Zoophiliac’s Dream

  

Credit: http://static.comicvine.com/uploads/scale_small/1/15776/1322468-cat_fem6.jpg

She mewed at him provoking sense and shifted gaze.

The glint in his eye sparked flame among the blue.
Smoke surrounded her, drifting a tail of thin vapor.


His Circe gone, the scent of woman-cum-feline stirred.
The endless voyage in hiatus, his will broke in on itself
feathering out the tics drinking below the surface calm.


Caged ardor pounces a captain’s dreams ad delirium.
The restraints of a space-time compendium of battles
writ to air beats love into holes of clawed subordinates.

One Man’s Pornography….

  

…is another’s erotica.  Considered pornography in 1918, Biederer’s photography depicts erotica or pornography, depending on your tolerance for whips and chains, striking portraiture of fabulously outlandish poses and brimming emotion. 

Risqué for its time but rather tame for today’s show-all-leave-nothing-for-the-imagination flat porn, Biederer’s stills and stags are delightfully playful imprints of the imagination, sexy and daring. From nasty snarling dominatrix whip yielders to women on women S & M to plain old funky fun spankings (click on the more daring photos in the text link). I especially love the smirk on the face of the woman, riding crop poised to snap, as she, atop the man on all fours with the hourse head, is about to strike. 

The most striking part of this short piece in dangerousminds.net is the shockingly sordid fact of the article’s last sentence, so poignant, so moving in consideration of the preceding photos of creative enjoyment and the artist’s  genuine celebration of lust for the bizarre and outlier’s reach.

The Second Time 

  

Credit: http://www.autostraddle.com

The second time she came was with a boy-man she had attracted while perusing selections in a shoe store. He was a salesman and she was in the market for some comfortable shoes that evoked her style: earth shoes. 

“Do you have these in a size 9?” she asked huskily, then choking slightly, clearing her throat as she held up the shelf model to his smiling eyes. 

It was late 1978. She had already met Sean but he was spending the summer with his girlfriend while she was working and making her way through college as a young, vibrant, jeans-and-flannel 18 year old seeking love and fun in between classes. 

She was thrilled that she caught his attention, he with the thick, sandy brown, wavy, shoulder length hair, the same texture as his full wide bandito mustache of old Spaghetti westerns, that covered his full mouth and detracted from his cobalt blue eyes, the same color as Sean’s. He was clearly flirting, touching her foot in lingering courtesy, as he helped her try on the ugly dirt brown leather earth shoe with its flat rubber sole the color of bottled rubber cement, and hobbit-foot curved toe box. 

“How do these fit?” he asked, grinning too widely for the contextual inquiry.

It was the first of many encounters with Jim, whom she loved to kiss for hours. He may still go down as one of the best kissers ever, someone who could savor a mouth, a tongue, the fullness of a brushing lower lip along another’s thinner, grasping top lip in utter tender breathlessness of passionate study. He clearly understood that a kiss was a conversation. 

He was a natural fit and they had sex often but after a time, made love, high on cheap wine and pot, in synced undulation that moved her body–shoulders to thighs–slithery-slowly in sweaty sensual waves inside the steamy, airless room of a slightly seedy, shared apartment behind the liquor store of the town’s busy main drag. A shoe salesman’s commissions afforded little luxury.

On one occasion, she found herself lying underneath him, hands softly cupping his bare shoulders, fingers rounded relaxed so that her nails lightly tingled the skin of his back as he slowly moved in and out of her, rhythmic but slow-savor of flesh on flesh, every stroke of it on the way in and out, even-calm gliding sweetness that all of the sudden burst tears from her eyes in a full-blown opening that was yet a closeness to his being; it moved her body and heart–an unknown sensation to her prior to that moment and a mystery still as she bathed in the warm tears on her face and the outpour from her brain down to the depths of her, some place she only abstractly identified as the darkness of her womb. 

She was surprised at the tears and the tender feeling of surrender and body deep warmth leaking from her pores and especially her legs, between her thighs. She would many years later identify that sensation in the throes of an intentionally induced orgasm in the bed of the technician, whose fingers worked effortlessly to make her body arch in that final tautness before the release–as an orgasm. 

