by Guillermo Bosch
bosch@guillermobosch.com
auce*Box is back! After a much-needed summer hiatus. Why much-needed? Well, for one thing, I finished my new novella, "The Passion of Muhammad Shakir" which tells the story of an Iraqi who finds himself a wounded prisoner in Abu Ghraib but he has no memory of why is there. As he suffers through 10 days of sexual abuse, he has ten nights of visions (memories) which gradually reveal his real life's story and how he ended up in Abu Ghraib.The novella is not meant to be a documentary. It is more a fable, a psychological/erotic/political fable, the purpose of which is to try and give the reader a greater understanding of why America is hated and why people in other lands are drawn to violent resistance. Perhaps an excerpt in the next issue?The other reason is that my beautiful Austrian wife left me, divorced me and ran off to live in Europe. A humorous version of our summer can be read below. In truth, she is still very much alive and I miss her terribly. But so life goes.
Do I need a third reason? No. But I have not exactly been upbeat about the ongoing war and the pathetic election campaign. But then, as I have often remarked, we get what we deserve.
So...is that what happened to me? Did I get what I deserved?
Whatever, we're back. Send us your stories and poems and thoughts. You are Sauce*Box and Sauce*Box is here for you.
Guillermo Bosch
Der Unglücksfall
by Guillermo Bosch
bosch@guillermobosch.com
hen she returned from Berlin after six weeks of incredible sex with a young unemployed East German bricklayer who lived off the dole while somehow managing lucrative real estate hustles, Alexandra had killing on her mind: a jar of thick, sweet homemade preserves for her diabetic husband's fifty-ninth birthday gift, and a warm weather cold to aggravate his chronic bronchitis. He survived the sugar, but the cold hung on throughout the summer and nearly did him in.
His survival annoyed her, so during the third week of August, Alexandra dragged him to the beach. The air was hot. The ocean was cold. He didn't want to go into the water. She grabbed his hand and told him they should run together through the towering waves crashing onto the beach. Just like in the movies. What could he say? She was so beautiful.
The first wave crushed him into the sand. The second filled his ears and nose with salt water. He wanted to leave the ocean, but she pulled off the top of her bathing suit and placed his hands on her large, soft breasts. She whispered into his ear. "I love the ocean. I love to get wet on you," her fluency marred only by her use of the wrong preposition.
Or did she mean what she said? He felt her hand grope his hardening penis, and he did love her breasts. He squeezed her nipples just as another huge wave hit the beach and tumbled him into the undertow.
He was drowning. Swallowing the sea. Pulled by the current. He was barely able to raise his hand in the air. But the lifeguard did see him. No thanks to Alexandra who had left the ocean and was trying to keep the lifeguard's baby blue eyes focused on her.
The lifeguard had said: "Are you with anybody?"
And she had said: "Not anymore."
But the lifeguard saw a man's hand waving just above the crest of another wave and he said: "We'll talk later. Someone is drowning," and Alexandra was terribly disappointed as the lifeguard grabbed his red float and ran into the ocean to save the man she did not want to see ever again.
He appeared exhausted and weak, ready to collapse, as they walked back to their beach house. She smiled and held his hand. She said: "It was so sexy to watch you get mouth-to-mouth against the lifeguard." Those damn prepositions.
Inside the house she smiled some more took off her cloths in front of him and invited him into the shower. He joined her and so she soaped his back, rubbed his shoulders, stroked his penis. He suckled her breasts.
Later, in bed Alexandra spread her legs wide as she lay on the edge of the mattress touching herself to arouse his then flaccid penis to grow again and perhaps send the blood rushing through his sagging body toward his groin through an overworked valve in his heart, through an artery clogged to breaking, through a prostate ripe for cancer, trying in every way possible to hasten his hoped for imminent demise. But, although he stood next to their bed gazing down on her, breathing heavily and sweating profusely, and, although his skin turned a distinctly grayish color and his eyes were bloodshot, he somehow managed to grow hard and thick and large and so there was nothing to be done accept bring him inside her, make him pump like the oil wells that dot the Baldwin Hills and hope for the best. But he stayed hard like that for one hour and forty-three minutes without any further signs of cardiac distress, so she faked an orgasm, got out of bed, slapped a lesbian porno DVD in the player and let him finish himself off while she took another shower. Alone…so she could wash her hair, shave her legs and mons, luxuriate in the hot water and dream of her nights with the bricklayer and the day her husband would finally die.
She tried wine and cigarettes. That evening she served a bottle, or was it two, of a Napa Valley Merlot with lard dumplings, well marbled boiled beef, red cabbage drenched in brown sugar and strudel – apple, cheese or plum – with an excellent twenty-year-old Sonoma port.
He said: "I never knew you were such a good cook."
She said: "I remembered a few things. From my Grossmutter."
"The one with four husbands?"
"Ja. That one." She leaned back in her chair and stretched, emphasizing her figure. "I would like a cigarette. Would you like a cigarette?"
"Sure," he said, "what harm could one cigarette do?"
Alexandra rolled fat unfiltered splits of black tobacco. One cigarette became two, three, four. He coughed. He wheezed. He gasped. Another glass of port dulled the pain in his chest. Yet another suppressed his cough reflex. A third had him tearing off her red silk Gap t-shirt and her thigh-high faux leather mini, her Victoria Secret push-up bra and the Hello Kitty thong underwear she bought for a one euro out of a sale bin in an Eastern German supermarket.
