By The Sword, Part II

Part One can be found here

When the chill subsided, she let out a gasp and readied herself. Inhale the light, exhale the dark. With a steady hand, she drew the sword down across her breasts, the tip trailing coolly across her here nipples.

With the tip resting on her right nipple, she held it there. Gripping the handle with her right hand, she applied downward pressure on Chance, feeling the bite of the sword softly…then harder…then harder. She could take it, she could feed it.

When she felt the sword start to puncture, start to prick, she eased it off, and catching her breath, smelling her strong scent, slid the sword down her stomach, giggling as she trailed it, snakelike, in waves.

When the blade reached her pussy, she stopped, tilting the sword in a clockwise motion, letting the fine edges glide across her slit carefully.

She thought of Chance killing, she thought of the blade between her legs, thinking any moment it could carve into her and bleed her out. Her light would go out in an instant, her body left to be found by the guards when their patrol takes them to the armoury.

The sheer thought of balancing her life, her arousal, with this blade caught in her throat as a whimper. She let it out to bounce on the cobblestone walls, filling the chamber with life.

For a moment Avellana laid still, twisting the blade in a rocking motion, moving from one side of her lips to the other. Again, she thought of death, again she thought of adventure, again her senses flooded her, the blade, catching onto the skin of her thigh, marking her, her own scent all around her, the cool air on her body – on the floor amongst weapons and armour, Avellana felt alive.

Her thighs stinging, she gripped the handle with her soaked right hand, lifting the blade upwards again over her slit. It grazed her clit as it went – and, involuntarily, her legs began to spasm. Her thighs clenched shut around the sword and she let out a noise half way between a giggle and a shriek.

With her thighs interlocked around the blade, she felt important, and because of that, she felt stupid. She wanted it all, the risk of death, the kiss of adventure, the dance of life. And with her thighs wrapped, she eased her ass off the ground, raising her slit into the blade. Just like before, she felt for the moment the blade would puncture flesh and just like before she eased off, resting the edges across her clit.

Avellana imagined in that moment that she would’ve looked silly, thrusting into the blade, lifting her ass in the air, to grind ever gently across the blade. Even so, she dare not stop. There was pleasure there in the thrust, yes, but there was a pain. Edging this pain across her slit prodded at the pain, seemed to satisfy the sting. And with the sting came a sense of relief. The itch had been scratched – had needed to be scratched again. And again.

As her slit met the blade, her left hand pinched her nipple, twisted it, pulled it. Each time she met the prodding pain, she pulled on her nipple, stretching it till the pain bit her back.

When a wave, a striking, silky wave, crashed over her – heat and cool spiralled out from her fingertips to her head. Tears came in her eyes.

Avellana didn’t want to come. Not yet. Not really, but everything cascaded down onto her body and out through the slash in her thigh where the blade at cut her.

She rose her ass up one last time, twisting her head to the right, her vision becoming obscured by her luscious locks of hair. Pain, sharp and searing, courses through her body, running from the slash in her thighs out through her nipples writhing in anguish.

Avellana let out a cry as her orgasm reaches its crescendo – and as it began to subside, as her legs began to spasm and her breathing began to regulate, she hugged Chance close to her body. For after she had come back into her body, she would begin again. This time with the candle wax.

By The Sword, Part I

When the castle was quiet and the servant’s had all gone to bed, Princess Avellana snuck out from her chambers and moved down the spiral staircase of stone like a ghost.

Through the great hall she crept, candle in hand, moving from patches of light filtering in through windows back into the shadows. Her skin was ablaze with the summer heat, her nightdress sticking to her chest with glistening sweat. Yet it was her heart that drove her forward, her heart that had come up with this plan to be a sneak, her heart that had convinced her it was now or never.

Her goal was to reach the armory at the end of the hallway, and step inside. Within would be her object of affection, the thing she had dreamt about, soaking her sheets with tangy sweat. It was the right hand of the king’s prized possession – a two handed great sword crafted by the best blacksmith in the land. Dubbed ‘Chance’, it had a silver handle decorated with a grey stripe that bore the purest rubies Avellana had ever seen.

One time she had been sitting in on council when she saw it in person. She recalled her heart quickening, her nipples hardening. It was not the man that had done this to her, something deep within her had sensed, it was the sword. This weapon of destruction, oh how sharp could it be! How easily it could slit open a neck just to bathe the user in blood. Chance, thought Avellana.