It was an aha! moment 12 years later while reflecting in the night spent with that technician, “Hotel Jones,” lying awake in glorious incongruous aftermath of body-spent stillness and sleeplessness for the sheer bubbling liquid excitement that stirred inside her: the newness of an unknown man, experience, and sex never before recognized, come to light of her mind, where she knew everything, filtered by ponderous thought and book-learned emotion, how she understood the world and herself.

Guest Post by Edgar Paul – The Doll

image [Image: The Doll by Hans Bellmer]

Gregorio woke from his nightmare with a start. The sheets stuck uncomfortably to his sweat drenched body as he fought free to sit up in the darkness. He placed his hands over his face and massaged his temples, then reached back hoping he would find her in the absence. The pillow was cold, reminding him that her weight and warmth no longer rested there.

He glanced up and away from his loneliness and caught the glimmer of moonlight in glass eyes. Across the room, still and silent she sat, the beautiful doll, Marion. She had belonged to his wife as a child and had been passed down to their daughter… before they both were lost to this world.

Gregorio stopped himself from thinking of it and stood, approaching the doll slowly. Her glass eyes watched his every step curiously. He knelt and stroked her hair softly, imagining his wife and daughter’s fingers tracing the same path through those golden tresses. This was how they were all connected now, all he had left, memories shared through the porcelain flesh of this doll, and her silken hair.

Gregorio struck a match and lit a candle so that he could better examine the doll. Marion had been crafted by the finest doll maker in the realm and was given to his wife when she was a child after her sister had drowned. It had been made with the idea of becoming a replacement of sorts, to calm her anxieties of facing life without her identical twin.

Now facing his own tragedy of loss, Gregorio saw just how much Marion favored his wife’s appearance and by blood extension, their daughter. He stroked the lines of the doll’s face, tracing his large fingers over her brow and cheeks, down the bridge of her nose and longingly over her lips. He lingered there for a moment, looking at her face reflect the candlelight, and gazed into the depths of her brown glass eyes.

Gregorio sighed and picked up the doll, carrying her gently in his arms and placed her into the bed in the place of his wife. Marion’s green dress bloomed out with lace like petals of a flower, and he stood over her, gently unfastening the wooden buttons of her blouse. As he parted the fabric above her breasts he could see the delicate joints at her shoulder and neck, the skin underneath pure, unpainted and white. Gregorio moved the candle closer and gently slipped the layers of fabric off her arm.

The joints clattered as he placed Marion’s hand above her head. It was then that he noticed small nipples had been painted in red on her breasts. He stroked the mark softly with a thumb and then checked the other side, repeating his motions across the porcelain nipple. The stain was permanent, as was the memory of his wife’s sensitive nipples.

He’d been fond of teasing them with his fingers, her soft nipples growing stiffer against his grip. He continued to roll his hand absent mindedly over the doll’s breasts softly as he removed Marion’s right arm from the sleeve and placed it above her head.

Sliding his hand down her smooth belly he gently removed the dress and bustle to reveal Marion’s crotch, thighs and legs. Her torso was one solid piece with joints for the appendages. Her arms and legs hung on bits of old string, as tattered and frayed as his broken heart. Examining her holes and estimating the strength of those strings, Gregorio left the doll on the bed alone for a moment and disappeared with the candle to rummage in his workshop.

Marion lay there in the dark, naked and cold. The doll maker had cursed her so that she could not move without having someone else manipulating her body. Her eyes fixed on the ceiling and watched the shadows of the leaves chase through the moonlight. She remembered the past fifty years fondly, her time with Gregorio’s wife and child, but her Mistresses were gone – dead. Marion understood that he was the Master now, and she knew she would have to do exactly as he said.