They sprawled on the cold hard floor. His head was bouncing off the terra cotta Mexican tiles. Her breasts were bouncing to and fro on her chest. His aching back screamed for relief as she road him like she road the mechanical bull down at the Union Station Steak House on the night before she left for Berlin. She wanted to break him down. She wanted to permanently tame this gnarly bucking animal thrusting his heavily veined organ up between her smooth, toned, sculpted long, lean legs. But he was a feral beast dedicated to running free who would never die at the waterhole. And so she rolled away exhausted before he stopped bucking, and she had to complete their coupling with a hand job lubricated by the lard from a dumpling which had fallen onto the floor during dinner.
"Thanks," he said before he passed out on the tiles.
She took the opportunity to make a cell call. Long distance. To Eastern Germany. And she giggled and sighed while her husband snored. She told the bricklayer she was bored, but she couldn't come back until she completed her killing spree. So he whispered a few Sex machen Worte to hold her in lust until they could be together again. And she came under linden trees searching for mushrooms eating thick, sweet berry jam.
As the summer faded toward fall, Alexandra grew desperate. The man simply would not die. If anything, he grew stronger and more aggressive, more appreciative but more demanding. He wanted her 24/7 and she wanted him -0/-0. Something had to give and she was determined it wasn't going to be Alexandra.
Since ancient times, the Gods have always smiled on great beauty, and so they favored Alexandra on the assumption she would later favor them with at least a quick roll in the clouds where they could release a thunderbolt or two. She prayed for heat. And so the Gods delivered. They sent the heat.
Now, it never gets hot at the beach. Never. But, yes, never say never. It was hot. Really hot. How hot? Let's not go there. Suffice to say the husband was sweating even more than normal. His craving faded. His cupidity subsided. He barely moved and he spoke not a word. Alexandra was free of him, and convinced the end days were near. She set up a tent on the balcony to protect herself from the sun and talked for hours on her cell. Heat on heat. It felt sweet, and neat to be bis über die Ohren verliebt sein again. And so she literally put her head over her heels and decided sex felt really good that way too.
A new plot hatched. They would go running together. In the heat. "To get you up to shape," she told him.
"Do you think that's wise?" he asked.
"Ja, ja," she said as she stripped down in front of him to give him a great shot of her delicious bottom and shaved mons as she changed into her micro mesh running shorts and sports bra. He tried to touch her, but she pulled away from him. She smiled. "Ah, so, let's go, mein Schatz."
He felt ridiculous. He looked ridiculous. He was ridiculous. Her long powerful strides. His short choppy steps.
She built up a one hundred meter lead before she stopped to rest. She leaned over. Short of breath. Something wasn't right. She felt lightheaded, disoriented. She saw him in the distance, still moving toward her. Slowly. But moving. "Ich werde das nicht ertragen. I cannot let him catch up over me," she gasped. Even in crisis she couldn't get the words quite right.
He saw her fall. He approached her. There she was, sprawled on the path, a perspiration varnish made her skin glisten, her shorts rode up between her cheeks, her wet-from-sweat bra revealed extended nipples.
But her eyes were dull. Her breathing short. Her pulse weak. She was, however, alive. Not dead. Time to call 911.
They took her to the Little Company of Mary Hospital. Alexandra with the nuns. If only they knew her secret mission, the nuns might have let her go right then and there. But they did their best, the Gods did the rest and soon she was back with the living.
"Das kotzt mich an!" she muttered to herself, and she was, in fact, really pissed. "Why me? I am young and beautiful and strong. He is old and ugly and weak. But he grows stronger and I… Keineswegs! If we're both meant to go, he's going first."
The young, handsome Indian doctor who cared for her told Alexandra to rest and take it easy. She smiled sweetly and replied that she would "take it any way I can get it." Like most immigrants, the doctor's command of American slang lagged far behind Alexandra's and so her flirtation was lost on him. She considered a more direct approach. Her mind was willing, but her heart was weak. So she settled for an appreciation of his smooth dark skin and his long narrow fingers when he examined her, touching her here and then touching her there.
The nuns suggested she might try prayer, or at least thoughtful meditation. She considered their suggestion and tried meditation but she couldn't shut out her random subconscious thoughts which strayed to the various methods of assassination employed by radical Austrian mystics fighting against the Caliph in the 12th and 13th centuries. These fantasies only increased her lust and her blood pressure jumped to a near fatal 193/117. So she focused on simple murder, her blood pressure dropped back to 130/84 and a certain calm descended upon her restless nature. Alexandra knew her task. It must be completed.
She left The Little Company of Mary on the day the heat broke and the on-shore breezes returned. She decided his death had to be by car. His pride. His joy. That little red monster that did 0 to 60 in under five seconds. Alexandra hated that car almost as much as she hated him. Now she would get rid of both. But what to do?
She called Berlin. The bricklayer was mechanical. He would know. "…ein tödlicher Unfall. It had to be fatal." But he didn't know cars. He was only good at laying…bricks.
What to do, what to do? She put on her tightest blue jeans and a bare midriff lacy thing, She had dropped a few more pounds in the hospital, but her breasts were still full and her bottom round. She looked good. Certainly good enough for Teddy, the one-eyed, snaggle-toothed mechanic who had rebuilt her white BMW 2002 coupe so it looked new and ran as smooth as the soft skin of her underbelly. Men. Teddy would know what to do.
And he did. Not at first. He was working on a battered Saab convertible. He hemmed and hawed. He considered this and then considered that. Alexandra leaned over the hood to give him a better view of her. He had an idea. He stepped back from the Saab. He walked around to her side of the car and brushed against her jeans. He had a better idea. She backed into him and swayed slowly left and right. Teddy was finally inspired.
On the evening of the first day of the Autumnal Equinox, the smog enhanced sunset was especially brilliant orange-purple-and-red beautiful. Alexandra deemed it a good day to die. But not for her. For him.
