Janine Ashbless's Blog, page 63
February 3, 2016
Imbolc
I went to an open Imbolc ceremony last night, which was quite lovely if EXTREMELY COLD.
Stourton (modern) stone circle
I'm not a pagan, of course. I'm a pantheistic materialist ("tingly atheist", ahem), but there is a part of me that loves neo-pagan ritual and feels right at home there. The focus on and the connection to the earth, the seasons, the weather, the landscape, and for living nature, is something that I plug straight into. The tropes (north/south/east/west : earth/fire/air/water : body/will/intellect/emotions etc etc) make easy symbolic sense to me, even if I'm not buying into any of the gods.
Because the pagan/natural cycles are woven into my Lovers' Wheel series, I thought I'd take a look at the four great Celtic quarter days, the most important festivals of the neo-pagan year.
IMBOLC (from oimbelc "in the belly") is celebrated on February 1st/2nd. It falls between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox and is a rite celebrating the first visible arrival of Spring; the return of new life to the seemingly dead land. In historic times it seems to have been associated with the pastoral calendar in particular, marking the coming-into-milk of the ewes and the birth of the first lambs.
It was also the day that snakes were supposed to wake from their winter torpor, and that bears were said to check upon the weather before coming out of hibernation (or not ... good weather was said to be a harbinger of more snow) - which is exactly why it is now Groundhog Day in the USA.
If Candlemas be fair and bright,
Winter has another flight.
If Candlemas brings clouds and rain,
Winter will not come again(English proverb)
It's a fire/light ceremony, rejoicing in the returning light, strongly associated with the imagery of a young woman or girl, dressed in white, carrying a candle or torch. Pagans view this as the Goddess in her Maiden aspect. February 2nd is Brigid's Day: in old Ireland this was when the great goddess Brigid or Brigit (poetry, fire and smiths, healing, brewing, fertility, midwifery) would be invited into each house.
St Brigid's Cross, made of reeds. More sun-wheel than crucifix, tbh.
The goddess Brigid became St Brigid in Christian times, with the same feast day and almost identical portfolio.
February 2nd is also known as the Feast of the Purification of the Virgin (40 days after the birth of Jesus, when she presented her Son, "the light of the world" and "a light unto the gentiles" (Luke 2:32), at the Temple), and, as you can see from the rhyme above, Candlemas, because it is the day candles are blessed for use in the church, year-round.
Why's that? Well, in Romano-Greek ritual it was the time that the young goddess Persephone returned from the Underworld, bringing spring to the world. Here's Pope Innocent XII on the subject:
Snowdrops are "Candlemas bells"
So - along with Christmas itself - Candlemas / Imbolc seems to be the one of the strongest and clearest cases of Christianity appropriating pagan ritual into the church calendar.
After all, we all long to see the return of spring...
Stourton (modern) stone circleI'm not a pagan, of course. I'm a pantheistic materialist ("tingly atheist", ahem), but there is a part of me that loves neo-pagan ritual and feels right at home there. The focus on and the connection to the earth, the seasons, the weather, the landscape, and for living nature, is something that I plug straight into. The tropes (north/south/east/west : earth/fire/air/water : body/will/intellect/emotions etc etc) make easy symbolic sense to me, even if I'm not buying into any of the gods.
Because the pagan/natural cycles are woven into my Lovers' Wheel series, I thought I'd take a look at the four great Celtic quarter days, the most important festivals of the neo-pagan year.
IMBOLC (from oimbelc "in the belly") is celebrated on February 1st/2nd. It falls between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox and is a rite celebrating the first visible arrival of Spring; the return of new life to the seemingly dead land. In historic times it seems to have been associated with the pastoral calendar in particular, marking the coming-into-milk of the ewes and the birth of the first lambs.
It was also the day that snakes were supposed to wake from their winter torpor, and that bears were said to check upon the weather before coming out of hibernation (or not ... good weather was said to be a harbinger of more snow) - which is exactly why it is now Groundhog Day in the USA.
Thig an nathair as an toll, la donn Bride Ged robh tri traighean dh' an t-sneachd air leachd an lair.
(The serpent will come from the hollow on the brown day of Bridget / Though there should be three feet of snow on the flat surface of the ground)
If Candlemas be fair and bright,
Winter has another flight.
If Candlemas brings clouds and rain,
Winter will not come again(English proverb)
It's a fire/light ceremony, rejoicing in the returning light, strongly associated with the imagery of a young woman or girl, dressed in white, carrying a candle or torch. Pagans view this as the Goddess in her Maiden aspect. February 2nd is Brigid's Day: in old Ireland this was when the great goddess Brigid or Brigit (poetry, fire and smiths, healing, brewing, fertility, midwifery) would be invited into each house.