He returned with leather straps of various sizes and a knife but was unable to detect the glint of panic in her eyes. Gregorio set straight into work, spreading Marion’s legs apart and taking another look at the joint. He pressed the knife gently against the string of her left thigh and cut deliberately. Too much pressure, he feared, would shatter the thin bit of porcelain that was to hold her together. Freeing the first string he moved to the second and third, until he was able to remove her leg completely. Marion had felt safe in his arms, secure in his protection and comforted in his gaze – but now she screamed silently behind her dusty and crackled skin, afraid of her fate. His machinations were soon revealed as he began to inspect the ceramic of her torso where he had amputated the leg. His fingers pierced inside her wound, sliding into a spot she’d never felt a man before. Marion struggled to remain still. He held a warm cloth, cleaning carefully around and inside the hole, she was relieved that he’d forced her face into a position he couldn’t see. Her eye lashes fluttered with the pleasure she was experiencing. Marion felt a strange energy growing inside her as he took up a soft bristle brush and scrubbed softly against the edge of the joint.

Once she was clean and dust free, Gregorio lined the inside and outside of her torso with a leather fold, protecting the ceramic where it would come into contact with her leg. She loved the feel of his fingers against her, and the sensation of the leather against her skin was remarkable. Her face flushed and her lips tingled.

He continued the cleansing on the inside of her leg; she could feel the wetness from his cloth dripping down her thigh. Next Gregorio lined the inside edge of her leg with leather and fitted the parts back together by punching holes through for leather straps to replace the old string. As she felt him draw her leg back in place with his knots she struggled not to moan. His touch made her cold flesh feel like no one else’s touch had before. Gregorio repeated the same technique to remove, wash, and pad her shoulders, elbows and knees. His fingers felt wide and warm inside her; she struggled to remain still, parting her lips to moan softly. She barely managed to withhold the noise from him.

As Gregorio finished securing the final tie on her leg, she winced sharply. He had pressed too hard as he tied a knot in the leather straps and the ceramic of her crotch cracked. A cleft formed a roughly curved line up between her legs from the joint where the two halves of her torso met. He cursed and gently examined the fracture. The pressure from his fingers caused slivers of porcelain to fall away, leaving a small uneven diamond shape behind.

Taking his warm, wet washcloth he pressed it into the jagged crevice between her legs, leaving soft folds around the edges. Gregorio tested the pressure, making sure the rag would prevent the fissure from spreading any further up her belly. It seemed to provide enough padding, and he traced his finger softly along the edges of her new folds, feeling where the doll’s torso had split. He carefully tucked the fabric over the sharp ceramic edges.

All these sensations were new and overwhelming to Marion. She lay still, panting from her open mouth, licking her lips. Her body felt warm, wet, and tingly; it was a feeling she’d never known. Gregorio was adjusting the wetness between her legs, his fingers pressing inside her and pulling softly at those folds. She could feel his flesh against her flesh, a pressure building between her thighs as he manipulated her. She remained as still and quiet as she could, a rush of pressure and pleasure roaring in her.

She was close to her first orgasm when he withdrew his hands.

Gregorio sat back and looked at her. Marion’s legs were spread before him, she was now dressed as if in leather garters, her nipples rouged, her porcelain skin parted between her legs, inviting him inside her folds. Her face looked different in this light, her cheeks flushed red, mouth pursed in anxious anticipation. His erection was throbbing as he gazed at his wife’s porcelain doppelgänger.

He cursed himself, blew out the candle and crawled into bed weeping with sorrow over his deceased family; overcome with embarrassment by his desires for this doll.

Marion lay there stunned, feeling his weight against her, his arms pulling her tight against him as he sobbed into her hair. She listened as his breathing calmed and deepened. After a time, Gregorio had rolled away from her and fallen asleep.

She discovered to her delight that she was able to move her arms. She lowered the hand furthest from him down against her breast. The nipple was still sensitive and felt as if it burned as she pressed her fingers against it. She rubbed and teased and felt the porcelain go from cold to hot, returning to human flesh as she teased herself. She moved her hands down to the damp hole between her legs that he had created and explored delicately with her fingertips.

Marion stroked at the bottom of the folds and found an opening; it was quite pleasurable to insert her fingers inside. She pressed them in deeply and felt the fabric squeeze in against her fingers when she pressed her hips up. At the top of her moist folds she found an area that made her shiver and moan in delight as she massaged it. The sensation of her fingers against that spot was intensely pleasurable, an amazing mixture of pain, pleasure and surprise. She wiggled her hips softly and arched her back as she sighed deeply at this new flood of feeling.