The car was prepared. Washed, waxed and polished. Sitting in the driveway.
She said: "You seem tense. Why don't you go for a drive, mein Schatz?"
"I will," he said. "wanna' come along?"
"Nein," she said. "You go on alone. I will be ready for you when you get back." She actually winked when she said that. No shame at all.
She walked him out the door and stood in front of the car to wave good-bye. For the last time. She pursed her lips and blew him a kiss. He started the engine, slipped the shift into reverse and the little car leapt forward at full speed (0 to 60 in less than five) crushing Alexandra against the garage door.
" Weshalb?" she said as blood trickled down her chin. "Why me?"
And those were the last words she spoke on this earth. The husband cried for three days and three nights. He wore his beige jacket and chinos to her funeral because he didn't own a black suit. The bricklayer went back to laying his bricks. And Alexandra left, as they say, to a better place where the Gods, as they had planned, were free to have their way with her.
Of such willfulness are small tragedies concocted.
3 Poems
by Alison Eastley
lucrezia11@hotmail.com
Blue Eye Shadow And A Lactating Breast
by Alison Eastley
n afternoons when he is my languorous
androgyne and Venus opens her beauty case
we play with pale bright shades.
The creamy texture of lipstick creates impatient
images the way I slowly suck his fingers,
the way I make him wait to taste
intertwining tongues the color of groovy
purple grapes from that wine. Perhaps
our mouths are meant to be open.
I see the way he smiles when he blushes
smooth baby blue onto my lids. How irrestistible
this experiment is, almost as if this day
is milky dew when his glass spills
and droplets fall from his pierced left nipple
to the back of my aching throat.
Lucrezia Smiles In The Dark
by Alison Eastley
ound and gagged, tormented hips shimmy
as the idol of the Vatican hangs upside-down
splitting her Renaissance sides until tears
wet her unblemished face when she watches
Ophelia pretending to drown in the Waterhouse picture
framed by the girl in the coffin of her room.
Empty aluminum cans and cigarette butts
cram bowls of broken shells corrupting the solitude
sliding under the locked doors of swollen eyelids
shut as furious hands slip between the space dreaming
the slap of his cock presses against the creamy
paleness of her ass rising in the fugitive dark.
Diaphanous Daze
by Alison Eastley
ight after night the moon trembles
between his foreskin peeled back
from teeth so that all I see is the
translucent glow of stretched skin.
I imagine an apparition of my unevil
twin partaking in that act you may
remember the way my head bobbed
up and down, or the gracefulness
of my neck, maybe the way the hallway
light cast shadows on the bedroom wall.
There always seemed to be too many
arms and legs, almost as if there were four
of us, or more, and this makes me think
tonight I know you're with her.
Tales of the Crimson Succubus:
Corrupter of Men
By Carmine
carmine@cybermesa.com
or several moons had Draco stood before Crimson Succubus. To demonstrate his vitality, he had allowed myriad maids to taste his member, which despite the most experienced tongue refused to erupt.
Pushing aside a score of maids whose tongues grew flaccid from exhaustion, Succubus knelt before the warrior. Eyes locked on his, she flicked her lingua relentlessly. A singular tear escaped her left eye as she opened wide and took his length.
Draco exploded, his screams shaking the court's rafters. "Corrupt a man through your emotive charms and he will fall," Succubus muttered as she crawled back to her throne.
Mother of God
by Dee Rimbaud
x-generation@ntlworld.com
ary knew neither the pleasure nor the pain of sex,
But she understood the terror of being visited by angels
And the more straightforward agonies of childbirth.
In this way, she is, at the same time,
Elevated above us, and yet, still one of us.
At least, that is what I’ve been led to believe.
This Mary, before me and above me,
With her inscrutable plaster face
Not exactly smiling down on me
Could only have been carved by a man:
A man with his dreams of sacrifice
And the unemotional purity of duty;
A monk or a priest, perhaps,
But certainly not a man who understood women.
I want to understand her, this mother of God,
For all our children are holy in some way, aren’t they?
I want to know what she felt:
Not the mythical immaculate virgin,
But the real flesh and guts woman,
With her milk stained tunics
And work worn hands.
I want to know the Mary who copulated,
Not with angels, but with her man.
Did she lie back like the sacrificial lamb,
A vessel, bravely thinking of Jerusalem?
Or was she something more?
This mother of the Christ-child
And all his sisters and brothers?
For all her periods and pregnancies,
Did she get to understand the rhythm of the Earth?
Did she ever ride on top, a Goddess,
Enraptured with her own sweet self?
There are no marks, no scars on her plaster skin,
No clues, but if this Mary could speak,
She would say naught of her self
But speak only of other women’s sorrows,
For she has seen
A passing procession of womanhood
Of all ages, of all races, before her
And she has heard every story
That ever a woman could have told.
I behold her stony, silent eyes.
They look down upon me, upon my pram
With its cargo of sleepy flesh:
My baby, with her colic and pain;
My off-spring, my offering
With her sad-eyed, unknowing yearning
For a father who is as distant
As a Holy Ghost.
I offer up my pain, my prayers, my doubts
As a myriad have done before me,
Hoping that the Mary who bled milk and tears,
The Mary who worked the home and the fields,
Will somehow be able to hear me.
Painted Horses
by A.J. Heard
SainteSauvagesse@aol.com
nce I said had always wanted to fuck on a rocking horse. I didn't know you'd work at it till you could make it a reality.
I had no idea what you were up to when you asked me to meet you after hours, at the mall where your shop was located. You let me in the side door scanning my ankle length, black leather coat and ask, "Did you follow all my instructions?"
"Of course. When would I not?"