In the beginning she wrestled with these violent thoughts. Fending off alternate realities in which she was mad, she sought solace in the woods outside the palace walls, bathing in the sun amongst the sun-kissed fields of grass , learning how to ease her mind. Learning how to merge the realities into a singular one.

But no matter how long she laid beneath the shield of grass, sun-drunk and aroused, the urge, sheer fascination crept back into her mind, and she found herself thinking of Chance and the adventures it embarked on out beyond the kingdom’s boundaries. What dastardly beasts! What ferocious foes! What devilish scoundrels!

Avellana gripped the armory’s doorknob gently, ignoring its cold touch that seized her hand. Pushing gently still, she emerged within the dark room, peering through the darkness, glimpsing only figures. Behind her, she shut the door as gently as she opened it.

As she moved through the room, her body began to tremble. It started as a light shiver on the arms, traveling down across her body, tingling and intense.

Gazing around at the swords, the shields, all faceless in the low light, doubt began to manifest. What if the Swordsman slept with his sword, clutching it gently, dreaming of adventure, of murder, of brutality.

Avellana scanned the room, feeling her heart seemingly creep up her throat from its place in her chest.

That’s when she saw it – there was no mistaking its ruby which the candlelight caught with its ever watchful gaze. The ruby, exposed even hanging still in its scabbard, seemed to gaze back at Avellana, drawing her near.

Hands trembling, breath coming out of her dry lips in short bursts, Avellana, the nineteen year old princess, stepped close towards the sword where it rested on the shelf, transfixed, enamoured. So captivated was she that she didn’t register her hands finding the tied knot in her nightgown. A swift gesture with the hands — and her gown collapsed to the floor.

Now fully nude and with her hands free, and her heart working overtime, Avellana reached up, the cool air caressing her armpits, and gently picked up the sword. She exhaled shakily, running her fingertips across the smooth leather sheath. Her chest was tight, the air was cool. Senses flooded her all at once. She inhaled the dark, exhaled the light – and pulled the sword free from the sheath.

A moment passed between Chance and Avellana. How queer the sight must’ve been to an onlooker, a nude girl, long blonde hair covering her breasts, her mound a faint light fuzz, holding a silver sword high above her, as if ready to strike.

Her mouth open, her throat dry, Avellana raised her left hand to the tip of Chance and pressed down. Something cold and sharp stung her and she reeled back her hand to look at the crimson dot on her finger tip. She drew it into her mouth, tasting the strange metallic tang. Thoughts running rampant, adventure, carnage, defence – she grinned as she looked back at the tip of the sword. How many victims fell to this device?

Laying on her gown sprawled out underneath her, right leg bent up, her left laying out, Avellana couldn’t help but smile. With her left hand, she lifted the sword gently down upon her body. Cold steel embraced her from her breasts down to between her legs. At first she jumped at the cool touch, giggling for her reaction, but then, with sudden ferocious concentration, she held the sword there against her thigh, fighting against the freeze, willing her mind to hold it, to take the chill. Her eyes clenched shut as she braced for the full brunt of the bite.

To be concluded…

The Guilt Behind Enjoying Dark Erotica: And Why It’s Okay To Talk About it

I have this ongoing relationship with my dark thoughts where I accept that they’re there and I own them, but their origin and reason for existing alludes me. Sometimes I catch myself mid thought and think ‘wait, you went there? Really?’

My readers have pulled me up on my darker stories before. Some have expressed their confusion on why they enjoyed a rape fantasy while my twisted takes on Disney princesses has polarised some enough to write in to discuss any themes at length. And any response (including response length) is welcome to me because good or bad, as long as you’re polite I’m happy to talk out philosophical differences with you. To discuss.

Some readers cannot though, which is why I’m here – this darker side of our minds is so different, so potent, so alien that it alienates the reader out of fear of being judged by the others that come to visit the same blog. They just can’t find the words because everything feels wrong. I’m there too, with my own stories. It’s a terrifying thing, this feeling that you might be THE ONE that scares others away.

What we need to understand is that there’s a difference between fantasy and reality. There’s a difference to the rules in the fantasy and the rules of reality – rules that govern your own life and the code of honour you live by.

When it comes to actively expressing these fantasies and bringing them to life, consent is there to form a new set of rules to keep peace of mind and safety. In this circumstance, as long as it’s discussed thoroughly and safety is paramount, living the fantasy should be – should feel – right.

