Sensory Overload

All it takes is for her to duck into the lounge room where I’m resting, completely nude, in all her mesmerising glory, to grab a head band for her bath —
And my mind is transported away.
She is chained to the bedroom, completely naked, her arms and legs spread apart.

There’s a bag over her head. Something new. Me being sadistic by toying sensory deprivation. She won’t be able to see. She won’t be able to quell any concern with a kiss. How long should I leave her with the bag on? Perhaps when the air runs low, when her mind is dazed, I could bring her to the brink of her orgasm — and as my mouth rests over her cunt, my tongue teasing her clit with small licks, I can remove the bag.

And as her senses rush back to her, her body seizes with all the power of an orgasm. 
The dizziness of the air rushing back to her melds with her pleasure. Maybe it’ll catapult her senses sky high. Maybe she might be elated. Soaring high into a space that’s beyond the norm but not beyond my reach.
I could bring her back with a gentle hug, soft words – and the reminder that I am in charge of her. And all that she is. 
And then I’m back in the lounge, a grin forms across my lips. I know just what to do. 

On My Writing Style

After a week or two of releasing some erotica I had written on the blog for the first time, a lovely submissive woman wrote in to me about one of my stories ‘Payback’, a particularly aggressive bit of rape fantasy. 
She expressed that although she’s open to the idea of rape fantasy, my piece, with its coarseness, challenged her. Made her uncomfortable.
I’ve been reading a lot about the stylings of erotica. The sensual flow it can have, the artful elegance it can lend to any moment of passion. 
I don’t know if I’m that good of a writer, to be frank. Furthermore, I’m not sure I would want to be writing in that style. 
I certainly like that elegant, classical style but I think I enjoy writing from the mind of something rough, so when it comes to language, I use very coarse descriptions, because I’m usually in a first person perspective. 
Not always. There has been a series I’m doing recently that focuses on the little moments, like the piece I wrote called ‘Zoe’, which I really loved. Because it was atmospheric and I could focus on the details of Zoe herself or the environment. 
Why do I write so roughly – or viciously? 
I’m interested in really dark subject matter. 
Each story I write has a bit of me in there that’s clawing to get out.

And I find rather then bottling it, I can tap into it and let out the pressure. Explore it in a safe context.

To that end, I’m interested in the darker mindset of people. The impulses they hide from view. Or bury. I want to scratch the surface and see what’s underneath. So I fantasise about it. And write it down.
And if I can challenge someone’s thoughts, great. If I’ve ever challenged you, I want to hear about it. Write to me, tell me why. If I’ve bored you, I want to hear about it. Write to me, tell me why. How else will I grow as a writer, a master of words? 
And beyond rough language and darkness, I’m a big fan of gothic fantasy. So I like to incorporate some gothic qualities into the writing, whether it’s vampires, cults or sea creatures. 
Lastly, I’m open to writing prompts. That sounds like something that would be fun. And challenging. Something that could flex the writing muscle!

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. 

Valhalla, Part Two: Eira







Ryan was so caught up looking at the palm of his hand as it moved through the crystal blue water of the spring that he didn’t notice Eira behind him, taking off her armour.
She watched him as she rested her chest piece gently against the tree, so as not to disturb him from whatever Earth like ritual he was participating in.
Piece by piece, she untied her armour. First, her arm pieces, which she laid along the soft blue grass beneath her, then she leant against the tree to remove her leg pieces.
Armour was no longer needed, now that the two were safely in Asgard.
Mist, Battle Mistress of the Valkyries, would argue differently to Eira.
Eira could already hear her commanding voice and picture her piercing deep blue eyes that were enough to wound a Valkyrie telling her to leave it on, to take matters seriously.
Enough to say in one glance what any amount of words could.
Eira brushed off the thought, packing away her armour in her grey satchel, woven herself and deep enough for her change of clothes – and Ryan Kennedy’s new one.
She reached down, stuffing the armour away, and pulled out a folded up bundle of fabric.
This fabric would unfold to reveal a light caramel coloured garment, again woven by Eira, as taught by Svipul back in Valhalla.