The fabric and ceramic had become flesh, transforming her from doll to woman.

“Gregorio” she moaned as she played with the wetness between her legs. “Greeegooorrrioooooooooo,” she purred, managing to complete the orgasm that he had started earlier with the sound of his name on her lips.

“I must be dreaming,” he said, having been awakened from his slumber by her masturbation. He had rolled over to watch her, admiring her beautiful body.

“I am no dream.” Marion replied, moving her hand to stroke his face softly. “Your want and desires have made me real, broken a curse I’ve been under for half a century. You’ve given me pleasures I’ve never known.” She kissed his lips hungrily. “Now use me, put me into the positions you enjoy and let me be your toy. I have had enough of little girl’s tea parties and playing princess – make me your slut, Gregorio, for I am yours.”

They embraced and kissed passionately, his fingers discovering her skin was now warm and soft. He fondled her breasts gently and then kissed his way down her neck to her nipples, pulling against them hard with his teeth. Continuing to suckle and nibble her breasts softly, Gregorio moved his fingers down her belly and explored the wet warmth between her legs.

“Roll over and get on your hands and knees.” He demanded, standing at the side of the bed with one hand idly stroking his cock. He watched as Marion complied and then pressed his throbbing against her mouth.

She furrowed her brow and looked up at him with concern. “I don’t know what to do with a man. You’ll have to show me.”

“I plan to.” Gregorio replied with a sadistic smirk, pressing his fingers against her chin to open her mouth and placing his erection inside. “Good girl, now massage me with your tongue and suck. Gently!” He admonished her as she inhaled sharply against him. “Gently…good.” He moaned and moved his fingers into her hair. As he began to move her head up and down his shaft, Gregorio moved his hips in matching rhythm as Marion moaned around his girth.

Feeling his cock inside her mouth was amazing. She could feel him throbbing against her tongue, her mouth watering for more and more of him inside her.

Marion’s eyes shot wide as he plunged himself deep into her mouth, as if reading her thoughts. She struggled against gagging and choking, feeling her spit sloppily drip down her chin as she took him into her mouth fully. It was a feeling of total helplessness; she was consumed by him, controlled by him. His cock filled her mouth as he roughly fucked her lips, tongue and throat. She felt his strength forcing her to take his cock, and knew his desire.

As He withdrew she coughed and gasped for air, a long trail of her spittle trailing on his dick and dripping off to fall against her neck and breasts. It was a humiliating feeling to be used that way and she loved it. She wrapped her hand around his cock and moved her mouth for more, but he pulled away from her slightly. “I want more!” She purred, pouting.

“Good girl.” He said stroking himself and removing her hand from his shaft. “Don’t move” Gregorio circled to the other side of the bed and admired his handiwork. Marion’s crotch had been an androgynous flat surface of seams and ceramic before, now her pussy glistened in a glorious celebration of her womanhood. He teased her wetness gently with his cock, rubbing her from behind so that the tip pressed across her clit.

Marion arched her back and moaned. Gregorio’s touch against her was many times more pleasurable than her own. He reached up and wrapped his thick fingers against her hips before pressing himself slowly and deeply inside her wet, tight little pussy. She found he was considerably larger than her own fingers had been, and she could feel his bulging veins and his swollen cock head hot inside her, filling her up. Marion’s pussy contracted and clamped around him as she screamed in pleasure.

He took her slow and steady at first, letting her feel his shaft slide fully in and out of her. Then he slapped her ass and pressed in harder and faster, feeling himself swelling up inside her. She thrashed into him, moving her hips to match his seemingly angry motions. He stabbed his cock into her savagely, watching as she struggled against him. She fell face down into the bed and moved her arms back to try to push his body away slightly. “Be a good little doll and take it,” he growled. She accepted her fate and spread her pussy open for him with her hands as he fucked her.

Gregario didn’t remember his wife being this tight, nor wet. Marion’s pussy also felt hot like he’d never known in a woman. He reached down to pull her hair hard as he struggled to concentrate; the feeling of being inside her was intense, magical.

