Lucrezia Magazine


  • Photobucket

Sponsors



The Cozy Spot



10 posts categorized "dark"

September 02, 2007

Said the Spider, to the Fly

Said the Spider, to the Fly

"The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line." - Alexander Pope

You know you’ve let yourself go when you seldom shave your legs; the only time taken is during the last minute date, the one made with a fly-by-night virtual person who has said the right things, who has fallen into your web of sparkling bullshit.

A nick, two, three…blood, and a ‘fuck!’ here and there, as the warm water sprays skin; the comfort of being in one’s own skin?

It all unfolded like an overstated script; full of clichés, something that would fit into any B grade Hollywood flick, or ghastly porno film by the time the lights switch off and the grope begins. We settled into a comfortable zone, one that can be summed up with one word: tolerance. Tolerance is strange; to tolerate something is to grudgingly accept it, when many parts of you don’t necessarily appreciate it.

They’re never the same as what they are on the screen, often transforming into a partial shrinking violet, don a conservative bowler hat by the time their ass settles in the chair, and offer a soft gaze, one that never leaps forth to daringly tease or titillate.

Continue reading "Said the Spider, to the Fly" »

August 21, 2007

Brimstone & Buses

Today, I thought, could be classified as an angry sex day; the type of intimacy that depends on the ebullient well filled with brimstone, the type that demands nothing less than fiery intensity, which results in a few bruises and bites. Coupled to the fury, was its polar opposite, resourcefulness. It kicked in to balance the fury, the fervent bubble of irritation and incredulity that accompanies the most absurd, or pseudo thickheaded maneuvers that can come one’s way.

I’d like to think that I’ve grown up enough to appreciate simple errors, but I can’t fathom people who cannot accept their capacity for human error, who try to cover their fear with spite, shoveling shit your way, simply to annoy you, thinking that they’re the supreme sadist when they need an Oxford Dictionary to define the word.Ang

And so it was. I managed to distract myself by being acutely resourceful, so resourceful that I annoyed myself as each hour ticked by. I sat at my desk thinking anything but ‘there but for the grace of God go I.’ A portion of my mind plunged into darkness; the other managed to sail the wave of diligence. A smile? There were none. The other, he cowered into an invisible corner, keeping out of the way; discomfort, a slathering of fear and uncertainty hovered about him; he averted my gaze a few times. Fear of the unknown; will I blow? Of course, I didn’t blow up or manage a squeak, but the sulfurous river flowed through my veins throughout, creating a piquant atmosphere of trepidation; that’s sadism, but not the theatrical kind that’s accompanied by absurdly embellished forms of address. No Sirs, or Masters, more like flowing with the tune of nature, or DNA; an inner knowledge that defies artificial controls, costumery and bullshit. You teeter on the edge, walk the razor, looking down at a red glowing furnace and almost feel the heat fanning your cheeks; flash point.

Nothing made me laugh earlier in the day; a few people prattling on about APEC (like its Cirque du Soleil) during my break didn't really amuse me, 'yeah, everything goes out of whack because of one idiot,' I said. "And freedom is beautiful and, uh, you know, it'll take time to restore chaos and order, uh, order out of chaos, but we will." I never thought I'd live to see the day a city 'locked down' because of one moron 'visiting' ("a fucking tourist" - as housemate says), at a multi-million dollar cost; I'm working so my small portion of taxed dollars (4 million dollars in total; 'donated' by every worker in the state) fund bullet proof vehicles for el Presidente (security for the 2000 Olympics cost less than the entire APEC security fund, and wouldn't it be funny, after all that security, for him to bite the dust on a toilet, in the middle of dropping the 'Big One'?), and I wouldn't mind if he didn't make so many verbal gaffs, but he can't get one phrase right, and it's not like he's a millennial sage or prophet; doomsayer, perhaps. So, it all added up in a piecemeal fashion, forming a blue flamed torch to propel me through the rest of the day.

Continue reading "Brimstone & Buses" »

July 08, 2007

Atelier - fiction

I’ve attempted to construct a bridge to unite the erotic or sexual, with elements of horror or fear. The comic book is a prop in the story, and its importance becomes more pronounced as the story progresses. There is only one word I can use in association with Atelier. Creepy.

~~

He whistled while he sketched. The Acropolis towered over the nefos that plagued the city below; modernity coexisted with antiquity, while the people bustled underneath, often taking the relic for granted. Tourists roamed, and steel cased digital cameras glimmered; their Rockports hugged ancient rocks as their eyes surveyed past millennia. His ears pricked up to tour guides, and the tourist caught his eye. Lagging behind, she rolled her eyes at the small group, and continued to dawdle.

‘It’s a nice day for a tour,’ he said, continuing his tune.

Captured, her curiosity got the better of her.

‘What are you sketching?’ she asked. He hugged his sketchpad protectively.