That’s when she heard Ryan clear his throat, and Eira spun around to see him standing up in the spring, the water falling from his arms, face and legs.
Eira was puzzled at first; she didn’t know why he was standing there, his hands cupping between his legs.
When realisation struck her, she felt her face burning and turned her back to him to reach into her satchel.
Inside was a fresh white tunic and brown pants, something she had grabbed from Valhalla, stuffed into the satchel and laid by the spring here for her return, hoping that what fitted a previous lost soul would fit him.
With the tunic and pants, she pulled out a cloth for him to dry himself upon.

While Eira was reaching down and pulling out these items, Ryan had tried not to stare directly at her.
Eira was completely nude, had forgotten she was completely nude, for it was second nature to her, and was bending over in front of Ryan, her back to him, revealing her firm, curvaceous buttocks.
Ryan’s eyes fell upon the shapes of her curves, noticing a freckle that sat in the middle of her left cheek, before his natural instinct kicked in to look away, beyond the trees surrounding the spring.
He could already feel the warmth of the sun beating down upon his neck.

When Eira turned around, he had to grab the tunic and pants, as well as the cloth to dry himself, while holding onto his penis and looking away.
Eira caught on to the fact that his face was turned and looked to see if someone was there. Another Valkyrie perhaps, she thought, as she scanned beyond the trees. But there was nothing.
Ryan stepped out, still avoiding eye contact, making sure not to think of what his eyes fell upon.
He dried himself in silence and dressed himself in silence.
All this time, Eira watched his face carefully; curious as to why he was looking away.
She went to speak the same time he did, but when she saw he was speaking, she bowed her head and remained silent.
Ryan frowned at this gesture but chose to not question it, for he didn’t know the entirety of her customs and didn’t want to offend.
“Aren’t you bothered that you are naked in front of me?” He asked, keeping his eyes locked to hers.

Eira looked at him quizzically before looking down at her own body, still frowning.
“Is this unacceptable? Have I done wrong by you?”
“No, you haven’t” was Ryan’s immediate response.
Eira’s eyes suddenly looked hurt, afraid.
“Have I disappointed you?”
“No no! I just…No, I am not used to nakedness, is all. At least…not, casually, you know?”
Eira looked at him with the same wounded eyes, her expression unchanging.
Ryan tried to force a laugh but Eira’s face didn’t share the humour, she stood there still.
“I…I’m sorry if I offended you, It’s just something that doesn’t happen. Where I am from, I mean”
“You do not wish to have me naked for our venture to Valhalla?”
The question bewildered Ryan.
For a moment, he was speechless, unable to respond.
Here was a beautiful woman, completely nude, her silver wings tucked behind her, asking if he wished her to be nude for the remainder of their journey – however long that took.

The whole thing felt unreal, like caffeine fuelled sexual dream.
“Eira” He spoke carefully. “This is all…really kind of you…but I can’t…I mean, I don’t. I mean..”
He sighed, frustrated. “I’m not in the business of taking someone, unless they really want to, you know?”
Eira nodded. “Oh, but I do! As the All-Father’s slave, it is my duty to offer myself to you for any-“
“This is what you meant when you mentioned being a slave earlier?”
Eira nodded, and there was a gleam in her eye that made Ryan slightly uncomfortable. She seemed eager. Proud to serve.
“Oh yes! Every Valkyrie is a slave to our All-Father Odin. As Valkyrie’s, it is our solemn duty to fulfil any need of the souls that we bring to Asgard and then to Valhalla.”

“Would you settle for just being a guide to Valhalla? I don’t…I mean, I would like it if we don’t do any of this slave…business”
You idiot, Ryan thought to himself. You can’t English right.
The hurt didn’t end up leaving Eira’s face, deep down she wondered if something was wrong with her or her appearance.
On the other hand, this was the first time a soul had asked for no sexual interaction of any kind.
The change had Eira confused but also intrigued.
What kind of person was this, she wondered.


