I want to move into a beautiful little cabin nestled deep down in the woods on the edge of a lake tomorrow….. i can’t wait to put some sage and nag champa in the fireplace, put on a record, and make love on the clean, new floor.
I miss you wanting me.
I miss your touch.
I miss the way your silken skin feels against my calloused, tanned hide.
I miss your smell.
I miss your taste, as your juices flow over my lips in ecstasy.
I miss the way you grind your hips into mine when I hit the spot, like I know how to do.
I miss you
My favorite place to be.
Well, that is exactly where you belong baby girl, so…
Visit a healing shaman. Detox my poisoned body and mind. Spend a few days getting all the knots worked out by a master masseuse. Then go on a spirit/soul searching journey. Something gotta give. Soon. SOON.
Anonymous said: Story in which beautiful young girl (22 yrs not a teenager)is kidnapped ... rescued by ultra sexy man (29 yrs) who is human wolf hybrid (like supernatural show, not turns into full werewolf though,) and some smutty scenes b/w them... plz
Girl's description : brown eyed black haired tall
Man's description : black eyed black haired
Oh anon…You do make me chuckle…Because you see, the fire crackles and the stars turn, and out of the aether your request arrives before me.
Imagine then, that the storyteller scratches his beard and smiles in the dark. Imagine then, that there’s a look in his eye somewhere between merriment and deviltry.
Because someone has asked for a story. Someone has invoked the ancient law which binds us all together but hardly anyone notices. Desire born of words, passing into images, into your body; arousal cresting, nerves singing.
What material you give us to work with - a monster unleashed to unbind stolen beauty, A thing that stalks, all heavy furred, monstrous in his potency. No law can hold this night-stalker, this black-furred figure that that throws such a lengthy shadow.
What scents might this thing of raw power, all meat and muck and muscle, discover on the night’s breeze? What sights could be seen with the fierce eyes that burn in the dark, the colour of blackened oak and twice as ancient?
Somewhere at the back of a mind that swims with primordial urges, the old wolf-song unfolds, howling and heavy with meaning.
Yet, he stands still, for blood is on the wind. Blood, aye, and iron and spilt sap. Wolf-skin tightens, cunning flares behind his eyes - the corpse-call snares his senses.
Off and in he leaps, into the arms of night; limbs devouring distance as he plunges deeper into the forest. Over root and rock he leaps and climbs, neither full wolf or man in shape, but some awful avatar of the In-Between.
And here, anon, I must confess to trickery - for he is in fact a little bit more than awful; for awe overflows from his flesh.
It spills out of his footsteps, pours from his brow - a dark nimbus that catches the breath in your throat and sets the blood to flush skin, to pulse and harden vein, raising desire to titanic proportions.
Stealer of breath, thief of virtue and most cunning of outlaws - he smells the lust, the vital striving of Life to ever unfold in endless spasms of ecstasy.
First he plunges through the fire that encircles his goal, the weird light throwing gnarled shadows over everything, sending vines of night all around the white tower’s stones, making them climb the walls.
For of course, in this tale, there must be a tower, mustn’t there?
Ringed by forest, fire and water, it stands, with plaintive cries of rescue drifting down; calls for aid that would be swallowed by old earth, were it not for this lupine listener with the sharpest of ears.
On he goes then, this creature of feral hunger - leaving behind the smell of singed hide that slides over corded muscle and straining sinew. Into the waters he plunges, with strong strokes and bared teeth.
(A confession, anon - his thews are indeed mighty, but I shall not assault your intelligence with such a description. Your mind’s eye can, of coursde, picture this handsome beast in all his wild and glorious finery, can it not?)
Through the watery circle he swims, striking forth against snaring weeds, and nasty blind things that brush against his most vital of frors, until at last, he reaches the base and begins to climb.
Up and up! Hand over hand he goes; long strong fingers and the sharpness of sheathed claw-tips catching every crevice.
Up and up, aye, so the beast bounds. Power invoked, his magnetic strength sends him higher and higher as the begging sobs, the lamentation and moans for salvation prick his ears.
Until at last - there! A window ledge. Up and in he goes, for desire rises, deep scarlet in his belly, setting all his limbs afire.
And oh, what a confrontation!