Drawn, like an iron filing to a magnet, she gazed into his eyes. Blinking, she smiled and gathered her wits. A sensual face, marked with full mouth, his symmetry riveted her to the ancient ground.

'It is unfinished.'

His spoken English laced with a cornucopia of accents, slithered; music to her ears. A definitive change from the posed intonations she’d been accustomed to. His tan confirmed a Mediterranean leaning; white, a predominant shade of summer, swathed his limbs.

‘Are you drawing the Parthenon?’

He shook his head, and presented his surprise. Each flowing line, every precise curve, muffled her voice. She inspected his hands, from the calloused mounds cushioning the base of his digits, to the sinuous stretch of ligaments housed between his metacarpals.

‘Do you live here?’

‘No,’ he said. His mellow and resonant drifted through the air between them like smooth cigarette smoke, as it effortlessly blended with air molecules, to form a symmetrical helix.

‘Tourist?’

‘έτσι και έτσι,’ he replied, his left hand teetering this way and that.

‘So-So?’

‘A little of this, a little of that, and the other.’

Continue reading "Atelier - fiction" »

June 11, 2007

Electric Blue - Fiction

This story started at the café this afternoon. It walks on the wild (crazy) side of the street and thought I’d post it in its entirety. It kind of takes me back to those old movies, where a person ends up meeting a dreadful, nightmarish fate. Don’t let the title fool you, the story isn’t about porn.

Electric Blue

It all became a little crazier the morning she woke up. She’d seen him before she actually saw him. As weird as it may be to an ordinary human being, it didn’t rub off as a strange thing to her. There were many incidents she could select, like the time she dropped a bag of oranges in the fruit market, to be injected with that familiar twinge; someone walked over her grave.

The day in the fruit market didn’t surprise her. She filed away a hundred or so incidents very much like it. Others have obsessions about number 666. Hers involved one of the most ancient of all, that involving destiny or the three women who’d preside over a mortal’s fate. Everyone pondered fate, kismet or destiny at one point or another, and there were those who’d amuse her, the skeptics, who’d be defiant to incorporate modern scientific logic. Her friends, those who evaporated one by one, began to express their skeptical thoughts.

‘You make your own destiny,’ they’d say at some point or another, often over skim lattes.

‘But, how do you really know?’

The last person she asked, who remained her loyal friend was a financial analyst named Jarrod. He moved in the flat next door. The rent was cheap, and this enabled him to update his wardrobe regularly. This further enabled him to chart his climb. The corporate ladder amazed and revolved him; the potential freedom it offered enticed him more than the nubile girl at the local bar.

‘I don’t know. It’s not the same concept as it was a thousand years ago. We’re at the mercy of many influences, incidents and people. Anything can happen. It’s more chaotic.’

‘Who’s to say there’s no order in chaos?’

‘Chaos isn’t about an invisible hand guiding an outcome or influencing a decision.’

‘That’s what the scientists say, they always say that because they’ll never be able to pinpoint it.’

‘It could be that you, or me for that matter, do control our destiny through the choices we make.’

‘But what if we don’t’ make a full choice. You know.’

‘I don’t. Explain a little.’

‘You’ll laugh. It’s a stupid example, hardly on the level of hurricanes, earthquakes or apocalyptic visions.’ She lowered her voice toward the end. A waiter hovered around their table, watching their consumption.

Continue reading "Electric Blue - Fiction" »

March 05, 2007

The Collector - Fiction (Part I)

I haven’t felt any urges to write pleasurable erotica, not since January anyhow. I’m hoping to continue having fun with Metamorphosis, the contemporary sans Christianity themed vampire story I started last year, but for today I thought of another kind of story. The Collector isn’t a touchy feely story. I’ll tell you from now that it won’t have a nice pretty ending. The sex is as far from the romantic stream that one can get. It’s not erotica, but a story containing sex. The two things that I thought of as I began it were Bluebeard and vineyards.

The Collector - I

The night sky exploded in splashes of quicksilver. Each vein impregnated the sky before knifing the earth. Samantha deeply inhaled, folded her arms across her chest and felt the type of accomplishment one felt after a tumultuous round in bed. Renewed, she turned, and smiled at her visitor, who sat with his back against her timber bed head.

“Better be careful,” she nodded toward the makeshift shelf above his head.Lightning

“It could be dangerous,” the man replied, eyeing the precarious evenly spaced stacks above his head. “They’re in need of a bookshelf.”

“D’you think so?” she raised her right arm, like a game show model. Vanna White meets Samantha Dubois, small town spinster or at least that is what the locals thought. Thirty two, no suitor in sight. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt, she thought.

Continue reading "The Collector - Fiction (Part I)" »

October 31, 2006

Janus Smile

This may be more Halloweenie, I don't know. I treated it as a fun, but macabre (with subtle, controversial undercurrents), story. A quick scare.

Janus smile is accompanied by another image from Francesco D'Isa. His digital art presents the female form, and all the feminine mysteries, in a daring manner.