The two stood there in silence as they finished getting dressed.
Eira turned to face Ryan and smiled politely, outstretching her right hand.
“Come. We have a bonfire to attend.”
Eira began walking and Ryan followed, being conscious to look away from Eira’s garments, which had an open slit either side of her arms that revealed the curves of her breasts.
“Bonfire?” He asked, stumbling after her.
“Oh yes! The Valkyries like to hold a bonfire for the newly arrived souls! It’s a celebration of new life!”
“Shouldn’t that be in Valhalla, like a feast?”
Eira found this amusing.
It was customary for the Valkyries to hold a welcoming bonfire for the souls, followed by The Great Feast in the Great Hall of Valhalla.
As the two made their way through the blue long grass, the sun of Asgard setting, she wondered what kind of traditions Humans had back on Earth.

Shortly after the sun had set, the two arrived in an open field, free of the long grass scratching at their bodies.
Ahead of them was an enormous fire, trailing high into the sky.
Around the fire, people were gathered, talking, laughing, all animatedly.
Other bodies were nearby, entwined in a moment of passion, gasping for air, their moans reverberating around this small clearing.
Ryan’s fell upon the orgy and almost fell backwards at the sight he had never seen before. Not in his lifetime anyway.

To be concluded…

 Part three – The First Night In Asgard – will hit the blog May 19th.

 As always, I value any feedback. Constructive, of course, as I am only writing for you guys and for as long as there is interest in this story.


Valhalla, Part One









Ryan let out a sigh of relief as he closed the door to work.
The time was 6:50pm on a Thursday evening and the February weather was the coldest it had been in Melbourne in five whole years.
Since Ryan’s boss asked nicely Ryan agreed to stay behind.
He didn’t mind that. He embraced the stillness of the empty space of the office.
As he locked the office doors and started to move up the pavement, an ache in his forehead started to make it known to him, almost as if it were waiting for him to leave before announcing its throbbing presence.
Ryan ran his thumb and his index finger along his eyes, squeezing gently as he walked along the path.
Home, the place he was currently renting by himself was a ten-minute walk from his choice of work, the local newspaper The West Weekly.
He was looking forward to sinking into a bath and soaking the increasingly annoying headache away. Maybe catch up on some reading.
Bachelor life, it seemed, had suited Ryan. He had lived a quiet life of minimal friends; quiet nights in with Netflix, for the past two years, ever since he had split with his girlfriend of three years amicably.
She wanted to move to London, he knew his place was in Melbourne, with his family, his minimal friends and the city he had lived in his whole life – Geelong.
The split was hard at first but time worked with him to heal, work too. And now that that was behind him, he had settled into something of a life writing for the town he grew up in.
Ryan turned the corner, passing by the local estate of houses, all carbon copies of each other in neat little rows.

That was when he heard it.
It was manic. Female. Coming from the park before him that separated the rows of house cloning.
Before he could process, he found himself running in the direction of the scream.
He hopped over the log fences that acted as some sort of park decoration – and the scream became louder.
Up ahead he could see two figures, one a lighter colour and one shrouded in the darkness.
“What did I say about making noise, hm?”
It was a male’s voice. Deep. Gruff. Angry.
There was a smacking noise, skin against skin, as Ryan arrived towards the source of the scream.
The woman, dressed in a light blue dress, the lighter colour Ryan saw, was sobbing hysterically, straining to keep her voice quiet so there was no more noise for the man to punish her for.
Ryan felt the man turn to him in the darkness of the evening.
“This doesn’t concern you, mate. Get out of here”
Ryan came to a stop before the man. He couldn’t tell if the man had a weapon in the poor light of the park.
“Easy now.”
“I said back off, are you fuckin’ deaf?”
It all happened in an instant.
Instincts, you see, are fickle instruments. As Ryan found himself stepping forward in an attempt to calm the man, the man found himself also stepping forward, his blade in his hand.
The effect here was that the reaction, the instinct of the man, was that he felt he was being attacked. His instinct was to attack back.
The knife slid into Ryan’s stomach with ease.
Ryan let out a drawn out wheeze as he felt his stomach was on fire.
Somewhere very far away he heard an agitated voice curse out loud repeatedly.
He felt his legs betray him as he fell to the ground.
There was sobbing in the distance as well, echoing back all around him.
It was deafening.
Something was running down his leg, it felt unpleasant and warm.
Ryan made a mental note to –



There was something comforting about floating through the darkness.






