples, in all their swollen magnificence, arrested his attention. He held his breath as her fingers circled one of the bloated raisin-like nub of her nipple, tracing wider and wider circles around her aureole until they reached the raised outermost defines studded by glands of arousal. He licked his lips, his unconscious hunger awakened by the succulence suggested by her fingers as she squeezed and tweaked their plumpness tantalizingly before him. Watching his response, she smiled a quiet smile of triumph as she stretched her arms up, lengthening her body like a gymnast and thrusting her chest proudly to present her femininity. Sinking back into his chair, he stared in awe at her firm golden hemispheres, her aroused nipples protruding like stupas upon smooth Ceylonese Hills.
Unable to restrain himself any longer, he sat up, and hooked his fingers into the folds of her dress, nestled snugly below the proud cones of her firm breasts, and continued to pull them down her taut midriff with measured, seductive motions. Sliding it past the gentle swell of her hips, he smiled with the realization that there was no sign of a panty and let it fall free in a heap around her slender ankles. His pupils dilated in wonderment as she stepped out of the dress she had just shed, and stood before him, proud, naked and defiant. Still seated, he drew back into his chair and scanned, with appreciation, the honey-gold contours of her nudity, the peaks, the valleys and the plains, the mysterious dark, furry patch between her tight, toned thighs. His eyes returned after their leisurely survey to her own wild-eyed gaze which arrested his attention, their dark pools brewing with a reckless passion. He was mesmerized as he continued to scan her curves. Her fingers trailed in silent submission along the path of his gaze, lingering on her breasts, the object of his unabashed attention. Modeste gently squeezed the firm resilience of her full orbs, and he gasped as her nipples grew tense like rosebuds about to burst into bloom.
He watched her slowly drift into her own world as she stood within arm's length, her feet slightly apart, her eyes closed as she continued to pleasure herself before him. Gliding her hands across the flat of her tummy, she played with the soft curls of hair on her mons, twisting and twirling the fine wisps around her index finger. Modeste shuddered a little, the loving folds of her sex filling out and pouting in expectancy. She fought to avoid touching herself there, where his eyes were riveted, wishing to savour and relish the sparks that she knew, only Brian's magic touch was capable of igniting. Besides, she knew that she would explode in a crescendo of ecstasy if she were to touch her secret folds which were wet and glistening with arousal. His eyes smiled back in quiet knowing as he watched her slip from a position of sexual power to a childlike vulnerability as she stood defeated before him, her body aroused to a point that screamed for that one touch to take her over the precipice to her orgasm.
The sight of Brian's tumescent bulge, beneath the material of his tailored pants, triggered the first trickle of her feminine nectar. He observed the crooked, pearly white path that snaked down the inner surface of her caramel coloured thighs. Positioning herself between his knees which were wide open in invitation, Modeste knelt before him in slave-like obedience. Looking deep into his sea blue eyes, she smiled and picked up his relaxed hand from the armrest, caressing it lovingly and bringing it close to her face, eager for a whiff of his natural smell. Turning his large hands in her own, she admired it for its scrubbed ruggedness and masculinity, for its pale translucence that was a stark contrast to her own duskier shade of golden brown. Her tinier fingers curled around his index finger, grasping it tight and she brought it to her lips, which closed around its tip, sucking it instinctively.
Brian watched, mesmerized, as her full, luscious, lips enjoyed his finger while her dark fawn eyes gazed longingly at him. Their bodies were now caged in an invisible erotic field of their making and the air was charged, even as the tension in their organs began to mount. She released her hold on his finger tip, her breathing by then becoming more rapid and urgent, and worked fervently on the buckle of his belt and the zipper of his pants. The quiet scream of metal followed to reveal the bulge of his manhood, coddled in white briefs. Her fingers worked feverishly, digging into his waistband. He lifted his pelvis in cooperation as she dragged both the briefs and pants down, just enough to release from its prison, the turgid stalk of his manhood. She stared, entranced at the magnificent organ, with its slick, rosy head and turgid, throbbing veins. Kneeling, she slid forward, her lips moving unerringly towards the ready head, drooling with precum and glistening temptingly before her parted lips. Poised just for a moment, he gasped when her lips closed in on the bulb of his head, quickly engulfing it in a gurgling frenzy of hungry sucking. Occasionally she would release her grip on his organ only to paint luxuriant strokes of her tongue on the tense silken-surfaced stalk of his swollen organ, flicking at the snorting little eye at the tip that oozed his essence. Her busy tongue worked in a frenzy, painting the entire spongy surface of the head until she was satiated. She then freed the massive purplish head of his penis and took a deep breath.