Janus Smile
She’d worn the headscarf ever since she could remember, specifically since her head began to ache, and her upset mother decided to obscure the possible cause. The voices then followed, usually at the dead of night. It was a sweet child-like voice, not unlike hers, that danced against her ear. She thought it a dream, until she started conversing with it. Shielded from ordinary schools, her parents took turns home schooling her. She topped her matriculation examinations, thanks to her friend. During the light of day, her friend slept. Her parents assumed that it was another aberration, with the exception of it being non-existent in any of the illustrious medical journals. For many years, she listened to the voice; she amassed so many stories, that she easily identified with Scheherazade, all thanks to the voice. When it came time to satisfy everyday errands, her mother inspected her to ensure she wore her headscarf properly. “You can’t risk it,” she said. Therefore, she’d turn for her mother to peer under the folds to make sure the safety pins held it in place. Her 21st birthday came, and went. Her secluded life, filled with volumes of books ranging from classics to the most recent woman’s magazine, revolved around being a homebody. She’d sigh, and the voice caught her out. It wasn’t terrible to not have hair, it told her. But she’d like it, that was all she knew only for the voice to fade away into the darkness, giving her the silent treatment as it were. Friends? The voice was her only friend, and the only male she’d come to know. At night, just after her coming of age, it asked her about her secret thoughts. She shifted to her side and told it to go to sleep. “You’re avoiding the question.” “Shh, they’ll hear you.” There, within the dark confines of her room, she confessed that she often thought about knowing other men, and on the odd occasion, she entertained fantasies of her with other women. The voice needed to listen to her thoughts, asked her to detail each vista. She confessed that she’d seen a woman at the news stand, on the way to the grocer. The woman wore a red cotton dress that curved around the hip and thigh; the shape enticed her, prompting further thoughts on the texture beneath the dress, and further along, bending over to pick up a heavy box, was a courier who looked to be around her age. Oh, she liked his look, and could only imagine… “Did you want to undress her or have her undress?” “Both…the man and woman…” “I can feel something…” a soft moan plunged through the pillow. She ran her hand over her belly, and down toward her springy, yet damp, thatch of pubic hair. She then heard the voice pant, and turned over onto her stomach, to enable it to breathe. “You are such a naughty girl,” it said, urging her to satisfy her urges to the best of her ability, “If you aren’t sure, I’ll try to help you.” She rubbed her sex, and listened to the deepening voice in the darkness. “Slide your finger between those wet lips…Not those lips…” The light tingle at the base of her spine raced upward. “This feels nice…” She squeezed her thighs together, locking her finger in place. The electric crackle within her encouraged her to reach inside herself. Her excitement grew, until she established a smooth, wet momentum. The hoarse voice told her how good it felt, how nice it was to fuck her. She shuddered shortly after. “I’d like to do that again,” she whispered. “Oh we will…”

Life ran smoothly. Her parents, relieved to see their daughter travel through life without complaint became worried after the steady rise of discontent that followed many world events. Her father told her to be careful, that the headscarf brought more worry but she didn’t care. That afternoon, as her mother waited outside, she caught sight of the face behind the voice inside a fitting room. Instantly smitten, she stepped outside with an added spring in her step.
That night they played, and she reanimated its amber eyes while her fingers strummed her sex. And its mouth? If only she could sample its rosy, full lips.

~~

She decided to sneak out of the house. It had been a long time, three years, since she’d taken a walk in the nearby park. Her parents kept her indoors at the onset of the passing four Septembers, and each basic errand transformed into a supervised excursion. Her parents accompanied her almost everywhere, and sometimes she’d have to ignore other voices, from real people, who’d point her out and call her names.

“I wish I could take it off,” she told her mother, only for her mother to gape in shock.
“You can’t do that. Not here.”
“How bad could it be?”
Her mother rolled her eyes.