A voice was calling out to him through the darkness.
It was female, sweet and soothing.
“Ryan Kennedy?”
Ryan opened his eyes weakly, to the blinding light of his surroundings.
It took him a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. He found himself blinking repeatedly as the voice continued to call his name.
His ears were ringing. They were adjusting to the sound of his surroundings just as his eyes were adjusting to the light.
“You’re okay now. It’s alright but I need you…”
The ringing in his ears drowned out the voice.
Ryan sat up, still blinking. He could sense the light through his closed eyes.
“Easy now” The muffled voice said gently.
Ryan begin to speak but he felt his mouth give way to the delicious idea of sleep.
“You’re disoriented.” The voice answered to him through the darkness. “Can you open your eyes?”
Ryan opened his eyes; feeling like it took all of his strength to do so.
Kneeling before him was a kind face, with soft features. The smile upon it was warm, curved into a half smile.
When Ryan blinked, he saw that the reason why the woman glistened was because she was in a magnificent suit of armour.
The armour covered the woman’s arms, chest and legs in a dazzling mix of the colours silver and gold, with not a scratch to be seen on any part of it.
The woman was bent over Ryan, looking down at him with a look that Ryan perceived to be curiosity.
Her eyes, which darted back and forth to meet Ryan’s gaze, were a faded grey.
She wasn’t wearing a helmet, Ryan noticed as he looked at her, for her light auburn hair was free flowing in the wind.
That was when he noticed the object towering behind her.
Her wings, pure white and stretched out beyond her, from the left side of her body to the right.
They seemed to expand further as he laid eyes upon them.
The woman saw his eyes go wide and went to speak, went to say that everything was okay, that she wasn’t going to hurt him.

Ryan screamed, loud and long.
The woman winced at the noise, a terrible feeling of guilt built up within her as she saw the panic behind Ryan’s eyes.
Ryan finished his scream, sucking in air in huge gasps. Then he fell back, fainting.
The woman sighed, a sigh that was borne out of sadness at frightening him.
“They always scream the first time,” She said to no one in particular.


The first thing that Ryan saw when he came to was the blade of grass scratching against his forehead.
Panic seized him and he jumped upwards, brushing the grass away from him.
He was lying in a field of it, stretching miles out before him.
Ryan’s mind was in a stutter, like a record skipping on the one note. It was trying to make sense of where he was, what happened to him.
He went to feel for his wound and that’s when he realised he was shirtless.
The realisation swept over him like warm water from a shower – he was completely naked. No work uniform, no socks with holes in it that he had to replace.
With a racing mind, he went to sit up but that was a mistake.
His legs wobbled uncontrollably and he fell back on the soft grass below him.
“Don’t move, you’re in shock” Came a voice from behind.
He flinched at the voice, scrambling backwards, his hands clawing at the dirt.
“It’s okay! It’s okay!”
“Get away from me” Ryan found himself saying, as his hands gave way to the ground. He fell backwards, craning his neck.
“I’m not going to hurt you…I’m not..”
The woman came to a kneel in front of him, her face was dirty and glistening with sweat, her eyes fixed on him.
Ryan couldn’t take his eyes off her wings, which to his wonder retracted back under her arms.
His voice, which was low, wavered as he spoke.

The woman’s armour glistened in the sunlight as she watched him for an expression, all the while thinking and hoping that he wouldn’t pass out again.
The thought made something within her stomach knot up.
To her surprise, Ryan laughed. It was strange and unstable to the both of them.
“I’m dreaming. This is…no, I’m dreaming…”
“There’s no easy way to tell you this, Ryan Kennedy, but you’re dead”
The woman, who spoke to Ryan with a voice as smooth as honey, spoke directly, matter-of-factly. And with a straight face.

She didn’t smile. Her face didn’t even threaten to smile, she just watched him closely, unblinking.
Ryan stared at her for a moment, his grin vanishing in light of what she said.
He mulled it over. He thought he must’ve dreamt everything – leaving the store, finding the woman being harassed. He’s probably still back in the backroom, on his break.
Someone’s bound to wake him up for his shift. Jeffery, probably.
He found himself repeating what she was saying to him.
“I’m dead?”
The woman nodded, still looking at him unblinking.