Herein, chains jangle and fetters knock. Ropes bite and burn like writhing snakes against the body. Tear-kissed stone floor braces an ocean of weeping, upon which cower the victims.
Victims, yes, for there is more than one. They lie there, writhing, twitching in their bonds, heads bowed at the mercy of the black ruler of that place. Tears stream from their faces, with trembling lips and heartfelt moans.
And now, oh anon, what does our towering wolf-wrapped hunter do?
Nostrils flaring, breath huffing, what may our invader perceive, here in this tower prison?
Could it be that the cowering victims require their rescue, to be ravished before their eventual rest at a refuge? Would they be loosed from their bonds, to be bount in eternal gratitude to this dark-haired hunter of the forest?
With salt juices and blood and body would they bend and twist to please him with mouth and hand and ever inventive submission; overwhelmed by his immense appetitites, his burning kisses and gripping hands parting flesh so that he might pass and pulse within their crooks and curves, passages and intimate places?
Or perhaps he might take them though they be bound, turning their auburn heads to his every whim and lust? Pressing himself upon them, might he have his way with them, the root of him iron-hard and thick?
Perhaps if it were that kind of story, and not this.
For you, oh anon, have given me the materials, but it is always the teller of the tale who guides and stirs the soul where he will.
Naught that I have told you, dear reader, is a lie. All is as I have said, for in truth within the tower lies the blacksmith’s only daughter!
Tall she is, lithe and strong with auburn locks. With russet eyes deep as endless wells, and skin as black as iron, so flame dances in her gaze.. Hands raised to lift and let fall the heaviest of hammers are stained with blood here, the spilt sap of root and herb smeared in strange designs across her forehead.
For the blacksmith’s only daughter has been trained in her father’s art, and with fire and art she has wrought a terrible vengeance upon those who would seek to bind her. A secret speech causes fetters to fall, the iron obeying its rightful mistress.
She does not moan and whine - tis her jailers that do so, oh anon. Tis her magic that turns the keys at their belts to hiss and spit and bite. Witch they called her, as they thought to cuff her, as she bit and twisted like a cat. As they sought to cow her in this tower of stone, she spoke the secret mantras, fired by bellows-breath.
Flame and water sprung up from cloven earth, to encircle all. And in that place, she had her way with those who thought they could turn blades against the blacksmith’s only daughter.
Their swords wilted, shining things now shrivelled - the furnace of their ardour now dampened, limp and blind,. So far beyond quenching, tthey are drowning, begging and pleading in their horror. Throats all clotted by swollen tongues, they moan for forgiveness, but she does not hear them - the blacksmith’s only daughter.
And here the hunter stands, his lips parted in a smile, as she turns to look upon him. Beast-tongue growls a greeting, and the blacksmith’s only daugter replies in kind - for did you not know that a smith must soothe many a beast in the course of their work?
Smile meets smile then, a strong lunar blaze of perfect teeth.shining down on wolf-fang and illuminating the night suddenly turned furnace hot. She beckons the hunter, draws him forth to share her prey, all stained with scarlet pride.
Witch they called her; whore and bitch and hellcat. Witch, they called her, and witch she is - for you cannot steal a witch away. It is they who steal you.
Witch and sorceress so she is, and one name more, too.
Wolfrider! So they shrieked, and so they cried.
Wolfrider! So they sobbed and begged, to banish, like a spell.
Wolfrider! So they moaned a third time, tears and anguish carried on the breeze.
And thus it is, and so, and maybe - thrice they sang their song. And so she smiled down at them with perfect glee - third time’s the charm, you know?
She felt him near and knew, ere long, he’d come there by her side. And there, amidst the bloody vengeance, she, the wolf did ride!
Now all unleashed, they fucked til dawn, as thunder scarred the sky - and as the sun rose to burn bright above, the stones themselves did cry!
She rides the wolf
He hunts there by her side
With fierce abandon
Raw lust and strength unveiled
There they do abide!
Oh hear our song
Oh worlds above
And places Deep Below
They stalk here now and then
They stalk here long ago
Bright in shape
And dark in Night
Full of deepest Pride
Be witness then, oh friend
For the legend never died
The legend of the Blacksmith’s Only Daughter
Princess Niobe on her blanket with her pillow.
Today was Bill Murray day at the Toronto Film Festival
Bill fucking Murray.
Fuck me pls in all god damn aspect of this world