She turned into the narrow street, on her way to the newsstand. The latest issue of Glamour hit the shelves, and she wanted to read up on the hair styles she’d never flaunt.
“We need to hurry,” the voice whispered. She walked halfway, and turned to see a ragged burly man walk a short distance behind her. His muddy cold eyes scanned her body, and stopped at her scarf.
“Hey bitch…Yeah you!”
Panic lodged in her throat.
“You tea towel wearing bitch…I'll show you...”
He ran up to her, and she stumbled forward, tripping over the gutter.
His hands gripped her arms and pulled her upward.
“I heard that you girls stay virgins until you marry. Is that true?”
He sprayed her with warm drops of spittle as he spoke, and backed her up against the concrete wall. Her eyes fluttered, she looked from side to side.
“No one’s gonna hear you…”
She found herself facing the wall, and wailed as he shoved his hand between her legs.
“You’re going to love this, bitch…”
His fingers gripped the headscarf, and gave it a couple of tugs. A sharp pain at the nape of her neck, shot up toward her scalp.
“Ouuuch…”
“Your pussy will be glad to see me,” he laughed, and yanked the scarf off, “W-Wha…”
Her head tilted backward, and her body followed. She tried to shake herself away, but her shoulders shuddered as her head swiveled from side to side. The rigor near exhausted her, and her nostrils absorbed his sweat. This was followed by something else, a moist metallic odor that followed an audible, wet bite. His clear screams, became flooded, almost muffled to a soft wet gurgle.
“That’ll teach you…” the voice said, “Are you all right?”
“I’m…” she turned round, and saw the man on the pavement, clutching the lower half of his mangled face.
“What did you do?”
“Remedied his uncouth mouth…”
A trail of blood, from the man’s mouth, led to a crimson fleshy mass.
“He won’t be speaking anytime soon.”
She retrieved her scarf, and fixed it in place. The man’s terrified eyes gazed upward as she turned.
“A Ahhh oouuu?” he gurgled.
She bent forward to inspect his wounds and his teary eyes widened as her gold crucifix dangled over his crimson face, glinting in the afternoon light.
“Teaches you to judge a book by its cover asshole,” she bid him farewell with a swift kick in the groin.

END

 

*Janus - Roman God, depicted with two faces.

 


October 30, 2006

Arbeit Macht Frei

This is a fictional story, however some of the ingredients are factual, and the historical elements are based on facts that stem from many accounts of those who survived a type of hell that many can never imagine, let alone fathom. The real horrors are those that are embedded within the histories, and from these histories people fashion ghouls, vampires, and other creatures to symbolize oppression, terror and death. ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’ isn’t a traditional Halloween story filled with quaint imaginary monsters, but more so the human kind and it’s not a pure sex story. It’s a long story, so after a certain point there’ll be a link that will continue the story in the To be Continued blog I’ve created for lengthier stories.

Alternatively, there's the Sex & Music version that has the accmpanying song.

The image accompanying this story is by Francesco D'Isa.

Solo_un_attimo


Arbeit Macht Frei

The old woman sat in the chair facing the corner of the room. According to her daughter, the woman didn’t want to face the window, nor did she fancy sunlight.
“She doesn’t speak much,” the woman said, before exiting. Sarah looked outside the window, followed the woman crossing the road. A uniformed driver stepped out of a navy Bentley to open the door for his passenger. “Nice if you’ve got it,” Sarah muttered, and exited the room.
Mrs Schueller’s daughter looked to be in her forties, yet retained a vitality about her that could have been surgically enhanced. The nursing home grapevine ran into overdrive each time she visited her poorly mother.
“You’d think, with all the money she has, she’d buy her something decent to wear.”
She only bought her essentials like nightgowns, toiletries, slippers and the occasional dress; the old woman barely showed interest in food, let alone frocks. Each day someone fed, bathed and changed her soiled incontinence pad. She was toileted at two hourly intervals, and this often produced nothing. They were all accustomed to entering the room, usually at the end of their shifts, to the fetid odor of shit.
The other nurses preferred to keep well away from the old woman, and Sarah found it peculiar that they’d wear rubber gloves as they changed her from her day frock to her nightgown. She couldn’t understand it.
“Just in case. You never know when they’ll wet themselves. She’s over eighty, you know.”
The curiosity lingered, particularly one afternoon when two staff rang in sick. The front ward became Sarah’s domain that afternoon.
“She’s on your list of afternoon showers,” Mavis, the Sister-in-Charge reminded Sarah of her duties as she rinsed a few bedpans in the sluice room. Relieved to swap the fragrant notes of urine, for steam, she stripped off her heavy rubber gloves and made a pit stop at a bathroom to retrieve a shower chair. She enlisted Toby, her male counterpart, to help her transfer the old woman into the chair.
“Gloves?”
“Oh come on,” she sighed.
“It’s the rule.”
She pulled on a air of surgical gloves, and heaved along with Toby.
“She doesn’t look that heavy.”
“She doesn’t carry her weight. Makes it heavier.”
She reversed out of the room. Mrs Schueller gazed at the receding wall, and Toby waved.
“Have fun.”

Just as she was about to wheel the woman into the shower, another staff member interrupted.
“Oh, you can’t use soap. She’ll see it and go bananas. Here…”
The woman handed Sarah her a plastic bottle with a pump nozzle. Sarah gently pulled Mrs Schueller forward, in a half embrace, and unbuttoned the gown from the back. The woman’s scrawny body startled her. Devoid of any surplus fat, each jutting bone stubbornly stared at Sarah. The old woman’s deflated breasts, breasts that may have one day enticed many males, hung down toward her navel like empty heshen sacks. Sarah couldn’t avoid the fear that whispered through these moments. Age, like Clotho, claimed everyone in its path by snipping the string of youth. The woman eyed a speck on the floor, a soap sud or a crack in the tiling, Sarah couldn’t tell. As she ran the water and rinsed the woman’s body, her eyes settled on, what appeared to be an ink smudge on the inside of Mrs Schueller’s wrist. Her first instinct was to rub the area of skin with her soaped up flannel but on further inspection…
120 899