I answered as I anticipate the treats in store for me. A small smile on your lips, you take from my pocket the mask you directed me to purchase and cover my eyes.
"OK. Can you see anything?" you ask as I stand before you nipples peeking while hot currents sizzle in my belly. I answer you, breathing deeply to steady myself, "No. Everything is black. I can’t see anything at all."
"Good. Unbutton your coat and follow. I will lead you."
I do as you ask. Hot sparks curl through my stomach as I walk through the mall nearly naked and blindfolded. Unhesitatingly I follow where you are leading, your hand on my arm. In my mind I can see my opened coat a frame for my body, lusciously curved, dark skinned. The wispy blood red bra cups my substantial breasts while the matching thong palms plump, damp warmth.
My clicking stiletto heeled steps echo as I walk next to you in the black thigh high boots you bought me for on our last anniversary, while the garnet pendant, a birthday present, lies against my throat, hanging from a black velvet choker.
I can smell the chocolate as we pass the candy store, the leather as we pass that indulgently expensive shoe store. Surely you had forgotten about that desire of mine, mentioned so casually months before.
You stop, causing me to stumble throwing my hair partially over my face. You step away, which further unbalances and confuses me. I fall forward to my hands and knees trying to regain my balance and hear the sharp snapping of a camera shutter. The sound continues as I straighten throwing my head back tossing my hair from my face. I am not sure where we were going or what you have planned but the unexpected addition of a camera increases my heat, and makes me feel exceptionally inhibited.
I never know what you will come up with when our loving gets to be too predictable and mundane. I love that it doesn’t matter that my hair is now streaked with silver, my once slender waist has thickened, or that my skin though still silken soft to the touch, now looks like fine crepe where once it favored a juicy plum. You still treat me with the same love, joy and excitement as when we first met so many years ago. I love these little rituals we have. It has made our long-standing relationship stay as exciting as the first week we were together.
Finally you stop and gently help me up onto a platform. I can feel that we are somehow closed-in as with your urging I climb astride a smooth, hard structure, and realize we are at the center of the mall. We are at the giant carousel with all its many wooden horses painted as colorfully as a rainbow.
Settling me onto the broad back of one of my favorites you hold my shoulder with one hand, the other placed flat against the center of my back for balance. Pushing me back until I lay along the sturdy neck of my gallant wooden steed you urge me to move my hands down along its sides instructing me "Hold onto the saddle rings, here and here."
The saddle rings appear to be placed for just such support. As you maneuver my feet into the stirrup like rings at the other end of the saddle, I feel so incredibly licentious it is difficult for me to lie there as you go about your task. Your warm hand stroking my upper thigh as you move over to secure my right foot makes me feel antsy, I can barely wait for you to strip me naked. Now I hear that soft clicking and my juices began to ooze at the thought of pictures to be poured over later. Suddenly I realize we are not alone. The thought of some faceless stranger watching our sex play, taking pictures, looking unrestrained at my body is so hot I come with a small cry, hips bucking.
Gradually my breath returns to normal and slowly you undo the clasp at the front of my gossamer bra teasingly expose one breast to the rhythm of more camera clicking. I am so disappointed when you stop, it is a physical sensation, yet so very excited knowing I am being watched by you and the stranger. Knowing he? she? is standing quite close. Knowing he or she is taking pictures even between my legs. I can feel my nipples straining and hard against the cool kiss of air. I want you to see me--touch me. I want to feel your hands sculpt my flesh with desire; I want this knowing it will be photographed for our future enjoyment.
My feet secured, you slide your hand up my thigh, and rest it on my soft belly, then cup my breast, your thumb teasing the aching nipple makes me cry out and arch my hips. I am already wet and fragrant, my body moving sensuously as I wait impatiently for more of you. "Be still and wait" you tell me as you move away.
The separation from your warmth starts to feel like hours. Suddenly the horse under me glides upwards and back down while gently rocking back and forth. I hold on tightly, disoriented for a moment by the unexpected movement and my state of blindness—I can hear the frantic clicking of the camera, and then I feel you drawing near once more. I am taken by a, stronger spasm of want. Breathlessly I wait for your touch, but you withhold it, being content for the moment to feast your eyes upon my body. They tiny thong I wear has become soaked from my juices, as I wait knowing you are aware of my rising heat and the thought that you are hard from watching me. Once more wantonness shoots through me eliciting a moan and a flexing of hip, from excitement and the pain of aching for your most intimate kiss.
Just when I think I will have to scream to release the mounting pressure, you lay your hand in that tender valley between my hip and pubic mound; swollen and sensitive with skin pulled tight. I come again in a roiling wave, releasing a firestorm of desire. Hurriedly, almost roughly you push my coat down my shoulders and arms bunching it under the small of my back, and command me to keep hold of the rings which forces my hips up to meet your thrusting fingers. I want you so much I feel split in pieces by the heat of your fingers and the thought of your cock forcing its way between my swollen lips, knowing it will all be on film for me to watch later; to replay this exquisite excitement over and over adding to the excitement of the precise moment.
You hold me in place, your large hand firmly against my belly, your fingers playing in my syrupy liquid. The movements of the carousel horse is a counterpoint to your finger dance; I moan my approval of your tactics.
In my imagination, I look down my chest and I can see my breasts -- jutting forth from the open cups, the red slash of band that circles the bottom half of them a sensual contrast against my chocolate colored mounds, with their blackberries like nipples as my body undulates in harmony with the movements of the carousel horse. I can't get the thought of you, head bent sucking at them like a hungry child, out of my mind. I come for a third time, crying out to God, wanting to feel you strong and deep inside of me.
Did I mention I am a greedy old woman, greedy for more of you--always, forever?
