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.