But when it comes to looking at a fantasy and thinking about why it turns us on and how, it’s important to remember that enjoying something so decadent and devilish doesn’t change who you are outside the realm of fantasy, because we know that if we’d act out these fantasies, we’d have safety and protocol.

It doesn’t change how you feel about your marriage or your kids if you like a story about a poor pretty little thing being chased through the forest — because this is a seperate fantastical space for you to explore. You enjoy this feeling, this hunt, this setting, and there is no shame in embracing this as another aspect of your mind no matter the background.

Believe me, I’ve been there before. I’ve wondered about my sanity, about what my life and morals mean if I love to write rape fantasies. The answer is – I like it for the fantasy, I like it for how the fantasy feels to me in this context only. I don’t find an actual act of rape arousing at all. I’m not violent in any way. There’s just a thrill to explore something so dark and violent in a safe environment.

So please, The next time you find yourself battling a similar reaction to erotica that’s challenging, either on my blog or otherwise, remember its not a reflection on who you are as a person. It doesn’t make you broken or wrong or sick. You are a healthy person bravely exploring a part of your mind that others wouldn’t even dream to.

And if you ever find the need to talk to me about a story of mine that’s so dark and compelling to you, I don’t care how long winded and messy it is, I would love to hear it.

Be gentle on yourself – and always practice safety with each other.

Causality, Sexuality and Fate

If you’ve clicked on this article looking for any definite answers, you’ve arrived at the wrong place. But what led you here, right now, to this very blog? What was it about this headline that caught your eye? What led you to open this?

A simple answer would be to say that our individual development and backgrounds lead us to develop into the person we are in this very moment. But is there something more to all of this? Is there something underlying each point of our lives, arriving precisely when we need it to?

Before I move on to exhibits as examples into my mindset tonight, I should preface this by saying I’m a religious man. I was raised catholic in a conservative household – I did my communion, I attend Palm Sunday – I did the whole she-bang.

In my adult life, its complicated – I don’t attend mass, but I believe in something bigger than me. I eat meat when I’m not supposed to and I blaspheme more than I should.

I link the rituals and worshiping of some D/s practices to a religious experience, though don’t take that as meaning I believe I am a God. I’m just a guy writing a draft on his phone at 2-30am.

But I digress.

Exhibit A: Berserk, Vol. 18

In this sequence from the manga Berserk, a woman follows her fellow prostitute, in the dead of the night, to a pagan orgy. She then proceeds to punish her. The more dominant one then apologises, embracing the younger one.

It’s a twisted act and comes straight after a mind-melting sequence that’s all sorts of body horror, but therein lies the interesting aspect.

Why does it arouse me?

Okay, sure, it’s one woman spanking another. That’s the simplest explanation but it’s also the most unsatisfying one.

See, it takes a certain mind to go from horror to arousal. Those are two completely different tones. And in this sequence, even the spanking comes with a deep characterisation and a vague sense of WTF.

So what led me to Berserk, this ultra violent manga? That was it a dark fantasy and horror.

Okay, but what led me to horror? And why is it I too can shift gears from dark and disturbing to sexual arousal.

Every good horror knows how to utilise tension. There’s the build up and release and a time to catch your breath. Is this piece executing that concept or is it merely setting up a character interaction later on? I don’t know. Is it the build up of horror lead me to want a release? Or is it merely the characters in that specific setting?

Was there some kind of otherworldly force leading me to Berserk from the very beginning, events that led me to horror to fantasy to dark sexual adventures?

And why is it my individual development lead to an interest in horror? What was it that led to an interest in darker things? And did my darker things lead to my interest in kink and BDSM? I could even take this one step further —ay hello again!

And all of THAT led to this very moment, to me writing this, to me reading Berserk. To the sexual gratification.

Exhibit B: Horror Movies

Halloween and Friday the 13th popularised, if not established, this sex-and-Death aspect in slasher films.

I mean, you know about the sex-equals-Death rule. We won’t touch that. What’s the correlation between sex / nudity and creative murder sequences? And why is it sensual? I’m not talking about the murder OR the death sequences themselves. I’m talking about the lead up to it? Is it just danger? Does it fulfil some deeply primal feeling of lust? Why is one always around the other? Has it become tradition for sex to find death or is there something else?