St Brigid's Cross, made of reeds. More sun-wheel than crucifix, tbh. The goddess Brigid became St Brigid in Christian times, with the same feast day and almost identical portfolio.
February 2nd is also known as the Feast of the Purification of the Virgin (40 days after the birth of Jesus, when she presented her Son, "the light of the world" and "a light unto the gentiles" (Luke 2:32), at the Temple), and, as you can see from the rhyme above, Candlemas, because it is the day candles are blessed for use in the church, year-round.
Why's that? Well, in Romano-Greek ritual it was the time that the young goddess Persephone returned from the Underworld, bringing spring to the world. Here's Pope Innocent XII on the subject:
Why do we in this feast carry candles? Because the Gentiles dedicated the month of February to the infernal gods, and as Pluto stole Proserpine, and her mother Ceres sought her in the night with lighted candles, so they, at the beginning of the month, walked about the city with lighted candles. Because the holy fathers could not extirpate the custom, they ordained that Christians should carry about candles in honor of the Blessed Virgin; and thus what was done before in the honor of Ceres is now done in honor of the Blessed Virgin
Snowdrops are "Candlemas bells"So - along with Christmas itself - Candlemas / Imbolc seems to be the one of the strongest and clearest cases of Christianity appropriating pagan ritual into the church calendar.
After all, we all long to see the return of spring...
February 1, 2016
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!
Today's excerpt is quite frankly as much a surprise to me as it is to any reader. I found out this weekend that my story Grinding was reprinted last year in Wetware: cyberpunk erotica. Don't worry - it was with permission! There was just a wee bug in the communication about publication dates, lol!
Grinding first appeared in the very limited hardcover anthology Geek Love so I'm delighted to see it now available to a wider audience, in such talented author company, and in an anthology with such an illustrious editor.
Late-night gamer Joe has accidentally encountered a succubus - one who in habits the world of a certain MMORPG nothing like WoW, absolutely nothing at all...
“Would you like to fuck me, Joe?”
“Um. I guess.”
That’s good enough. I step right out of the monitor into the mundane world. Instantly I feel the aether tighten, resisting my presence. It wants to reject me because this isn’t my realm. Only Joe’s acquiescence allows me purchase.
Bereft of my touch, he leans forward and stares into the monitor at his lonely avatar. “Damn. Where’ve you gone?”
“Behind you.”
He swivels round abruptly, the casters of his chair squeaking. His jaw sags a little. I’m right there in his room, and he can’t help being a bit freaked out. He can see me, and I look just as I did on-screen.
“Shit. You’re gorgeous.”
I am. Of course I am. I shine with an inner light that nothing in the mundane world has, and what’s more, I’ve dressed up to please him. I’m short and slender and the color of a caramel sweet, just ready to be sucked. My emerald eyes are slanted and the ram’s horns that curl up and out of my forehead are almost buried in my thick dark hair and all the beads and flowers and scarves braided into it. My clothes are flimsy rags of crimson silk, held on by narrow straps that threaten to give way under the strain. They are garments that emphasis just exactly which bits of my body he can’t see—yet.
“Hello Joe,” say I, sauntering over and settling down in a straddle across his lap. He doesn’t know where to look: at my face or my breasts or my spread thighs. I’m just heavy enough to make him believe in me, without being the slightest bit uncomfortable. Of course I can be as heavy as lead, should the need arise.
“Hi,” he says, swallowing. His hands drift to my legs, cautiously, and test the satin of my skin. His fingers slide all the way to my crotch but stop just short of the translucent silk flap that shields my sex. “Wow.”
Smiling, I lift my tiny skirt to reveal a mons as soft and smooth as a bird’s breast, split by a delectable crease. He slides his thumbs in, one from either side, stroking the tender folds and searching out my heat.
“Best. Dream. Ever,” he says faintly.
That makes me giggle. Wriggling my hips to encourage his exploration, I keep my own hands busy by finding the thick ridge of his cock under the denim of his jeans. It’s quite solid already, so I rub the heel of one palm up and down its length. Then I locate his fly zipper and tug it down. His cock is hot and sticky and keen, and with a few twists and a lift of his hips I manage to fetch it out into the open air. It bounces up, ruddy and engorged, hairy about the base. I’m impressed by its size and congratulate myself; I’ve picked a good one here. I can smell the savory sweat of his arousal and it makes my mouth water. “Oh, this is nice,” I whisper, wrapping one small hand about his shaft.
He grins, goofy and unfocused, as I lick my middle finger lavishly and use it to caress the swollen head of his tool. It weeps a drop of pre-cum.
“What’s your pleasure, Joe?”