A sparkling web of beads of sweat glistened on her forehead and tendrils of wet curls framed her face. Her large eyes were full of an unspoken longing. Brian cupped her face in his palms, and drawing her nearer to his face, implored for one last time, 'Modeste, is it really you?' She lost herself momentarily in the ocean-blue pools of his eyes and could only manage an enigmatic smile in response, having forgotten the question. He looked deeper into the abysmal depths of her eyes and sensed the tempest beneath her still, measured composure. A sacred brew of innocence and eroticism lay like a sleeping beast within her, about to be awakened by his touch. Clasping her firmly beneath her armpits, he dragged her effortlessly towards him, and claimed her lips passionately. Her luscious, brown, body draped sensuously over Brian's rugged contours, evident even below his sober office attire. Soft, feminine curves molded into harder, unyielding lines. Her heart drummed within her chest as he lifted her higher, his lips reluctantly abandoning the kiss in search of a plump nipple. She shivered as he took the turgid offering that crowned her right breast between his lips and devoured it with relish, only to release it just as reluctantly for its twin. She was seated on his lap, straddling him on bent knees and deliciously aware of the copious secretions that were weeping from her sex and streaking his pants. Amidst her mewls and moans of urgent desire, Brian continued with his relentless ministrations on her breasts, planting wet kisses in the wake of his wandering lips. The wild pulsations in her pelvis, picked up momentum and strength and before long, she was brought over the edge again in a thunderous wave of powerful contractions.
Curling instinctively, both knees tucked close to her chest, she crumpled on her side, the tight moons of her buttocks fitting cozily into the curve of Brian's lap. He held her enclosed in the granite solidity of his arms as she shuddered and shivered in the throes of sweet release. Even as she lay trembling, his fingers slid quietly over the curve of her butt, a firm, determined digit tracing a path along the groove of the moist pleats of her sex. She bolted as it nudged against the hard, unsheathed bud of her clitoris. 'No', she screamed bolting. Brian smiled knowingly as he tightened his embrace. He had always relished this particular part of their lovemaking when she was thrown in sweet conflict, her instinctive need to escape overstimulation of an ultrasensitive clitoris and the conflicting primal need to be captured, conquered and taken. She writhed within his tightening vice-like grasp, her frenzy stimulating him into further action. His fingers continued to deftly pluck at the turgid fullness of her clit, rubbing it between his finger tips as his other hand feverishly dealt with his swollen erection, urging it towards her slightly parted labial lips. Her muscles tensed in expectancy, toes curled in and knees tucked into a curl as she felt the swollen head of his penis butting defiantly at the entrance to her womanhood.
She was lying curled on her side upon his lap and steeled herself for that divine sensation of being taken...of being penetrated and filled. Holding her hips firmly, Brian pulled the firm globes of her butt deeper into the curve of his lap, in a spooning position...like two spoons nesting, one into the other…causing the engorged head of his manhood to pop through her clenched, wet entrance. A couple of powerful thrusts brought his entire shaft into her pulsating depths and she moaned noisily as she felt his organ penetrating her to the hilt. She ground her hips backward, bucking forwards and backwards until the muscles of her tunnel hugged his impaled organ in the tightest embrace that fused their bodies.
She quieted in submission, as their bodies coiled cozily into the cocoon of the bucket of his office chair, Brian was still clothed, his erection discreetly lodged within her snug love tunnel.
They lay there waiting; waiting, listening and feeling the movements within their fused bodies, feeling their hearts pounding, their breathing growing more urgent, their energies ebbing and flowing and pooling in their loins as the tension started to mount and crest. Modeste moaned as she felt the throbbing and swelling within her, her own fluttery pulses gaining power against his overwhelming presence held firmly within. She felt weak and dizzy as they climaxed closer to the peak...until a point arrived when the throbbing became an overpowering focus of sensation for both lovers, synchronized as if to an ancient primal beat...clench, release, clench, release...like the beating of a heart, shared by twin bodies united seamlessly together in passion. And then it happened, the fall off the precipice of ecstasy; signaled by the unmistakable orgasmic tightening of their fused sex and followed by the warm gush of his semen streaming into her in strong jets. She quivered as the tension ebbed, and warm fluids escaped her in release, Modeste lay in still silence within Brian&Mac226;s loving embrace, both feeling the subsiding pulsations that lured and lulled them into a blissful slumber.