The number, tattooed into the paper thin flesh, gained new life as Sarah’s gloved hand raised Mrs Schueller’s wrist. “I bet you’ve got plenty stories to tell…” she said, and briefly reflected on the possibilities. This hastened the shower. Sarah felt empty, yet curious to find out more.
After returning the woman to her easy chair, to face the wall as instructed, she made her way to the nurses station.
“I’m quite busy.” The RN frowned at her mentioning of the number, and made her point. It was time to distribute evening meds. She pulled out her stainless steel trolley, and quietly wheeled the cold stainless steel trolley down the carpeted hallway.

During a quick break, with the other two nurses, she opened her mouth and delivered her question. Their eyes widened.
“You have to wear gloves. That’s the rule. Didn’t you know?”
It was a first for her. She was of the understanding of gloves being used at obvious sites of contamination. This primarily involved contact with urine, saliva, blood or faeces, but while changing someone’s dry clothes?
“It’s not like they’re diseased. They’re old.”
They eyed her warily, and diverted the conversation toward an upcoming concert.
All in all, Sarah’s first day went well, and many days followed. The supposedly sick staff members returned, and the days rolled ahead. She returned to her assigned male ward where each man, riddled with Korsakoff’s, Alzheimers and Parkinsons, brought new meaning into life education. What is a man, but the sum of all his achievements before each cell reaches its use by date? She’d return home each night, and cozy up with Adrian, her boyfriend of three years.

Adrian absorbed her daily detail, and laughed at the cringe worthy moments.

“It’s a job, not your life.”
“But it’s scary to think that we’ll one day be like that.”
“I’d rather you put me out of my misery first,” he jovially replied, and winked as he unzipped his jeans.
“You’re really terrible… But I like it,” she smiled.
They slept, after entangling their limbs. Her gargantuan efforts reaped rewards, and their lovemaking reached another milestone. She knelt on the floor as he sat on the edge of their bed, and opened her mouth in wait. It’s something she always wanted to do; she opened wide, and lowered her boundaries. He sucked on his breath the minute she told him she needed him to fuck her mouth. Other times she’d mind the occasional gag reflex, this time she rode the discomfort. It oddly imbued life into the moment. She took his cock, and closes her eyes as his shaft fully occupied her mouth. He moaned, and plunged deep inside her slippery warmth.

Yes.. Fuck.. Oh shit….

Adrian’s mouth fell open as the first spasm partially claimed him, and his eyes lit up as he watched her swallow the product of her skill and his arousal. They took a break, she lazily smoked a cigarette, before her encore. She rode him, absorbed his cock into her from above, and ground her flesh against his, until her clitoris screamed.

It’s the spring in the step following the vital fuck that blurs other mundane elements. Sarah’s vitality was fuelled by her inner knowledge; her breasts, after her morning shower, felt heavier yet became acutely responsive to Adrian’s caresses over the passing weeks. She didn’t need a test to know of her pregnancy; her mouth couldn’t tolerate her acrid morning coffee, and her cigarette habit ground to a halt. She was running late, barely made the train, but put it all down to the fun elements of the daily grind. Life, as she saw it, was far too short and her observation of aged souls proved it.

She passed the sleek Bentley after she crossed the rode and made her way into the grounds. Curiosity fired up her thoughts, and she quickly made her way to the front room.

“Ray’s sick, you’ll have to work his section.” She didn’t mind, and even thanked Mavis in passing. It offered a days respite from the wandering hands and, ‘nursie, I’ve got a surprise for you,’ moments just before they exposed their ancient penises hoping she’d be shocked.

She silently entered the room to see the woman brushing her mother’s hair.
“Don’t mind me,” she said. Her right hand gripped a hairbrush, and the other peculiar thing she noticed was that of the woman wearing a pair of fine black leather gloves.
“It’s quite hot,” she couldn’t help but nod toward the gloves. Her curiosity got the better of her.
“I have dermatitis…” she turned to face the same wall that her mother faced, but stopped to look at Sarah, “That’s my father.” Sarah peered at the photograph. The man’s face appeared partially blurred. She put it down to the age of the picture. He stood, wearing a uniform she couldn’t identify. Tall, well developed, and proud, he looked to be in his mid-twenties.
“Lovely picture,” Sarah said, and thought to ask about the lacking wedding pictures. Mrs Schueller never appeared in any of the few silver framed family photographs.
Sarah then eyed her watch, and realized the time and need to check on the woman in a discreet manner. Her hand gripped the armrest, and the woman abruptly turned.
“You mustn’t!”
“I-I’m sorry?”
“She doesn’t like people touching her. Haven’t they told you?” The woman reared back and glared at her.
“No, they haven’t,” she replied, hoping Mrs Schueller was dry.
“She just doesn’t like it,” her eyes returned to the silent old woman, whose eyes remained fixed straight ahead. What did she see each day?
“Okay.”
“You haven’t touched her have you? Then again they’d tell me…”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I’ll be fine from her on out. I’ll ring the buzzer if I need anything. Thank you,” she nodded, and continued brushing the woman’s silver hair.