“Me?” His gaze meets mine and his eyes are full of confusion. His hesitancy is kind of endearing. I’ve known men who’ve stuck their head between my tits by this stage. I’ve known men who push me down between their legs and stuff their cock in my mouth. To be honest, I don’t mind one way or another, so long as they don’t erupt before they’re inside me.
“I’m here for you, Joe. This is your dream. What do you want to do to me?”
He licks his lips. Then his gaze drops to my out-thrust rack and he lifts both hands to cup me. I’ve a small frame but full breasts and big, pert nipples, which swell and harden as his thumbs slide over the sheer cloth.
“Yes,” I urge, not needing to exaggerate my pleasure as he flicks and circles them. My hips writhe and I press into his hands. I can feel my sex juices gather and swell. He makes a small questioning noise in his throat and then pushes my top up altogether to reveal the twin orbs heaving beneath. I am not, strictly speaking, a mammal—but I am sweet to the taste, as he finds out when he stoops over me and fastens his mouth over my left tit.
Oh, that feels good. Oh, that’s just wonderful. The pleasure of suckling him makes me moan low in my throat and writhe against him. I arch my back, losing my grip on his cock as I clasp his head to me, turning him from tit to tit, urging him to suck and lick. My pussy nuzzles against the hard jut of his erection.
That’s not enough for Joe. Without warning he clasps his hands about me and pushes me right up
over him, his lips pulling from my teat and scouring across the flat of my stomach instead. I plant one bare foot on the arm of his chair as he gets where he wants and buries his mouth in my pussy. Our balance is insanely precarious, and doesn’t last: the computer chair tilts back suddenly, leaving Joe half-recumbent and me practically straddling his shoulders, clinging to the air by my fingertips. It’s a good thing my balance is preternaturally good. And a real woman would be heavy enough to tip the silly office chair over altogether and bring us both crashing down.
I writhe upon his face, kicking out one foot and nearly taking out his monitor, spreading my sex lips, sinking my pussy onto his wildly lashing tongue and withdrawing it again to let him lick and nip and capture me anew. Oh, he’s sweet. I can feel the arousal building in me like a furnace. I’m going to come, soon. On his mouth. While his cock stabs the air behind me.
And that would be very bad, at least for him. If I don’t consume semen as I come … well, I have to eat something.
Wetware is for sale on Amazon US :: Amazon UK
Today's excerpt is quite frankly as much a surprise to me as it is to any reader. I found out this weekend that my story Grinding was reprinted last year in Wetware: cyberpunk erotica. Don't worry - it was with permission! There was just a wee bug in the communication about publication dates, lol!
Grinding first appeared in the very limited hardcover anthology Geek Love so I'm delighted to see it now available to a wider audience, in such talented author company, and in an anthology with such an illustrious editor.
Late-night gamer Joe has accidentally encountered a succubus - one who in habits the world of a certain MMORPG nothing like WoW, absolutely nothing at all...“Would you like to fuck me, Joe?”
“Um. I guess.”
That’s good enough. I step right out of the monitor into the mundane world. Instantly I feel the aether tighten, resisting my presence. It wants to reject me because this isn’t my realm. Only Joe’s acquiescence allows me purchase.
Bereft of my touch, he leans forward and stares into the monitor at his lonely avatar. “Damn. Where’ve you gone?”
“Behind you.”
He swivels round abruptly, the casters of his chair squeaking. His jaw sags a little. I’m right there in his room, and he can’t help being a bit freaked out. He can see me, and I look just as I did on-screen.
“Shit. You’re gorgeous.”
I am. Of course I am. I shine with an inner light that nothing in the mundane world has, and what’s more, I’ve dressed up to please him. I’m short and slender and the color of a caramel sweet, just ready to be sucked. My emerald eyes are slanted and the ram’s horns that curl up and out of my forehead are almost buried in my thick dark hair and all the beads and flowers and scarves braided into it. My clothes are flimsy rags of crimson silk, held on by narrow straps that threaten to give way under the strain. They are garments that emphasis just exactly which bits of my body he can’t see—yet.
“Hello Joe,” say I, sauntering over and settling down in a straddle across his lap. He doesn’t know where to look: at my face or my breasts or my spread thighs. I’m just heavy enough to make him believe in me, without being the slightest bit uncomfortable. Of course I can be as heavy as lead, should the need arise.
“Hi,” he says, swallowing. His hands drift to my legs, cautiously, and test the satin of my skin. His fingers slide all the way to my crotch but stop just short of the translucent silk flap that shields my sex. “Wow.”
Smiling, I lift my tiny skirt to reveal a mons as soft and smooth as a bird’s breast, split by a delectable crease. He slides his thumbs in, one from either side, stroking the tender folds and searching out my heat.
“Best. Dream. Ever,” he says faintly.