The light of the morning sun streamed in through the blinds of his office, tattooing his face with stripes of amber and waking him up with a pleasant, toasty warmth. Brian rubbed his eyes and looked around, slightly disoriented. 'Had I spent the night in the office?' he questioned. 'Was she really here with me, or was it all a dream?' he wondered,
.....even as he tucked his softened penis within the confines of his Hom underwear before zipping up his pants,......even as he noticed the sticky secretions of passion on his pants and mopped it up with tissue, and
......even as he drew his breath in to relish the unmistakable scent that was a blend of Modeste and the afternotes of Vanderbilt.
His sense of smell had always been the brighter lamp into the vaults of his memory than his vision and he knew as he stepped out into the crisp morning air that day that she had indeed paid him a visit. Her distinct scent was one he had memorized a hundred times over from his sojourns into the secret frangipani grove they both shared.
RETURN TO TOP
Still Searching for that Kinder Muse
by Terrie Leigh Relf
tlrelf@pacbell.net
he left the fur-lined mask
draped over my chair
a lipstick-smudged note
taped to my computer screen
it rambled on and on
but I stopped reading
about three-quarters of the way down
at the part that said
"we're through"
like I didn't know it was coming
I'm not stupid or anything
really
but I thought
this is it
she's the one
guess I'm not the greatest judge
so
I'm still searching
for that kinder muse
the one who will show me a good time
I really must be a handful
'cause I wore the last three out
how difficult can I be?
I mean
it's not like
I didn't learn any lessons
like be humble but stroke yourself
or be honest
but
bury truth between the lines
I know you're really out there
It's just a numbers game
I promise I won't be mean
and I'll wear that little outfit
I just bought on sale at the Crypt.
RETURN TO TOP
Confessions of CJ Parker:
God Loved His Daughter
by Sean Farragher
sfarragher@nj.rr.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com
ama burned the cross down. She handed me to the devil as ritual. She said I was the child of the devil and a Witch. My baby ass bottom was raw and my mouth was dry. I was hungry watching my mother nurse my sister. I drooled wet with stale milk. I wanted new utters. I felt my own flat invisible tits and knew tenderness.
Years later, I got wet imagining I could nurse my father. I once did. Wanting an infant, I demanding my mother to let me nurse again. I saw Mama sucking Daddy. I said Milk. I said Moo I started playing with my food and put some on my lips and blew bubbles that daddy caught. Daddy sucked my nipple breasts. Momma was not pleased.
Pissed, she made sort of a half smile and then put me to bed. I could hear them doing stuff, arguing, screaming and I would creep out and catch them hiding something and I was very upset. Later, I learned Daddy only fucked her ass. Mama didn't want any more bastard kids as she called us.
I regress.
I did it all. I found the hidden hole in the back of my mind where we all lived. Sitting on my father's lap, caught in the pain, the loneliness, when he left, I was empty. I ached and then I bled into menarche at nine. Mama ran away from home. I never saw her again.
Daddy and I did it until he died when I was 16. My Aunt came and claimed my two younger brothers and one sister. Aunty, as I called her, told me I was on my own. She didn't want me fucking her man. I missed my children as I called my siblings, but what could I do.
Years later, when lovers came in my mouth I would wash the taste away with a container of milk I kept in my purse. Sometimes the milk got sour. It tasted better that way.
I loved the curd and played with it as my tongue danced cocks. I tongued the tip of the prick and would edge the tips into the hole and when they came and got soft I would bite and suck harder until they beat me away.
Education.