Her evening drew to a close. They’d completed all the rounds, and then the RN entered the locker rooms.
“Who’s in for a night shift? Mary called in. Her son’s sick.”
“I’ve an appointment in the morning, sorry.” The RN then looked at her.
“I…” she didn’t really want to. Her thoughts returned to the intimate evening she planned but she also thought of penalty rates and how she’d be able to fork out for a few things to further liven up the sex.
“I know it’s short notice. Agency staff take God knows how long to get here…”
“All right.”

The night shift meant her and another RN. They’d both supposedly share the work. This meant that she’d be doing the work on her own, at half measures while the RN sat and caught up on her purl one and twos, throughout the infomercials and all their new age gurus, fitness instructors and the odd celebrity raving on about some new anti-acne produce that ‘saved them after years of suffering.’ It all began smoothly enough. She sat in the day room with Therese. They exchanged few words, and sat in front of the television. Sarah killed time by leafing through magazines offering three day diets, the latest celebrity rehab moment and the latest fashion fad.
“I’ll go and have a look in, then I’ll make a coffee. I’ll be in the kitchen in case you need me.” Therese nodded, yawned, and rested her legs on a footstool as Anthony Robbins ran onto the television screen. She couldn’t blame Therese if she feel asleep, each repetitive broadcast was enough to take anyone off to dreamland.

After checking the wards at the rear, she moved up along the hallway. She hoped the residents in the front would be equally dry, but didn’t hold out much. The residents in the other wards were ambulant, semi independent and still retained their bladder and bowel functions. There were only two rooms at the front of the home. She entered the first to her right. All the woman slept, and her hand crept under the sheet. Shit. All three drawer sheets needed to be changed. She quietly got on with the job, lowering one bedrail at a time, gently rolling each sleeping body to remove the wet sheet and replace it with a dry one. The nightlight guided her way, but even so, its eerie yellow-brown glow imparted a gloomy ambience. She then turned, looked behind her. Stupid to feel alone when there were others within the same room. Not like someone will attack you, she thought, and continued. The last woman, half awake on the turn, mumbled and drifted back to the place she preferred to be. Dreams offered an alternate route where one could randomly recapture one’s youth, dreams and desires. She finished, dumped the soiled sheets into the hooked canvas laundry bag, and exited.

“Shit,” she mumbled. She tossed away her gloves with the sheets. Both were inverted, and she looked on her trolley for the box. Nothing. Only three more beds remained, and she was sure she could chance it. It was only urine, she thought. She’d changed how many diapers while babysitting for friends, besides she only had to carefully roll away the wet sheet. If she was confronted with shit, she could race back to the sluice room for gloves. No huge deal. Another dark room awaited her. She rolled the trolley toward its centre and searched the darkness for the first bed, to switch on the light.
Her eyes made out two blanketed lumps, but the third was missing from its bed. She blinked a few times. Darkness tended to exaggerate shapes. It was as her eyes adjusted that another sound perked up her ears. She cocked her head to the side. Was someone dragging their feet? She turned, saw nothing.

“Fraulein…” the croaky whisper, far away yet so close, chilled and awed her. It could only come from one person, Sarah thought.
It was as she backed away from the trolley, quietly and calmly, that she saw the bare foot.
“What are you doing there?” she carefully sidestepped the body, and turned on the overhead light.
Mrs Schueller’s eyes widened, and her faced jerked upright to reveal a pair of glimmering brown eyes.
She couldn’t understand, and couldn’t comprehend the woman’s about turn. Each word smoothly slipped through her pale lips. Aside from registering Fraulein, each word following was uttered in a language she’d never come across.
The old woman raised her right arm and patted her chest. Her sleeveless cotton ’three sizes too big’ nightgown slipped over her bony right shoulder.
“Rom… Rom…Nicht!” she shook her head.
“Are you all right Mrs Schueller?”
“Nicht!”
You’re not Mrs Schueller?
Sarah couldn’t find the words to ask the question.
Her hands gripped her plaits, and her lips hung open until her breath squeaked through her lungs. Was she screaming?
“Okay. I’ll get you up.”
The old woman nodded, smiled and leaned forward. She bent her knees, surprised at the abrupt animation. It was something Oliver Sacks would be interested in, she thought as her arms reached under the old woman’s armpits. She stopped to steady herself. Her head briefly swam. She put it down to her sudden shift. Her hands finally held her firmly, and she pushed up at the knee only to feel her arms lighten with the new load. She looked at the floor, noticed the old woman’s feet bearing her own weight.
“But you’re not supposed to…”
Mrs Schueller’s dewy eyes smiled before reaching into her.
“I…” a searing pulse embraced her head. She looked at the woman, and felt far removed from the room. Her eyes searched the woman’s face.
“Sie und ich…” the woman’s lips froze into a grin. The words fluttered into Sarah’s mind, looping into her own thoughts. “Sie und ich…”
Her hands. They were glued to the old woman, yet she couldn’t feel them.
Therese?
The thought formed within her mind. She called out but her vocal chords didn’t register each electrical impulse.
Her eyes closed, and she drifted along an unfamiliar current.