Impatiently I listen as you slowly strip off your clothes. You mount the horse not stopping to remove the rest of my clothing and I am surprised, but not disappointed. Anything that gives you pleasure only increases my own. Behind my blindfold I wait wanting to watch your face as your glances stroke my breasts and nipples. I swear the skin is so sensitive I can feel it like a touch. The feel of your lightly haired thighs sliding against my skin raises my lust to another level, as the sound of my moan turns into a cry and at last pushing aside the flimsy barrier of material, you enter me.
The feel of you above and the wooden steed moving beneath seems to amplify the power and the urgency behind your thrusts. Hearing the insistent clicking of that lidless eye, I am pushed over the edge by the images behind the blindfold. I come again, and before I can finish your own climax overcomes the both of us and I can feel the crumbling of walls and mountains, the stars showering from the midnight sky and our own hearts, beating like the thunder of hooves across the flat plains. You hold me tightly as you lie across my body. Our heartbeats slow, we catch our breath, still gliding up and down, back and forth to the smooth movements of the horse and that soft clicking. And I think . . .I want you more with every passing year and wonder how much better things can possibly get. I can see us at Sixty, Seventy and beyond, still loving, still experimenting, still striving to fulfill all our fantasies and lusty cravings; and as usual I can hardly wait for the next time.
I wonder how soon we can get those pictures developed.
2 Poems
by Brian Burch
burch@web.ca
A Simple Reminder
by Brain Burch
wenty-three years
is barely enough time
to start learning
for example
looking into your eyes
and suddenly seeing
that your pupils grow
when I look into your eyes
all these years later
your body still has mysteries
Late Night In A Hotel Room
by Brian Burch
ome comedians pretending to be interesting
jump from a TV screen, a partially read book
sits on the edge of the bed, a phone call
is not made, wondering about what it means
to be alone yet again, wondering if my thoughts
and yours are meeting somewhere between
Toronto and Kitchener to be tangled together
with a falling leaf and drift to the surface of
a creek that flows into the Grand River mingling
air and water together merging into the fertile
banks of thousands of years of evolving landscapes,
thinking of the possibility of a late night call
or a caress in a park or a smile over tea at breakfast.
The Howl
by Kenny
ken@thedailymale.org
lone wolf
howls in the darkness
no reply
Soul Searching
by Hillabold
jean.hillabold@uregina.ca
istress Jenkins, is this where you feed your imp?" I don’t dare express my confusion. "Your pet demon," the voice explains.
I am naked and shivering in a room that is really too large to be heated only by the fire in the stone fireplace. My long brown hair, flowing over my shoulders, is my only covering. Deacon Jones is pinching my red nipple between two bony fingers as he studies my face for signs of guilt. His ice-blue eyes peer out from under heavy eyebrows that are as black as his cloak. Shivers chase each other from my nipples through my quivering belly to my cunt, and up and down my spine.
"No, Sir," I answer. "I have no imp, but I hope to suckle a child there someday." By avoiding his eyes, I can see steam rising from his papery skin, as though he would like to spread me out on the long oak table and make me a mother at once.
"You are too gentle with her, Deacon," scolds Mistress Green, "too set in the ways of a gentleman." She is a buxom blonde farmwife who volunteered to help examine me. "You will never discover her secrets by treating her better than she deserves. Her witch’s tit must be hidden where only another woman would seek it out." Her plump breasts bounce as she breathes deeply in her tightly-laced bodice. She studies my slim body with satisfaction. "This one is too conscious of her charms, Brethren. We must show her that her tricks will get her nowhere in the presence of the righteous."
"Well spoken, Mistress," smiled Goodman Plow. He is a young, rosy-cheeked farmer with broad shoulders and warm brown eyes. His glance strokes my breasts, my sides, my hips and my buttocks like an exploring hand. I know that I must co-operate with the investigating committee if I want to prove myself as a decent woman who would never dabble in witchcraft. (Would I?) Otherwise, the remains of my stubborn pride will be taken as a sign that I am being strengthened by the Devil.
"See how she blushes," remarks the Deacon, licking his thin lips. Even his peaked hat shakes with indignation, or some other feeling. "She is wanton."
"Wicked," chimes a feminine voice.
"Led astray by the source of her shame," adds Farmer Plow, studying the triangle of brown curls between my thighs. He rubs his own crotch with a weathered hand. He glances at the Deacon.
Without another word, the men each grasp one of my butt-cheeks, lift me by my shoulders and sit me on the edge of the table. "Spread your legs, wench," growls the Goodman. His voice is huskier than before.
If I spread my legs for their penetrating eyes, they will see how wet I am. "Please, Sirs! Madam," I beg. "Have mercy on your humble servant. You have already troubled my weak flesh enough." I press my thighs together, trying to hide my hot and swollen female parts.
The Deacon and the Farmer pull my knees apart and hold them open so that Mistress Green can look at my slit and tickle it with her nimble fingers. She is known for her skill with a needle. I shiver as I imagine the pricking to come.
"Are you a good wife to your husband?" The Farmer’s baritone voice betrays his desire to reach deep inside me to discover my innermost fancies and passions, my failings and my deep-red sins. "Do you serve him faithfully as a helpmeet sent to him by God?"
I do not know what to say, so the Mistress prompts me. "Lying will not profit you now, little minx," she sneers. "We will find out the truth."
My armpits prickle with fear. "My husband left me!" I wail. This sounds dishonest, even to my ears. "We agreed to part over a year ago," I explain. "How can I faithfully serve a man who no longer lives with me?"
I despair of explaining my marriage to these examiners. My husband Prosper and I were like brother and sister in our childhood, and he could no more find it in his heart to change into my lord and master than I could become his dull and obedient servant after being his free companion for so long.