I lived on my own selling my ass. I even attending HS and graduated. I had this best girl friend there. She was a petite fem. My girl friend and I explored the layers of the other's cunt and navel. We kissed for hours imagining that men not boys watched us. Tina giggled about the white haired crossing guard old enough to be her grand father. She confessed that he paid her twenty dollars for a blowjob. She also told the story of how last year her brother would pee as she watched. I made a mess copying him, but after a while I found I could almost direct the spray. When Tina told the story, I got up out of bed, half drunk and sat down, but getting into it, a smile half dashed on my face, I stood up and let the pee run down my legs. Tina cheered, and we showered, and inside the curtain drawn, she peed on my legs and belly, wetting her fingers, she reached up and rubbed her salty fingers on our lips. Falling down I sucked her and swallowed the last dregs. Standing hot kissing and tasting her sex, Tina pushed on my stomach and I let my last pee fall into her mouth.
Out of the tub we powdered and patted and drawing me down she put on her cock belt and fucked my ass. We slept after I came and finally, while I pretended to sleep, exhausted, she rubbed her cunt on my knee and came screaming. "No boy can do that," she said. I agree, and followed with "yea, but my daddy did, and I miss him."
Tina laughed. "How about your Mama," she croaked. "Fuck No, but I did watch them. Mama touched me, but only when she was drunk, and then when I was about to come, she beat me."
I met Father Tabby at a children's shelter. I wanted him. I seduced him. Eventually, after he changed, or I did, he tortured me with sexual teasing. I wanted every man and woman in the streets. I needed the madness of it, and I longed for the ache of that last scream when I started to roll my hips back and forth and buck to orgasm shrieking my god my father, daddy, fuck me blessed one." I said it just like that. No shit.
At sixteen my ass give way to my cunt. Joined to Father Tabby and God. I became male, his brother as well as a woman. In my dreams, no in reality, I grew a cock when he put his hands on my shoulders and said, "HEAL."
I was warm and hot. I could not separate fantasies. I became a line of scum on the sheets, and in a hand mirror, while I masturbated I drew the winks, closed eyes, bitten lips and contorted cheeks. I remembered how that my Woman Tabby came. When I screamed I wanted a woman, he became one. More beautiful than a Madonna, innocent, she licked me while Tabby fucked me. She told me she was the Mother of God. I called her a liar. Mothers hate God, I said. Look, I insisted, "the lines of his cum as a graph."
Drugs, Sex and Pimps
CJ had freelanced without a pimp for many years. One day I was alone again. Father Tabby left town. He told me later --transferred by his Bishop, but I did not believe him. Actually, I learned later he was busted for manufacturing Crack. He was an amazing bullshit artist as God.
Actually, I had that problem all the time. Men left me. When Sire Joseph as I called him got out of jail, I didn't take him back at first. He cried. I never saw a pimp cry.
Joseph knew CJ would take care of him. Hookers are lonely and rarely know anyone who will help them feel less apart from themselves. Joseph didn't know that CJ had turned him into the police.
Joseph dealt drugs, but didn't use them himself. CJ thought that Joseph would never get out of jail, but Joe had good lawyers and a year later he was back on the street.
THE PIMP: Back Dancers and Shimmy Shoo. (Escape from Religion)
When Father Tabby met Joseph, when Tabby returned later, he explained. "He'll stop you from the memory of our salvation.
"No, he says I can have religion any time. I told him you are my fucking Father," and he beat me. When I refused to give you up, frustrated, he finally laughed and called it the fucked up glue of religion. I told him no. That was not it. He didn't believe me.
You know I couldn't resist him. Sometimes I believed Tabby and Joe were the same person. Yes, I met the Priest first. I admitted that to the social worker. She was a good lady. She really tried to salvage my soul I told her how some truly fucked up crazy man who called himself Abel beat the shit out of me. That is another story
Joseph had dark brown skin, handsome, articulate, he had a gentle and a violent touch, but had a hard time keeping the violence and the calm separate. "I love the word, "articulate," I told Tabby when she described my pimp. "Joseph had eyes that searched inside the cataract of the Nile," I pretended to be a poet. It was temptation. I felt like I did when I was a child and wanted to touch my cunt. My father kept saying only he could do it. If I touched it, he said, I would burn in Hell.
I sometimes called Joseph "Shimmy Shoo" like he was some rock queen. He twisted my arm, and I would do get immediately wet. I did what he said willingly more than I ever did for God or you or my own cunt, Tabby. I never resisted. I just followed his lips into my pussy pie, dividing the sides like a divider from a drafting kit. I loved the prick of the fork of the point in my nipples. I loved to make my tits bleed in small puddles letting the red and pink run down into a stream and then I would suck it to clean it up.