In some cases, the movie can lead the viewer to form their own fantasy about being stalked. In this case, it is interesting to note that this can take the form of the primal / prey identification in our sexual lives.

A cynic would say – these are just slasher films featuring teens set to appeal to a teen demographic – but the idea is there. And furthermore, how many people find it arousing or are drawn to this idea that it’s appealing? Let’s watch a slasher film – there’ll be tits and death! The men have the nakedness, the women have…errr…a cute guy?

Okay. So it’s appealing to the teen male demographic? That can’t be. I am a part of horror communities where the ladies enjoy it just as much as men – my kitten included.

So where’s the link?

And furthermore, has all our lives been building to this one moment – you reading my blog, me writing this blog, you and I watching horror movies, maybe even finding the same image sensual. Why? And how many people within BDSM are horror fans? I know enjoying kink doesn’t automatically make you a horror fiend. But I do wonder if one leads to the other? And why it came to either of those leads?

For the Teens…

Occasionally a teen will write me and mention they’re scared of their own mind. Well, ladies or gentlemen – if you’re of the teenage variety and have made it this far, let me tell you – we can be attracted to darker fantastical impulses and that can be completely fine. It doesn’t mean we are going crazy, it’s not a sin or something to shy from.

As long as you practice safety first and foremost with these fantasies, you should be fine.

And if you ever think you’re in the bad, know I’m the guy aroused by fantastical pagan orgies. You’ll be fine!

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


Violated.

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.

Behave. 

Canadian Purr

Your skin feels cool to the touch.

As I trail my hand up your thighs, darting under your skirt, I can feel the goosebumps raise beneath my open palm. 

My other hand, my free hand, is against your throat. Your cool threat, your throats clenched tight under my grip. So tight I can feel you try to breathe. You might be panicking.

Panicking for the air, for saliva to coat your tongue. 

All I want is to hear you purr. 
Canadians are quite lovely, I had been told before I arrived. Quite lovely indeed. 

Friendly, as the cliche went. Polite, lovely and friendly. 

And when I sat by myself on the tour bus, nestled into my assigned seating, I must admit I was taken aback by the sight of you, miss tour guide.

You, with your almond coloured eyes, sandy blonde hair, the way you say ‘pardon me?’ which just rolls off your tongue with cute accent. 

As soon as I laid my eyes upon yours, upon your slender frame, your white turtleneck hugging your neck and breasts, I knew. 

I knew I wanted to hear you purr.
That was five days ago now.

Now, we’re quite acquainted with each other.

I mean why else, on the night we’ve hit Banff, would you swing by my room, even when I asked politely?

And here you are, with your white skirt and grey woollen jumper. Laid back. I like it. 
I also like the warmth radiating from your cunt. From behind your…oh…oh my. Black lacy panties? Beautiful and classical. 
You struggle now but I hope you reconsider. I really do want to purr and I don’t really want to force it out of you. This is my holiday, after all.
Behave, will you? I surely hope you will. You struggle as I reach down to peel your panties back, but I have you under control. You try to bite at me but that just makes me harder. 
‘Open your mouth’ I say. 

You refuse.

I ask again.

You refuse. 

I squeeze tighter. 

You relent.

I stuff your panties into your mouth. Taste yourself. 

You spit it out instantly but I’m giggling. Don’t give me that look, it was worth it. Lighten up.

It takes a little longer to remove your jumper, even longer to remove your blouse. 
When I see your round full breasts, threatening to bust out of your bra, I can’t help it. My hand wanders, trailing up your thigh.

I start to curl my finger around your trimmed pubic hair. You whimper, something animalistic and guttural. 

You’re shaking by the time my index finger is curling along your clit. You’re slightly wet, whether you like it or not. 

You don’t, of course, judging by your muffled cries. But I don’t mind. 

I take my index finger from your clit, slip it under the cups of your bra and rub it in your soft nipple till it hardens.

You grunt in disgust. 
Your scream is stifled. No. Don’t do that again. 

I drag you across to the bathroom sink of the hotel by your neck, tearing into my back pack with my free hand. 

It takes some digging, some juggling to keep you under control, but I’ve found it. The maple tea leaves you made for the people on the bus.
We’re gunna have some tea.
As I boil the jug, I tell you to kneel. 

As I prepare the cups, I tell you to stay still.

You glare at me, with a fire so bright in your eyes, but you relent. 

With the jug boiled, I pour into the cups, stir it around. 