 

Continue reading "Arbeit Macht Frei" »

May 14, 2006

Lunar Rising

There is no beginning, or end, to the feeling. I’d tell you about the kind of day I had, a day that anyone can have but this day the moon came to play so it’s streaked with lunar streaks, tinged with uncertainty.
The door slams shut. I decided against holding the doorknob. You look at me; a smile plays on your lips and a hint of Mozart streams through the stereo. You’ve waited for Friday to rear its head, the scent of bouillabaisse diffuses through to the living room and right now, a cold shower is what the doctor ordered except that I can’t be bothered.
Fatigue.
Exhaustion.
Nonchalance.
Scanning my mental dictionary fails to deliver an ironclad word that sums up the totality of the moment. The bus driver grunted as I handed him correct change, and he simply slammed a ticket into my palm and the bumpy ride didn’t inspire any pleasant thoughts. Unsettled visions cluttered my mind from the second I crawled out of bed. Your snoring greeted my mind, followed by the delayed bleep of the alarm clock and I knew I was off to a great start from that second onward.

Now, within the living room, viewing the newspaper that blankets your thighs, a frisson of edginess awakens within me. The moon, on its ascent, nodded as my feet pounded the pavement. You, seated like a Zen master, tend to rile me when you’re so cool. Your lips open, your warm brown eyes squint as you smile and within two seconds you’re giving me a five-minute round up on the latest ultimatum handed to Iran.
‘You think they’ll blow us all to kingdom come?
I don’t particularly care.
‘I admit, it’s a scary thought. I don’t blame you for not wanting to stop and think about the state of the world,’ you smoothly say. The only thing missing is a pipe and a fragrant cloud of smoke to shadow you like a halo.
I dump my bag on the nearest armchair and pace the room.
‘You hungry?’
Like an animal viewing its cage, everything from the fine upholstered divan to each framed print rubs me the wrong way, as does Mozart. Why is the television muted and what’s the point of watching CNN on mute?
‘I’m tired,’ I say.
‘Aw, why don’t you come here,’ you say, patting your lap.
You’ve had time to change into your jeans. My skin’s itching to be free of my clothes, attire that’s made from sweatshops. The irony of my sweat infiltrating the fabric, during the course of the day enters my worn mind. I feel like a caped crusader, in the reverse. Fabric cloaks my skin, covering up the radical elements that don’t fit into the conservative groove. You adored the radical, ‘who gives a fuck’ element within me but you prefer the cool, haughty exterior or the beauteously pristine feminine side that leeches out during cocktail parties, especially when your colleagues marvel at the trinket you’ve acquired.

It fills you up.
Expands you to a point where you take my hand, at the end of the night, and whisper all those sugar sweet nothings into my ear. You want to kiss me all over, caress me in all the right places and make me cum, over and over, until our limbs are lovingly entangled.

Wow.
Tonight I don’t want to deal with small talk.
I near your lap and tell you that I’d like to fuck. You lower your eyes. A light red blush caresses your cheeks. You’d prefer a light drizzle of love dust, like holy water to consecrate the unfolding moment but I want to be screwed. Your eyes dart about the room. Do I have to be so crass? Why, yes, I do. I like it very much. The moon’s shadowed me since its appearance. Full and luminous, it smiled upon me and irradiated my nerve centres. Each synapse, in turn, galvanised my thoughts.

You’re the prey, regardless of whether or not you’re casually reading the newspaper. My arrival pleased you.

'I cooked…'
'Not hungry,’ I reply.
'How was your day?'
We’re not married, haven’t crossed the threshold of Death Us Do Part and already you start the shit.
'How do you think I am?' the snarl unnerves you. I didn’t smile when I entered the living room, didn’t leap in the air like a court jester. It’s been a same shit, different day kinda day for me, matey. My nipples burn beneath my bra and you’re asking me a question that’s asked by every person in the entire world. If you asked the same of a pauper in Calcutta, I do wonder what they’d reply.
'So-rry,' you reply, somewhat frazzled at my attitude.
'So-rry!' I reply, parroting your voice.
You frown, as if to ask what’s up my arse. If I told you that I’d like your cock to be up my arse how would you react? Maybe you’d like a spot of dinner first, followed by a nip of fine liqueur. Drambuie? I’d prefer a beer.
Leaving you for a second. I rifle through the pantry in the kitchen. I fish out a calorie-laden biscuit and gnaw at it. Turning, I see you glance at me.
'You’ll ruin your appetite…'
'Yes Dad…'