Prosper and his beloved friend Daniel bought an inn which, fittingly, prospered well enough to support us all three. None of us foresaw that my husband’s departure would put me in danger, as a lone woman too likely to wander in wild places where ungodly spirits lie in wait. Even in this Year of Our Lord 1693, there is much unknown territory in the world, and most especially in Massachusetts colony.
I cast my eyes down like a modest woman, and see that the trousers of both men are stretched enough to split their seams. "Neither a wife nor a maiden nor a widow," taunts the Deacon. "Ripe for seduction by the Evil One." I would willingly surrender to Satan to protect Prosper from being hanged for sodomy.
Mistress Green has found my little button, and she is rolling it between her fingers. I cannot sit still or keep silent. She slaps the sensitive skin on my inner thigh, and the sound seems to echo in the room as the sting echoes in my flesh. "Strumpet!" she labels me. "If this excites you, we must find better ways to examine you. Ways that will mortify even your self-indulgent nature."
"She is accustomed to a man," observes Farmer Plow. "Her womb is empty, and she is rank with frustrated desire." The earthy smell of my exposed quim is inescapable. All my skin is damp with sweat.
"She is worse than that," retorts the woman who glows with pleasure, knowing that in this instance, she has power. "This one responds to a woman’s touch," she brags. She pinches my upper arm hard, to make me jump. She chuckles. "She would give herself to a female husband. She will not confess it in words, but her body speaks for her."
She wants to bring me to surrender, but the men are not willing to stand by and watch. "Lay her on the table," gruffly orders the Farmer. "I must explore her womanly parts to make sure she is not hiding anything from us."
The Mistress looks at him as though he were her naughty little son. "You want to ravish her like a bull in rut," she corrects him. "Brethren, we must be as patient as ants, doing our private but necessary work in tiny steps, all as soldiers in one invincible army. Our reward will be greater if we are thorough. We must not overlook any part of her sinful body, and we must not gratify her greedy soul."
Deacon Jones grunts in approval. The Mistress goes on: "Look at her now, panting like a mare in heat and spilling her vile juices on the clean wood of this table. Are we here to satisfy her or is she here to answer us?"
Goodman Plow is restless and angry, but he can see that he is outnumbered. I can see his inner turmoil as he reminds himself that the committee must work as a team to get fruitful results from an examination. I also know that if he cannot find an excuse to release his seed soon, he will want to make someone sorry. I can guess who that will be.
Deacon Jones seems aware of the younger man’s mood, and why it must be given an outlet before the three committee members fall to bickering. "Judicious use of the birch," points out the Deacon, "is good for wayward women like this. It softens them and makes them more forthcoming as well as more respectful." He smiles at me like a sinister version of a loving grandfather. "Goodman Plow, will you do the honors?"
Mistress Green strides briskly to the far wall, where a bundle of birch twigs, neatly tied at one end, hangs from a hook. When she returns, she places it in Farmer Plow’s outstretched hand. She looks pleased with herself, having found a way to punish a man she considers crude, as well as me. "Up, girl," she orders, "on all fours like the she-beast you are." With quick slaps on my behind, she positions me on the table. "Now, Goodman," she sparkles, "you may spur her to a standing gallop."
The Farmer looks as if he would like to drive the Mistress out of the room with his twig broom or even his riding crop, but he does not dare. I cannot help enjoying Mistress Green’s clever strategies for controlling men, even though I know that all such thoughts will soon be driven out of my head. "Put your head down on your arms, girl," the Farmer growls at me. "Show me a clear target." I suspect that he is really thinking of my cunt rather than my moon-pale bottom. The faint smell of oil from the wooden table comforts me.
Swish, whack! Comfort is hard to keep, so I focus on the pleasure that reaches my neglected, swollen cunt as the first sting spreads through my flesh, fading as it goes. Swish, whack! The second blow follows too quickly and violently after the first. Fear rushes through me like ice-water. The Farmer’s strong arm is propelled by anger, and the pain can only get worse as each strike of the heartless twigs adds to the sting of the last. Tears flow from my eyes and wet my arms as my voice rises.
"Enough, Goodman Plow," advises the Deacon. I feel overwhelmed with gratitude for his unexpected chivalry. "The signs of her penitence are a pleasure to see, but she is not truly fit for the birch. She has not been well-trained in that regard, but we have made progress and we must press on while she is willing to tell us what we wish to know."
Rising up slowly, carefully touching my sore bottom, I look around and see that the Farmer has already pulled off his trousers to release his thick red cock, which seems to be pointing at me. "Brother and Sister," he addresses them, his voice heavy with sarcasm, "we are three and she is one frail woman, barely as heavy as a sack of feathers. Yet she could still be hiding all manner of talismans in her natural places of concealment, which are yet unexamined. At the very least, she is as filled with illicit pleasure as a spoiled pig is filled with corn. You must allow me to do my duty as a man."
"Roger her well," advises Mistress Green. "She needs the release as well as you, but then the examination must continue."
Farmer Plow lays me on my back, and I wince as my tender bottom touches the cool, smooth wood of the table. His eyes burn into mine as he crawls over me, holding his stout truncheon in hand. "Beautiful temptress," he sighs, brushing damp hair off my face. I am surprised by his gentle manner. "Any man would want you. You could inspire sin without measure, but luckily, you are in our hands now." He pushes his cock steadily into me. I love the feeling, but I try to resist giving in to it.
I know that if I scream in release in the presence of three good church-going witnesses, I will probably be condemned as a witch at my trial. All three of them hold me in place as the Goodman withdraws from me partway so that he can plunge back into my cunt, filling me without mercy. His rhythm increases in force, and I move with him. I feel as if my quim is filled with liquid fire. I study the beams in the ceiling, and try to think innocent thoughts.