The scent of maple fills the air. 

You start to sob but I tell you to hush, with a finger to my lips. I can taste you. 

With the same free hand, I take a sip. It’s smooth but intoxicating. Honestly the best blend I’ve ever have. 
I then take out the tea bag, push you back into the bed and put my weight against you. 

You struggle. 

I run the tea bag across your cheek.

You struggle.

I run the tea bag across your breasts, past your hardened nipple.

I leave a trail of hot maple tea down your stomach, your body seizes at the touch, at the unknown invader. 

I rest the tea bag on your clit – and what looks like a fierce spasm jolts your entire body.

You freeze, gasp and let out a low cry. 

Will you purr for me now, I wonder, as I lower my mouth to taste your maple flavoured cunt. 

Mouths To Feed, Part 1

When the bag came off her head, the pretty little thing went to run.

But the first thing she noticed was that her arms held up and chained above her head. And her legs were locked to cuffs that rattled against the bolts in the floor.

After she noticed that she was stuck, like a fly in a web, she noticed she was only wearing her bra and panties that she had put on for the date with the cute girl from English.

The cute girl that seemingly drugged her and transported her to….

The pretty little thing looked around the dark room.

First her eyes adjusted to the dark to see the rows of candles lined up on either side of the room.

Then she noticed them – three girls and two guys, it appeared. Completely naked and on their knees with their head bowed.

The pretty little thing rattled her chains and screamed. The air was moody and something smelled damp. Like leaving your clothes in the washing machine too long.

At the far end of the concrete slab of a room, two pale hands appeared, almost materialised out of the shadows — and clapped twice softly.
A woman, Hispanic, middle aged. Rose to her feet and stepped towards her. 

Her breasts were curvy, her nipples dark and inviting.

Her cunt was natural, untrimmed and yet possessing the beauty of middle age. 

She didn’t make eye contact with the pretty little thing, only looked down.

The pretty little thing screamed some more, even thrashed a little, but it was hopeless. 

The woman unclasped the pretty little thing’s bra and threw it aside gently. 

Feeling the cold on her nipples, the pretty little thing felt the rising frustration as she couldn’t shield herself from the prying watchful eyes of the naked people. 

When the Hispanic woman tore off her red lacy panties, the pretty little thing felt embarrassed. She wasn’t fit for being examined, came an odd thought. She hadn’t trimmed or shaved. She had, the thought went on, let herself go.
“Begin” came a voice at the end of the room. A voice from the shadows.

It was Male, relaxed. In control.

“Where am I? Who are you people?”

The Hispanic woman slapped her face and pain shot up through her cheek and splintered up to her forehead. 

“Don’t kill me. Just let me go”

The Hispanic woman slapped her again, this time leaving a burning sensation most unpleasant.

The nude people rose and moved towards her slowly, like zombies out of an old black and white horror film.

They shuffled towards her and the pretty little girl screamed till pain tore up her throat.

She coughed and took in a huge breath. It was no use.
A woman with blonde pigtails and perky tits kneeled before the pretty little thing.

The pretty little thing rattled her chains and tried so hard to break free but it started to tear at her wrists and ankles. 

The Hispanic woman disappeared behind her to places she could not see.

Suddenly she felt rough hands on her ass, then something soft and probing — her tongue. 

It parted her ass and teased her anus. 

The pretty little struggled against the new sensation. No one had done that to her before and it made her uneasy. 

As the two men, one lightly red and pale, the other muscular and dark haired, approached her, the blonde with the pig tails and perky tits lowered her mouth onto the pretty little thing’s cunt.

She struggled, struggled to push the invaders away, but she was locked into place. Forced to endure. 
A third woman emerged from the shadows, she was African American and her hand was between her legs, working furiously. 

With her other hand, she was twisting her nipples. Stretching it. The pretty little thing had never seen a nipple be contorted to such lengths.
The men each lowered themselves onto a nipple of the pretty little thing and she could feel madness beckoning her. 

She was being raped, assaulted on every front. No amount of wiggling or screaming could help her. She was, to all extents and purposes, their slave.
She could feel the tongue parting her anus and trying to slip inside. She could feel the tongue sliding between her slit and her clit.  

Her body was crumbling, giving way to the most primal urge, but her mind was ferociously refusing the treatment. But…
But?

But I do like my clit worked
, she thought.

To be continued…