Joseph wanted more than me. He hated hookers who just fucked like cold meat. He wanted them to sing and dance and make him merry. He made them laugh and he expected them to choke in Technicolor when he fucked their throats. After the show he took their money in the usual way and felt that grift of the act of forcing someone by trickery into giving up more than their skin. Joseph wanted to be God like Father Tabby. He demanded obedience. I laughed and did what I pleased. Of course I never challenged them, but I knew I could. I felt free that way.
When Joseph was in jail he fucked several queers in the ass. He protected one, and in return the girl made up from boy would suck him off. Sometimes it disgusted him, he would think of some Bitch while the queen sucked, and when he came, he would kick the crap out of the kid doing the job on his dick and when she smiled with blood on her tit he would find a way to make her grovel for more.
A year without a woman can turn any robust man into an ass fucker, Joe claimed. He never turned like some cons do. "I never allowed my ass to become woman. Two tough yard bird weight lifters one black and the other blue tried. They beat the crap out of him. When they had his ass up ready to roll, his pants and rep. were there in view; one of the guards in Joe's pay locked the tier down. Joe escaped that time. Joseph couldn't believe the punishment they inflicted on him and another convict thinking he had squealed. So he turned on the cops not wanting to be a rat, and got lucky with a screw, and killed him. Silence protected Joe. God protected him, I said.
Yes, I have a soft spot in my heart for pain so when Joseph told me she wanted him more to make the pain less for him and to feel what he ached in his balls. He said they contracted when he told stories. I loved the word "sensation," I told him. "Sensation" became my second favorite word. Joe told me he thought of her when he suffered. I believed him. At least it was possible. Joseph described how he wanted her under his hand pulling at his meat with her cunt. I loved his stories as I loved the God my priest created. I knew I had made a mistake when I wrote Joe in jail last year. She told herself she was curious to know how he was, but no matter how he begged, she refused to visit him.
I didn't include my street address, but Joseph found her. I couldn't resist the thud of his fist on my inner thigh or my back. I would feel the shatter of my teeth when he smacked against my head. I knew I would do what he said. I would have to convince him that I had to stop doing drugs. He used drugs and sex to control my life. Drugs brought me down, and then when I came up, before more drugs, he would make me come for hours until I had no memory except Father Tabby and Joe.
Joseph never took drugs himself before prison. Out of prison, he used them. I needed them there he said to stay sane. "Easier to get drugs in jail than on the street," he said. Just like you do. You use your ass to get what you need, or if you're lucky and a muscle man you beat people to death to get what you need."
When Tabby left I used drugs again.
The first time I fucked for money Joseph gave me some hash. The drugs helped me reach another memory.
Joe told me how he had became whore for a jailhouse pimp.
"I used my fucken ass like you."
I loved his stories and begged for more. Fuck my cunt, I insisted when he got out of jail. He refused. He never did what I wanted so I told him fuck my ass. He didn't stop. He smiled and waved his finger in my face and said "life is never that simple." CJ knew that Joseph had really turned when Joseph brought this skinny bitch over and said she was a new cunt in his stable. The cunt once had a prick, he said. He screamed at me to close the window he was cold. When I refused the "girl" got up and closed the window.
"Don't worry," She said. I am Rachel, and I like girls too."
Postoperative TS Rachel/Richard
A skinny bleached blond named Rachel (formerly Richard) was a postoperative transsexual with two clits. Dr. did it as a joke with the extra foreskin.
Rachel took her clothes off piece by part doing a suggestive dance, exposing his breasts and the scar that used to be his prick. Rachel said she was going under the knife soon to have a real cunt constructed from the lips and clits she still displayed.
I loved it. I swam in Rachel's pain and in the look on Joseph's face when he saw me fingering the woman. I turned Joseph on with my double finger fucking of the bitch.
Some times I was too lonely when I looked around room and could not see Father Tabby or Joseph, but having Rachel there, I felt better. Lifting her legs, she split them apart, and put a large dildo in her ass. Using a large hand held vibrator. Joseph discovered us at the last pulse. I expected Joe to him me when I broke into her play. Instead he got down on all fours and licked where she had peed asking not telling her to play with his hair while he swallowed. I never came harder.