Two long, bony fingers knead my breasts as though they were loaves of bread. I twist and squirm, and my movements increase the friction of the old man’s lecherous rubbing and squeezing. I remind myself that I have not completely lost my self-control. Farmer Plow pulls my knees up by my sides.
A thin finger leaves a wet trail down the crack between my cheeks, presses against my smaller opening, and smoothly pushes in. Deeper and deeper it goes, spiraling around the walls that were formerly touched with nothing but filth. "Ah," sighs a soft voice, as if its owner had found something surprising.
"Oh!" I scream. Or maybe it is "No!" I feel as if I am falling down into Hell, but I want this unbearable pleasure, this thrilling violation. I hope desperately that hanging will feel like this, at least in the moment before my neck breaks.
"We have her now," my ravisher tells his companions, "but I will never hand this sweet neck over to the hangman."
"No indeed," chuckles the Deacon. "That would be a sinful waste. And the theft of our lawful property."
"Lawfully," explains the Mistress, "she cannot be hanged while she may be with child. Goodman Plow, you have saved her body." I am filled with relief, although I know that my examination has not yet ended. "There is much left to do to save her soul, Brethren," she reminds them. "Her bottom is a foul pit which still needs cleansing. And we have not even begun to prick her skin."
"Fine for you, Mistress," admits Farmer Plow, "but her hide needs to be toughened. A good whipping could save her soul." I am amazed at the friendly tone in which this comment is made.
"Not yet," she calmly rebukes him. "All in time." She seizes my two hands, and pulls me to a sitting position. "You must stand before us, girl," she tells me, "and answer our questions." I slide off the table to stand on the floor.
Deacon Jones grasps my shoulder, and turns me so that he can study my backside. "Such impudent buttocks," he comments, "must surely have pleased the One who lurks in foul places. Mistress Jenkins, have you ever given yourself to your Master in an unnatural manner?"
"I have no Master but my husband," I respond carefully, "and he has never requested such favors from me."
"We will determine the truth of it," answers my examiner as he pushes me to the table’s edge and bends me over it.
I am afraid. "Please!" I beg. "Your Honors, please do not harm me inside."
"Hush, coward," scolds the Mistress. "A little pain is a small price to pay for redemption, and we are not brutes. The shame we will give you is a precious gift. Deacon, have you your gloves ready?"
"Momentarily, Mistress," he smiles, pulling on a pair of fine leather riding gloves. He strides to the fireplace, and lifts a small pot off the mantelpiece. He rolls each finger of one glove in the contents, which appears to be tallow. The Mistress and the Farmer have seized my two shoulders, and are holding me in place on the table.
The old man stands behind me and eases one long, inquisitive finger into my small hole while I squirm in humiliation. He pushes against my resisting flesh, and I gasp at the sting. In an instant, my little gate seems to unlock, and the Deacon’s finger presses on into my bowels. I can feel his hard member brushing against me through his trousers. "Excellent," he tells his companions. "She seems to be untried in these parts, despite her lascivious nature."
Discomfort gives way to a hot, shameful pleasure which rushes through me as I try to keep myself still. I wonder if my nominal lord and master has experienced such a surrender, or has received it from his companion. "Prosper!" I gasp under my breath.
"Now she calls for her husband," comments Mistress Green, sounding amused. "You bade him farewell, faithless wench. Your greedy fundament needs a smart answer from a whip."
"'Tis overdue," growls Goodman Plow.
The Deacon, however, has the strongest need, and I have little hope that his age will cause his manhood to soften before he can tear my flesh with it. "She needs a man of experience to take the insolence from her," he tells the other two. "She needs to be saved from false pride."
The Mistress fetches the little pot of melted fat, and offers it to the Deacon. His greased member feels thinner than Goodman Plow's, but it hurts me as he pushes it into my back opening. I cry out as he thrusts into me while the other two prevent me from moving away. Tears flow down my face as he moves in me like a slow, hard piston.
"Wench!" exclaims the Mistress. "You need not suffer so much. Open fully to the servant of God, and find your relief." Her words are strangely comforting, and I feel the pain receding as I am stroked in my secret depths. I am flooded with warmth.
Mistress Green reaches under me and pricks the wet lips of my cunt with a small, sharp point. When she pricks my tender nubbin, I shake with spasms like one possessed. "Yes," she goads me, like a rider spurring a horse. "My little wanton." Her fingernails lightly scrape my inner thighs as I tremble and groan.
The Deacon has spent his seed, and I can feel his member subsiding. I feel shamed again as he withdraws from me, leaving me empty but still marked inside.
Goodman Plow seizes a handful of my hair and pulls my head up. The smell of his sweat frightens me. "Jezebel," he sneers, his hot breath on my cheeks. "Whore for all men and even -- women. A grunting sow would show more modesty. You will sing a different tune when I leave some honest stripes on your hide."
"Patience!" snaps the Mistress.
"Brother Plow!" barks the Deacon. "Our fallen sister has submitted to her examination and has not tried to deceive us. Goodness may yet issue from her in its allotted time." He is gripping the Goodman's arm with the steady strength of his years.
Mistress Green turns me to face the two men, but I am comforted by her arm around my waist. The Goodman has been defeated, and the set of his jaw shows his resentment. "She is mine by right," he tells them. "I planted a child in her."
He is no match for the Mistress. "The Lord plants children in women's wombs," she reminds him. As a mother of five, she has had much experience of this blessing. "It is too soon to know whether you have been an instrument of His will." She smiles.