She felt his orgasm inside her, his hot juices blowing against her walls. Gregorio collapsed against her back and kissed her neck before sliding his dick out from in between her legs and rolling off her. Marion could feel his cum dripping out of her as she lay down satisfied, astonished, and happy.

It wasn’t long before she was again listening to Gregorio sleep next to her. Soon she felt her own eyes getting heavy and going glassy.

Marion began to feel her skin turn cold and firm, it was drying up and changing back into stiff, fragile porcelain. She stood cautiously as her body was transforming and redressed herself, stepping back into the bustle of her dress and fastening herself into the comfort of modesty.

She did not want Gregorio to wake and see her cold, stark white porcelain skin. She wanted him only to remember her warm, pink flesh.

Making her way clumsily back to the chair across the room, Marion looked back and tried unsuccessfully to crack a porcelain smile at her master. Her face and body had almost entirely returned to solid form as she settled into the chair.

Marion rested her head back and shut her eyes as she drifted into a dream state. She dreamed of running freely through a field of flowers, the grass tickling at her ankles. She would giggle and laugh at the butterflies, chasing them. She heard music in the distance, and could smell the smoke of a nearby chimney.

These dreams were partly fantasy and partly a memory of Marion’s youth. They were remembrances of the time before her parents had sold her into slavery and before the doll maker had cast his spells upon her.

Gregorio dreamed of his family, of his wife’s kisses, his daughter’s laughter. He dreamed of sharing a meal all together, sitting at the table. He could taste the food in his mouth, and could feel the warmth of his wife’s hand in his. Her eyes were brown and full of life. Her generous smile warmed him. Marion was there too, laughing with them, enjoying her dinner. He watched as Marion poured his wife a glass of wine, the twins kissing each other hungrily, their fingers pressed against each other’s faces.

Slowly waking, Gregorio rolled over and reached for the woman who had been in his bed last night. No one was there.

Had he been dreaming?

Mistress Mine

Come to me mine, my mistress,
in the early hours’ pre-day pleasure;
the Indian motel clerk with tossled hair
and somnambulant grin, smell of curry
and the rice crispy bars he displays
with the thinly brewed coffee in plastic,
dark and medium roast depicted
by milk chocolate or unsweetened cocoa
colored beans on the mini cups’ sealed
aluminum foil covering, slowly and
sullenly swaps a key for my hundred.

In the lunch time hour, I come to you
in your bed, while others no wiser for
not knowing as they wend through the
river of their days at school, in traffic,
at work, to whisper in your ear what a
great fuck my mistress is and ever she
is thus, in her leather stripes and boots
lace tongue and slippery warm fingers
that rifle my hair, trace the topography,
thick, hard rubber muscles of my back
labored strong on clay courts in my day.

On late Friday afternoon, I call you to me;
come lie with me and hold my slumber
in yours, in your touch as we bask
in the one-ply sheets of sweat and soap
inhaling cleaner fluid scented polish
and the wafting heat of our skin and breath,
a still life of absolution and post passion
slightly swaying bed of our beating chests
as I sink into pillows and you eye ceilings
waiting for the pulsing to subside so that
we can fall into spooned rhythm of sleep.

Nights I send you one word, a number,
a question mark or a letter you know,
my hot queen at the flash of a moment,
the ready response to my steady call
peppered in night and day fantasies of
owning you, possessing every morsel
of your mind for my own amusement,
making you my doll and my caged cunt
waiting, wanting, wishing for my return
and no one can see you, enjoy your
beauty, sex, or mind–for you are mine.