Getting back to Rachel. I liked her soft scar (made up cunt) and tiny tits. I loved it when he let me suck on it. Taking drugs for breasts, when I was getting ready for the cut, he explained I couldn't get hard, but now I have this wonderful deep full feeling that my ass is my cunt and my cunt is another hole to be filled with as much shit as can be stuffed.
After a few months of fucking Joe and Rachel, Joe was arrested selling drugs. Rachel left town leaving me alone, and I missed them both. Before Rachel left she told me she was an undercover Nark. I laughed in her face.
"What weird dedication," I replied. She responded. "No it was easy. I always wanted to be fucked by G-men and now I can do it and not lose my job."
As the result of entrapment, Joe bargained the plea down to two years (served ten months).
While Joe was in jail, I got lost in the streets. No more pimps. No protection. It was hard. Had to stay out of the city. Work the bridge and tunnels. Pimps there too, but not as organized and besides I was skinny, and looked dead from the crack.
Father Tabby found me again just in time. I knew it. I wanted to sleep, and he let me. He protected me.
Of course, I knew what he wanted. Salvation, he called it. We all have our games to play, and I realized he was a good man. He did get me off drugs, and then Joe got out of jail on parole.
Father Tabby was the first man made me come with baby Jesus. Tabby did it just like my Daddy did when I was a girl. I never faked it for Daddy or Jesus. Fun to know you hold the cards.
Half the time or more I faked it for my pimp. Joseph believed he was such a stud When he turned queer I never had to fake it. Life is funny, right?
CJ told Rachel just before the pimp and the TS Honey ran away, "if you know what is best, you never tell the truth about the times you come or not. Fake it and do. Never tell the truth. If you tell anyone you lied. They will never take your shit. "Yea, I know," I told her, "you cannot fool a bitch."
Before Father Tabby returned I worked with another woman as a show for Johns. Once, when alone, in bed with this silky black woman with small breasts and long legs, she came, as the woman sucked her off. She did it over and over and I came every time. I didn't know it but the woman was a man.
CJ thought she had turned but then I Tabby came back, and he told me that I was his daughter. Of course, I was not, but I believed him. When I looked in his eyes I saw my father diddling my bare sex before I sucked him off.
Joseph became what I never wanted but couldn't resist. I discovered that I, Daddy's little girl, had a hardon for God.
One day, Joe returned, drunk. He got in Joseph's face, and told him to leave me the fuck (his exact words) or he would report him. Joseph didn't give a shit and reached out to grab Tabby. There was nothing there: just space. Joseph freaked. He ran from the room clawing at the blood that stained his arm.
Father Tabby explained that it was a mind game. "Forget it," he said.
I knew differently. One night, when he came in my mouth, I reached up, my mouth was sucking, playing with intangible balls, and then the air hit my mouth, and breath, and longing, and I came with my fingers furiously tangled in my clit, and Father Tabby smiling, his collar on the table, his cock as long as a snake, and I was cut up into little pieces on his plate, as Eucharist. When I woke up my breasts were aching with milk. I had not given birth. Father sucked and the dreams continued for years.
I loved how Tabby came in my mouth. It leaked, and drifted down my chin on my breasts, and Tabby reached down and played with my hair like Mother did, and I reached up and breasts covered. I became a mewling infant at his breast. Later, I attended Mass, and given the Eucharist, I tasted the blood. Tabby said it was real. I didn't ask him how he knew, but he did say, "God loved his daughter.
RETURN TO TOP
Wonderful Sex
by Sean Farragher
sfarragher@nj.rr.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com
do not pretend.
I am the end of end.
I am the cover and closed
we are held in place
to be discovered.
There is more to know
in this, the edge.
We are ghosts
in a virtual room
but ghosts live.
Words live longer
than movements
of letters on glass.
In the margin
I watch music strip
naked to gather
in beds of our fuck;
I play my flute
I am your notes.
Here you make love
I feel your hands close.
on your pale skin.
to anticipate end.
I am your voyeur
in the mirror; my eyes
are yours blinded
by release; I am
voyeur in the signs
written down in
magenta- pink lipstick
on underside of thighs.
I am your lovely skin.
I do not pretend.
RETURN TO TOP
© 2003 by guillermobosch.com