No matter your race 

Or gender

Or sexuality

Or dynamic 

Or size 

I accept your Soul

In this moment

In this journey,
You don’t need me to tell you

But I’ll tell you all the same.

* Photos by Andrew Thomas Clifton


If Life Were A Slasher Film, You’d Be My Victim


Sometimes we think we understand words. You know – understand their full meaning in so many different ways. But sometimes an experience comes along that redefines that feeling – that word. And from that point in time onwards, you live your life with the updated knowledge that this is love, that this is heartbreak. That you knew Violation when your husband tried it out on you while the kids were away, while you both still felt human. 

But I promise you, if I catch you in my woods. If I find you’re skinny dipping in my Lake or getting high in the cabins, I will do you the honours of taking the word violated and redefine it when I back you into a corner.

When your mascara runs, when your body trembles and your breasts sway with the panic — when I coil my hands around your thin loose top that classifies as an item of clothing and tear it off, you will come to understand what it means to be violated.

When your body is pinned under mine, and you can smell the sweat I’ve worked up stalking you, watching you and the rest of those friends of yours — when my hand finds the slit of your cunt, roughly divides its folds eagerly with my fingers and your body betrays you with its act of preparing you for the act, you will come to understand what it means to be violated. 

When my other hand finds your nipple, your sweet puffy nipples, and pulls outwardly with all of my might – when you feel as if you can’t take the pain anymore, you will come to understand what it means to be violated.

And at the moment your mind snaps, when the madness washes over you, when your body breaks beneath my coarse caress, you will come to redefine what it means to be violated. 

Because no matter what anyone does to you in the comfort of your bedroom or little fucking play scene you have set out for each other. No matter if he takes you while you swim in the warm inviting lake.

What I can do, in the darkness, with your mind, while you’re alone and staring at your reflection in the full length mirror in the cabin bedrooms will be so much worse.


One For A Dream

After the children have gone down, 

And she can finally undress to herself, 

she sits topless by the window 

and stares into her reflection.

Teacher. Doctor. Lawyer.

Slave. Pet. Baby Girl.

Hiding and yet

In plain sight. 

The world sees her and yet

Doesn’t see her. 

Doesn’t know

What she has to give.


But each day she strives

And never falters 

To live

Not exist. 


Do you understand the power of the human mind?Do you understand the strength of that power?

We hallucinate. Our minds play tricks on us. 
When we’re tired, sometimes we conjure up manifestations that aren’t there. Conversations that never happen.
When we wake from our dream, sticky with sweat in the comforting light of day, we are safe from our minds. But at night? At night, you should take heed. Imagination is a magical, unwieldy power. 

So. You can look in my direction, safe with the knowledge you are secure from your lawn opposite the street. You can put your feet up on the couch or lay them across your partner while your babe sleeps. 
You can convince yourself you’re happy with your life, day in day out. Feed yourself, take care of yourself, feed the babe, take care of the babe.


In the dead of the night. When it’s quiet. When not even the crickets will sing for you, find your anchor. Find your safe spot, your warm comfort. Find what light within you that you can.
Because if you think. If you think of me.
I will materialise before you.
Out of the dark, out of the shadows cast by the moonlight that filters in through your window, my form will appear.
And before you can turn on the light, the safe comfort, I will grab you by the ankle and drag you back within my reach. Back into the darkness. 

The more you indulge this thought path, the stronger I grow. 
The stronger I grow, the more I become self-aware. 
When that occurs, where does your original thought, your fantasy, end and my thoughts begin.  

A runaway mind would lead you to having your clothes torn completely off. 
Could you guess that your singlet top and shorties could be peeled off, curled off, torn off, across the room so easily?
Had you wondered how you might scream to your snoring partner who fell asleep on the couch downstairs? Did you wonder how you could even get out a scream? We both know you can’t raise your voice. You were never good at it. 

When you’re on your stomach, completely nude, your hair down and out across your back and past your shoulders, will this be my fantasy? Or yours?
Would my gaze, resting upon your pale bare ass, be your desire? Or mine?
Would your wet cunt, filling the bedroom with its delightful aroma, be offered to me for tribute? 

And when I pull you up to your knees and back into me….when I take your ass….is this a delicious act reserved for me, for us, in this moment? Or a product of a scrapped fantasy, something your boyfriend shows no interest in?

If you think, just for one second, you open the doorway between worlds. 

If you open the doorway between worlds, you run the risk of inviting me into your bedroom.

That power is yours. 

Happy Birthday To Me – An Erotic Story

The words come out of her voice in a gut-twisting sing-song voice.

Goosebumps slither up his body like a snake coiling around its catch of the day.

He can smell her – the sickly sweet stench of arousal and cheap perfume. 

He can feel her, pressed against his ass while her hand has gripped his head.

A fistful of hair. 

She trails her hand – slimy, cold, clammy – down his back. He can feel it through her dress.

How did he get here? WHEN did he get here?

What time is it now?

All that’s there for is darkness. Darkness and the sickly smell of arousal.

The sudden pressure of her thigh against his ass knocks him something loose within him.

He can’t help but urinate. 