Continue reading "Lunar Rising" »

November 22, 2005

The Gift - III

Sexmanbehind Making love under the influence of newly secreted hormones enhanced each bodily sensation. Cora’s breasts tingled at Michael’s touch. An inferno pulsated within her pelvis. Inside the motel room, she climbed over Michael’s supine body and slid down his iron hard shaft. After a few frictionless wet rides of his cock, he turned her over and deeply rammed her from behind. In Cora’s mind, it barely touched the sides, especially after his hot eruption over her buttocks.

As he showered in the small cubicle, she entered the bathroom and began rubbing his back. Within seconds she found herself on the tiled floor as water sprayed over her back. He slid his erect cock through the slot of her mouth, held her shoulders and slowly pumped against her mouth. Ravenous by the time he turned her to face the wall, her ass poked out, grinding against his pelvis.

Cora bit her lips, following his cues as he gyrated against her buttocks. Her once virgin ass felt every inch of him.

The short night resulted in her dressing and returning home earlier than expected.

The following morning, her ass felt tender enough for Cora to create an excuse to take the day off work. After a lengthy shower, she dressed and stepped out of the house, boarded a train and found herself in the city. The week’s thoughts returned to her mind. Her doctor urged her to make a decision soon. The weeks passed by quickly, he warned. At six weeks, she experienced moments where she thought it was all an illusion and this teased her thoughts but as the first light of day peeked through her window, her gut turned over countless times.

Continue reading "The Gift - III" »

November 21, 2005

The Gift - I

The inspiration for this story originates from concepts, events, and ideas. There is the adage of not having the pleasure to choose one’s family, especially where secrets are concerned, and alongside this there is the Twilight Zone moment that can arise in a person’s life from time to time. Together with these is the Hammer House of Horror, and how I always stayed up to watch it as a girl, despite my mother’s protestations, and one of these films featured the late great Peter Cushing. I don’t remember the name of the film, but in the film he was the owner or manager of an antique shop and he’d sell items to people. These items, due to their various types of enchantments, exacted some form of payback to the buyers or those who received them as gifts. Lastly, another thing that is thought of as a ‘gift’ is that of virginity. Thus, the gift isn’t about sweet romance, and happily ever after. It’s about attaining that sexual right of passage, which isn’t always draped with champagne and roses, and chaos lending a helping hand in times of personal sexual darkness, so that light can shine through. There may be some 'unsavory' sexual concepts within this story, but as I say, 'C'es la Vie'.


The Gift



Fate was kind, and remained glued to its perverted kindness for a decade. Each time a relative or friend crossed paths with Michael, they’d relay the details to Cora, like she needed to be updated on his latest endeavors.
‘Michael dropped by the other day, he asked about you…’ her uncle Joseph said, as she sat with her aunt having her tea leaves read.
‘That’s nice,’ she replied, blinking away her thoughts.
Each mention rewound her back to the early Nineties, their brief interlude and the heat it unleashed in cars, motels and the sometimes vacant house she shared with two other house mates. Cora always found herself back at the department store scanning the glass displays for the right Christmas present, something that Michael didn’t have, and managed to find it at the place she didn’t expect a few blocks away from the glamour den of David Jones.
In the weeks following her tea leaf reading, Cora wasn’t surprised to see her latest relationship be vanquished into the dimension of obscurity. Malcolm, a gentle computer programmer at her office, decided to expand his fishing net with the usual modern excuse of, ‘needing to see other people’, before apologizing and cementing his reassurance with, ‘it’s not you, it’s me.’
‘So much for aunt Helen’s reading,’ she thought, as she lay on the sofa with her king sized Cadbury Cherry Ripe, bag of potato crisps and the TV Guide. They offered something no human could provide, no backchat.
She began channel surfing, pressing the remote like a lost soul seeking a television fix when the newsbreak flashed on Channel Seven.

‘Freak weather has resulted in the disappearance of a local entrepreneur tonight. Michael Visic, out sailing on his new yacht on Sydney Harbour today, has disappeared. Visic’s company recently purchased TeleOne Communications, saving it from receivership. In the financial markets today, the Dow Jones climbed…’

Cora held her breath.
‘It couldn’t be…’

~~


Continue reading "The Gift - I" »

Enter your email address:

Delivered by FeedBurner

Sponsor - Bondara.co.uk

Premium Space





Shop-Tastic



Visits n Things





  • Readers Online

  • eXTReMe Tracker

  • Photobucket

  • Personal Blogs - Blog Top Sites

Categories

Reviewed By...

© Anastasia Mavromatis 2005 - 2008