"The town knows that Mistress Jenkins has a husband," the Deacon smoothly explains. "Any children that she may bear will have his name and a right to his property." I am amazed by the unlikely partnership that clearly exists between my two examiners with the subtlest wits.
"She is ours," gloats Mistress Green. "Our sacred charge. We will recommend mercy to the court, on condition that she serve each of us in turn until her sentence is completed. And none may punish her except by our common will and agreement."
I jerk as the Mistress playfully touches her needle to my back. "Gentlemen," she addresses them, "you must help me with the pricking. Hold her well." The two men hold me by the arms, one possessively and the other with stiff confusion.
Have you a witch's tit, she-beast?" she questions me. "A cursed place on your body that is insensitive to feeling?"
At this moment, my body feels exquisitely alive to sensation of every kind, from my head to my feet. "No indeed, Madam," I answer.
"We shall see," she promises. To my surprise, the pricks of her needle are light and provoking rather than painful. Both men are moved to laughter as I wiggle and squirm in their grasp. The invisible trail of pricks is like a track of mild insect bites, and I struggle to satisfy the itching they cause.
The Deacon and the Farmer tease me further by tickling my skin where I have tried to scratch it. "Oh!" I gasp as my feelings rise to an unbearable pitch. "Your Honors! Have mercy!"
Of course they have none until they have brought me to another shivering climax. Even Goodman Plow looks pleased with my response.
I am allowed to dress myself in my woollen gown under the watchful eyes of my examiners before my hands are bound so that I may be led from the room. As cool, capricious air touches me like the Deacon's fingers, I wonder if my descendants will know of my history when I am gone, and that of the good man whose name they will bear.
Byzatine Crystal 989 AD
From Byzantium
a book of poems set at the WTC 9.11.01
by Sean Farragher
sfarragher@nj.rr.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com
hen collection became five simmering pieces,
she remembered how she watched the light
reflect fragility. Are we that whim?
One knife stroke torn as steak knife slipped hands
cut loose finger -- when blood held.
What if these ancient vessels smashed
the countenance of glass? How can I possess
that terrifying rage? Who gathers burial blood
flashed for hunts to begin when sky breaks River
What witness would we be?
Today, last day of world. collection fell.
City descended as volcano
buried, eye twist pin the tail on donkey
turn around -- five struck floor
grinding pink, subtle hemoglobin stain.
Purse found two weeks later contained
New York drivers' license of Mariana More,
photographer and architect. She resided at
114 W. 87th Street. Instant Photograph
of orphan cut finger and a trace of blood.
Envelope watermarked
"Byzantine Crystal Project"
clipped inside Collected Poems of William
Butler Yeats whereas Mariana
had noted bills for project forward
to her office at One World Trade Center.
Set forth, underlined Yeats
her inscription from "Byzantium":
9/10/01
"Why do I know 'For Hades'
bobbin bound in mummy-cloth
May unwind the winding path'"
The Feel Of Rain
by Savannah Skye
savvy1007@yahoo.com
hile standing naked in the rain under Tefnut's open space
She pours down on me and renews my spirit
Coolingly it runs down my face
Then teasingly rolls over my breast, down to where my love sits
Oh, I have become the Goddess of Rain's whore
As well as a slave to the inviting lush green below
That commands me to sit nor stand no more
But rather lie down under Her wet flow
With my defeated legs spread open wide
So as to drink in Her moist cool
As it flows down my more beauteous side
That makes me for Her a mere musing fool
Oh rain, sweet rain pour down on thee
Doth's fair truth does amaze me
The Siren
by Moone
DwarenielMoone5@aol.com
pearl of beauty,
She floats
In the fog
Of smoke and dim light,
Awaiting her captain.
He drifts through the crowd,
A sea of twisting forms
That undulates with the tide
Of laughter and music.
Eyes meet
Over the flow of bodies,
The tiny fake flames
Of electric candles
Burning her face
Into his soul.
A honey smile
Drips promise and seduction
As she raises her glass
In salute
To his approach.
Oh, to be that glass
As it touches
The fire of her lips,
Feel the heat
Of their kiss.
Just as he nears,
She slides from her perch,
A serpentine creature,
Winding around the mast
Of his taut form.
A gaze so steady,
Not to be fathomed
By the faint of heart,
He dives headlong
Into their depths.
He sees the moon
Reflected then shattered
Into shards of scattering light
Under the mirrored ceiling
Of their universe.
The feel of cool water
On his face,
Her supple fingers
Tracing the line of his cheek.
Soft laughter at his ear
Like a sultry breeze
As her arms wind their way
Across his back.
His resolve melts
At the sight
Of her marble flesh
Against the leather
Of his skin.
He braves the ocean
Of crushing bodies,
Cutting through the swells,
His bounty in tow.
Into the night
He goes in search
Of safe haven,
A secret place
Where he can enjoy
His coveted cargo.
A neon sign,
Like a beacon in the night,
Answers his prayers.
Inside a small room
He spreads his treasure
Across the cotton sheets,
Runs his fingers
Through the gold
Of her silken hair.
Her sighs
Fill the sails
Of his desire.
The undulating swell
Of hips,
The soft sheen
Of her breasts
Hypnotize,
Drawing him deeper
Into her sweet abyss.
As the storm
Of their passion rages,
He knows
All is lost,
He will not be
Recounting this tale
Of two ships
Passing in the night.
But he sinks
Below the waves
Of her mystery
And drowns
In the sea
Of her ecstacy
With no regret.
Home
by A.J. Heard
SainteSauvagesse@aol.com
ouched till mired in
Swollen flesh
I tumble down the other
Side of her
Bittersweet secure--
Surprised against the root
Of my own belonging