A Flash of Affection

What is that sticking out of your ass?
It’s your vibrator.
Why is it there and who said you could use it…there.?
I was cleaning out the bathroom like you told me to do this morning before you left for work when I came across it.
So how did it end up in your ass?
Well, when I was cleaning the sink, I looked under the sink for a fresh sponge since the one I was using was dead. While there, I came across your lipstick, hairbrush, deodorant, hair remover, tweezers, face lotion that smells like you when I kiss you, and then the vibrator…I just got…you know…longing for you.
So you stuck my vibrator up your ass?
Well, yeah. It felt good, like being with you.
Because I’m a pain in the ass?
A lovely pain in the ass I love so much, who makes me feel the warm, ecstatic oozing flow of cum after you touch me where I tell you when I tell you even when that touch spot shifts and moves all over the place for the 20 minutes you are working away at me feverishly trying to ebb and flow with my building, plaining, edging, ebbing, building, plaining, building and exploding, releasing, ahhhhh into the warm syrup of surrender. Yeah, a lovely pain in the ass. I love you.
Yeah, I love you too.

Today in Madonna History: October 2, 1992

Funny how things change with a little time seasoning. I did not appreciate Madonna when I first heard her, probably the song “Holiday,” finding her music too bubble gum and her vamp style too demeaning to women with her kitten sexo-fascist look and a less than subtle attempt to capitalize on sex. It was 1983, and I was still into Joni Mitchell and the Rolling Stones, suffering through Michael Jackson’s Thriller, admittedly a great album, though far too pop for me, rock-alternative elitist in my own mind and leftover feminist hippy. My heyday was in the 70s.

Like many amateur critics of the time, I thought the 80s were bereft of music with soul–all that techno machinery replacing actual musicians and musicianship swapped for computers. It wasn’t until her song “Live to Tell” from the movie At Close Range that I stopped to listen to her, her voice, her passion, her captivating eeriness. The movie was a tough movie, and I thought the song was rendered well against the backdrop of the grim and complex themes only one of which was rape. I did not see the movie–only read about it and opted out–but felt it in her song. I thought that was a telling tribute to her talent as a singer/songwriter (though a collaborative effort).

After that, I listened to her music through the years with a more open mind and attuned ear about both music and sex. Some songs I liked and some I did not. When I truly began to appreciate her was when I saw the imitators–ostensible innovators to the uninitiated–follow along on her coattails, thriving off the capital of her inroads into the hip and campy hypno-sex as music scene, only one of whom I consider the most famous and imitative, Lady GaGa. Imitation is not necessarily the litmus test of greatness but combined with prolific productivity and time, there is something there that will turn Madonna (yes, some would argue already is) into the icon she deserves to be, even in my mind. Maybe that something is maturity, mostly mine.

Today In Madonna History

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On October 2 1992, Madonna’s “Erotica” video premiered on MTV.

The “Erotica” video was directed by fashion photographer Fabien Baron, and featured a masked Madonna in a dominatrix costume. It also featured celebrities such as Naomi Campbell, Isabella Rossellini and Big Daddy Kane. The video was highly controversial, being aired by MTV a total of three times, before becoming Madonna’s second video to be banned, after “Justify My Love” in 1990.  

MTV spokeswoman Linda Alexander said, “The themes of the video are clearly aimed at a more adult audience. It is not appropriate for a general viewing audience”.

The footage of Madonna lip-synching the song in her S&M dominatrix costume was filmed on August 22, 1992 at The Kitchen in New York City, while the rest of the footage for the video was shot during the photo sessions for Madonna’s “Sex” book.  

In order to imitate the look of old home-made movies, the entire video…

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Mistress@bdsmalbum.net

image

This Hentai apparent sub appears to be looking in anguish to the missing person in the scene most probably the dom in this master or mistress and slave power exchange. She is bound and exposed, the cartoon breasts and crotch in prominent view. The bonds that tie her seem somewhat like restrictive ribbons, rather suggestive of the play relationship. The only contradiction is the look in the subject’s eyes, which appears to be a mix of slight fright and apparent seduction to the dom. In the typical master/mistress and slave relationship, the lure is the power exchange (whether total power exchange or partial) where the submissive gives his or her power/life to the dominant in exchange for the dominant’s responsibility to take care of him or her. Trust is key. While the control may seem tied up in one person, the submissive’s giving up control usually rests on the tacit agreement, sometimes written agreement, that the submissive determine the limitations, going so far and no further, assuming the participants are consenting partners and not insane. Notice the sub is presumably tied up, looking down at the dom, which suggests she has her own power.