She doesn’t notice at first. At first, she’s too busy holding him still with her right hand while she slides her hand down into the bottom of his pants. 

It’s only when she reaches around and catches the last few drops with her palm that she giggles, speaking lowly in that sing-song voice of hers.


The woman called Abigail yanks his pants down. He can feel the coolness of the air around him.

His legs buckle. He tries to reason with her – but only stammers.

She mocks him as she slides down his back, her breasts hovering over her.

She relishes the fact that her nipples skim the surface of his back.

Now she’s on her knees, her lips opening across his cheek. He can feel them glide over him. 

She’s still singing to herself, something incomprehensible. 

He could’ve sworn she said the word Daddy.

He feels the dizziness wash over him and for a moment, the briefest of moments, he’s a child, seeing the bubbles of his cousins pool as he’s sinking down into the deep end. He’s fallen in. He’s going to drown when —
Her lips, icy, startle him back to the land of the living. She’s slipped her mouth over his cock. 

He can hear her gag, then laugh. 

It doesn’t make any sense to him. Is she gagging on purpose? For a laugh?

‘Aren’t you proud of me, Daddy?’

He tries to resist but she’s strong. She has him facing her, back against the wall. 

He can feel her tongue flick up the length of his cock. And…something else.

A door opens. 

He doesn’t want to step inside but he finds he’s floating towards her. Something – an impulse – pulsates through his cock. 


No. It can’t be. 

Can it?

The woman named Abigail giggles and continues her song.

‘Happy Birthday Dear Abigail…Happy Birthday To Me!’

I end my twenties today and so I thought I’d write a stream-of-consciousness story. Apologies if it’s garbage. Let me know. 

Paint It Black: A Stream of Consciousness piece 

‘Paint it Black’ by The Rolling Stones is a curious beast of a song. From the lyrics, It feels like it is coming from the mind of a manic depressive. 

But on a tangent, on a stream of consciousness, I want to add something that I’ve always, personally, taken away from the song.
“I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes. I have to turn my head until my darkness goes”

Every time I heard that part, I would always think of something animalistic. 

Kind of like a Dr. Jekyll / Mr. Hyde duality happening. The primal. The animal. That thing that wants to ravage these, well, poor young women. 

And so, will you kindly step over the threshold and into my mind? Do watch your step and don’t wander off. Things may grab you and take you. 
That lyric makes me think of a man. A single father, if you will. A painter. Or at least, he is painting his home when his daughter, a pretty little thing of 18, comes home with her best friend. 

This daughter, raven hair, blue eyes, no make up, effortlessly pretty, slinks off to the shower, leaving her best friend, freckles, red hair, eyes like ice, with this single father.
Now…I’m a fan of magic. I’m also very tired, it’s 5 – no, 6-38am upon reading this and despite my best interests, I’m writing. I don’t know why. Forgive me if this is garbage and feel free to write so in the comments below. I trust you to.

But I’m a fan of magic with my stories. Hence sea creatures and cults and demons invading bedrooms. And this scenario? Say the paint fumes affect this best friend. Say this single father, this awkward, lanky, but charming dark haired man, despite his best intentions, gives in to the part of him that flirts a look at this younger lady. 

What if…with one hand, he grabs her and pushes her against the wet wall, tears off her stockings, rips down her girly panties, something cute like tinker bell light blue panties. And tinker bell’s face is right where this girl’s slit is, yeah. Starting to be soaked. 

What if this best friend doesn’t stand a chance against this father. And while her head shakes off the paint fumes, she’s getting her clothes torn off. 

The single father, he’ll throw her down along the ground, a tarp softening her blow. And I see a pale ass. A freckle is on her right cheek. And it’s utterly delightful. This freckle is like a highlight. As her lightly trimmed cunt that can be seen as she falls to the ground, defenceless. But also weirdly aroused.

And while she squirms, maybe groans and cries – cries drowned out by the daughter’s shower – this single father grabs her by the legs and drags her back to him. And you know, I can feel the floor on my stomach drag as he drags her. It’s like I feel her. And see her. Weird.

I did, only once, witness a dream come to reality. I dreamt of two elements and then the next day, those two elements appeared in my life. Right where I was in that exact moment. I was travelling overseas so the chances of these elements appearing were slim. Maybe there’s a minute part of me that is psychic? Hm. But I do feel her. Just as I see her.

And this single father, maybe he grabs a paint brush, dips it in the nearest point and he’ll paint her black. 
Maybe he’ll paint all of her black. Her arms, breasts, ass, stomach. He’ll mark her. And she’ll squirm at the coldness. And she’ll feel repulsed but aroused. She’a being claimed in an aggressive animalistic fashion.

And then, once he’s done marking her, randomly I might add – he doesn’t want her to asphyxiate – he’ll take her by her blackened hips and fuck her from behind. And he will find that she is so aroused that he slips right into her. And she’ll be caught off by it because there’s a tickle in her stomach that says this is wrong. And she secretly likes said tickle. 

They’ll fuck until she comes first, at which point this single father will slip outside of her to come on a nearby cloth that he had been using to wipe his sweat from his brow. 
What happens then is up to you. Not me. I’ve already painted the image, now it’s your interpretation.