Behind her, her wings expanded outwards again, darkening the two of them in its shadow. They seemed to have a mind of their own, contracting and retracting as if alive.
Chills travelled up Ryan’s arms leaving behind Goosebumps and in that moment, Ryan remembered.
He remembered the taste of blood, the warm uncomfortable feeling.
There was a sinking sensation, like falling into the depths of the Earth.
Like falling asleep.
He looked into the eyes of the woman kneeling before him, her wings blowing gently in the wind.
Her eyes told him everything.

The woman explained everything; answering all of his questions in the same matter-of-factly way she had used to say that he was dead.
His sudden death at the hands of the mugger drove him away from the young woman and into hiding.
The police found him the next day at sunrise, holed up in an abandoned farmhouse just out of town.
The young woman, who was just on a jog that evening, would require months of therapy, the woman had said, but in time she would come to feel normal again, though her jogs now took place during the day and not a night.

Ryan had listened to her tale of how she had witnessed the whole exchanged quietly, feeling as if he wasn’t really; as if none of this was real.
He had died, she had said. So where was he now?
The woman smiled and without saying another word, turned from him and moved through the tree line behind her, disappearing.
Ryan’s legs moved for him and he followed, as if there were a greater force pulling him with her.
He pushed through the trees, ducking under and weaving out of the way of the leaves that threatened to smack back into his face.
After a moment of pushing through the heavy trees, that’s when he saw it.
The woman was standing on the Cliffside, overlooking a vast forest that stretched on for as far as Ryan could see.
The woman explained the reason why she knew all about the events around his death was because she is a Valkyrie, watcher of the battlefield, and minder of the souls.
“You see, Ryan Kennedy, you are in…”
She moved beside him and raised her hand and pointed to the space before her.
Ryan followed where her arm was pointing, coming to rest his upon something that made me stumble backwards in disbelief.
There it was, off in the distance, resting on a Cliffside and surrounded by shimmering bonfires: Valhalla.
Ryan had to squint to get a better look, but it wasn’t good enough. It was too far away.
His legs were shaking, his chest tightening.

Valhalla was surrounded on either side by a forest, richly green, that stretched out far from view.
Valhalla itself looked like something out of a dream – an ancient temple, grey, lit by brilliant fires, stretching against the length of the cliff on either side.
Standing tall before the ancient structure were what looked like from where Ryan stood, for it was hard for him to make out, two statues.
Ryan looked down past Valhalla, past the Cliffside, and into the pit between him and the Valkyrie and ancient structure. He saw the great darkness looking back into him. How far it went, he did not know.
He gazed back at Valhalla and for the longest time, his mind was skipping over the concept again and again, trying to process it.

“But…I don’t…”
“You have been chosen, Ryan Kennedy…”
Ryan turned to the woman beside him. “Chosen?”
The woman nodded, smiling.
Ryan found that the smile was enchanting. He hadn’t taken her appearance in too deeply, he suppose that had something to do with the idea that he was dead! But now as the two stood by the cliff side looking at each other, he seemed to see her first time.
She had short auburn hair, styled in the form of an undercut.
Her face, which was regarding Ryan, was twisted into the same crooked smile he woke up to, her light steely eyes searching his for a reaction.
As they stood there in that moment, Ryan noticed markings on her upper arms – little slits where she had been cut that had now scarred.

“Yes. You have been chosen for this place, like the others.”
“Others? You mean my friends and family? They’re here?”
The woman’s smile was gone in an instant.
“I only take those All-father selects himself, as I am his slave.”
She bowed her head and knelt down, extending one out and pointed to the ground with the other arm against her chest, her fist on her chest closed tightly.
“I am sorry.”
Ryan watched the gesture feeling lightheaded. His mind kept coming back to the idea that he was dead, that he could never see his family or friends again.

Not until they died themselves, a thought came out loud and clear.
The idea made him feel sick to the stomach. He fell back against the tree trunk behind him, feeling nauseous.
When the woman rose back to her feet, she smiled at him that same enchanting smile.
“Ryan Kennedy…”
“Please…uh..just Ryan..”
The woman bowed her head. “My name is Eira.”
The woman named Eira was still smiling as she extended her hand past him back the way they came.
“Come. There is a spring past the field we arrived in. A bath will do you good. I have some new clothes for you”
This caused Ryan to look down. He had been so caught up in the idea that he was here; in Valhalla – dead – that he completely forgot he was completely naked.

Eira couldn’t hide her smile as she began to walk past him, causing Ryan to duck out of the way of her wings.
Ryan had no choice but to follow her. He still had more questions about his death, about his family, about her.

To Be Continued…

Chapter Two (Or #2) is out April 19th. So if you enjoyed this, know there’s more coming!

If you’re really enjoying my writing and feel I am worthy, have a look at my patron for any
other writing goodies I’m experimenting. Even if its just a $1 tip towards my writing, know
that that would mean the world to me and would go towards more time spent writing.

The Unloved Mother

What does she feel, this unloved mother, this glowing woman on the brink of something she doesn’t comprehend, when she steps out to the grocery shops with her family, in her dark blue floral dress that’s a little more low cut then she realises.
What does she think when she walks the aisle, picks up the Rye bread like she’s done so many times, looking at a young couple walk past, laughing and flirting and nestled into each other close.
Will she ponder her age, her age of fifty seven, what her teenage years was like, sitting in the drive in, watching the shark claim it’s next victim in the summer of 1974. 
Will she think of that time in the shower a month ago, where she pulled on her nipple till it felt like the skin was tearing off, where she fell against the bathroom wall and cried because she didn’t understand. 
Is that what she feels, when she places the bread into the shopping basket, forcing a smile to her unknowing husband, who doesn’t know what she’s thinking. Does she feel the pulling sensation, tearing through her flesh, through her fabric, at her consciousness?
Will it make her scream when he asks what’s next on the list, because she can’t stand it – not another day of this routine, this mechanical, every beat, every sweep accounted for, routine of shopping. Will it make her want to tear every item of clothing off her body, till her clothes lay in shreds at her feet, till the coolness of the store air con kisses her nipples, will it make her want to curse, this desire. Curse at the top of her lungs, every obscenity, every humiliating, Degrading slur towards her world, herself, her husband and her son. 
Because she doesn’t want this, this life, this family, this husband in this one story home, this old car they’ve had, her old dresses, she doesn’t want anything right now because she wants to fuck. She wants to take the hand of this young man, take him from his young girl and show him that she can fuck. That she wants to fuck. That she lives for, would die right now, for a cock, so thick, so hard, to just ease into her, or slide or slam in roughly, she’ll take anything. 
She doesn’t want to think, not about food, not about the mortgage, not about her husband losing his drive to fuck, not about her own lack of interest. 
She doesn’t want to think about tomorrow, how she’ll judge herself, her body, her mind, her desires.

All she wants to, this unloved mother, is fuck. To grunt like an animal on the cold hard floor of the store, to be taken savagely like she’s never tried, like this moment in time will allow, as it stops for her, free of judgement and ridicule. 
Will they notice? The men, the woman of the store, will they they notice her unexpectedly too low cut dress, revealing her plain white bra and curves of her breasts. Will they wonder or hope or dream or fuck their partners that night to the curves of her breasts? 
As she pulls the strap of her dress back up on her shoulder, she wonders as she aches secretly. To no one but herself. 
And as her husband directs her down the aisle, she follows. Grateful for his existence. 

Experimental Writing

Something new for the blog I will be experimenting with is doing an ongoing story, with each chapter coming out a month. Where that leads, I don’t really know, but my priority first and foremost is to make it entertaining and for the world it’s set in to be something you could live.
The story coming to the blog and continuing throughout the year is called VALHALLA. 
The story goes like this:

Ryan is on his way home after leaving work late and upon his journey, he comes across a woman being mugged. He intervenes and is stabbed fatally in retaliation. 
He is awoken in Valhalla by the enchanting Eira, an enchanting and beautiful Valkyrie who is tasked with bringing him to the great hall of Valhalla.
Ryan will learn of the concept of the All-Father Odin, his Valkyries, who are slaves to the souls they bring to Valhalla and guide — and he’ll learn about his place in that tiny thing looming in the distance – Ragnarok.
I can tell you right now that while this predominately fantasy, it’s BDSM erotica in the same way the Gor novels balanced fantasy and erotica. 
I hope you will enjoy it as much as I am writing it.