That makes me giggle. Wriggling my hips to encourage his exploration, I keep my own hands busy by finding the thick ridge of his cock under the denim of his jeans. It’s quite solid already, so I rub the heel of one palm up and down its length. Then I locate his fly zipper and tug it down. His cock is hot and sticky and keen, and with a few twists and a lift of his hips I manage to fetch it out into the open air. It bounces up, ruddy and engorged, hairy about the base. I’m impressed by its size and congratulate myself; I’ve picked a good one here. I can smell the savory sweat of his arousal and it makes my mouth water. “Oh, this is nice,” I whisper, wrapping one small hand about his shaft.
He grins, goofy and unfocused, as I lick my middle finger lavishly and use it to caress the swollen head of his tool. It weeps a drop of pre-cum.
“What’s your pleasure, Joe?”
“Me?” His gaze meets mine and his eyes are full of confusion. His hesitancy is kind of endearing. I’ve known men who’ve stuck their head between my tits by this stage. I’ve known men who push me down between their legs and stuff their cock in my mouth. To be honest, I don’t mind one way or another, so long as they don’t erupt before they’re inside me.
“I’m here for you, Joe. This is your dream. What do you want to do to me?”
He licks his lips. Then his gaze drops to my out-thrust rack and he lifts both hands to cup me. I’ve a small frame but full breasts and big, pert nipples, which swell and harden as his thumbs slide over the sheer cloth.
“Yes,” I urge, not needing to exaggerate my pleasure as he flicks and circles them. My hips writhe and I press into his hands. I can feel my sex juices gather and swell. He makes a small questioning noise in his throat and then pushes my top up altogether to reveal the twin orbs heaving beneath. I am not, strictly speaking, a mammal—but I am sweet to the taste, as he finds out when he stoops over me and fastens his mouth over my left tit.
Oh, that feels good. Oh, that’s just wonderful. The pleasure of suckling him makes me moan low in my throat and writhe against him. I arch my back, losing my grip on his cock as I clasp his head to me, turning him from tit to tit, urging him to suck and lick. My pussy nuzzles against the hard jut of his erection.
That’s not enough for Joe. Without warning he clasps his hands about me and pushes me right up
over him, his lips pulling from my teat and scouring across the flat of my stomach instead. I plant one bare foot on the arm of his chair as he gets where he wants and buries his mouth in my pussy. Our balance is insanely precarious, and doesn’t last: the computer chair tilts back suddenly, leaving Joe half-recumbent and me practically straddling his shoulders, clinging to the air by my fingertips. It’s a good thing my balance is preternaturally good. And a real woman would be heavy enough to tip the silly office chair over altogether and bring us both crashing down.
I writhe upon his face, kicking out one foot and nearly taking out his monitor, spreading my sex lips, sinking my pussy onto his wildly lashing tongue and withdrawing it again to let him lick and nip and capture me anew. Oh, he’s sweet. I can feel the arousal building in me like a furnace. I’m going to come, soon. On his mouth. While his cock stabs the air behind me.
And that would be very bad, at least for him. If I don’t consume semen as I come … well, I have to eat something.
Wetware is for sale on Amazon US :: Amazon UK
January 30, 2016
Two Precious
So I'm just getting stuck deep deep deep into my luverly Valleys of the Earth ... when the edits for Falling Deep turn up in my inbox, along with a 'request' for a cover blurb ASAP!
The writing life, eh? There's always something to distract you from your book, even if it's only your other book :-)
I've seen plenty of authors say it's harder writing the cover blurb than the book, btw. I get that. We are fiction writers, not marketing copywriters. That's a WHOLE different skill, and lots of us find it really stressful.
"Explain in 200 words why your baby is the best baby in the world and everyone should love it."
January 27, 2016
So it begins
Mikhail Vrubel again!I'm 4K into The Valleys of the Earth, the follow-up to
Cover Him with Darkness
.I'm scared, tbh.
I'm scared I'll end up repeating myself - metaphors, similes, theological arguments.
I'm scared Milja's relationship with Azazel is too abusive for contemporary readers.
I'm really scared I can't write anything as good as that first volume. Because I think I've set the bar way high, truth be told.
All I can do it write it out, though.
January 25, 2016
Blue Monday: billierosie guests
Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!
My guest this week is billierose, with an excerpt from her short story Pasiphae, which appears in the The Beast in Me. And it is, by the way, a superb read, and I loved it - but OMG NOT for the fainthearted, even by Ashbless standards!
Can you guess the theme?
"Our sexual proclivities are an enigma. We have them, we know that they are there; we hide them, we keep them secret – sometimes we act on them. We cannot talk about them – no one would understand. We feel heated shame. We block feeling, turn away from feeling; we do anything not to feel. We crush the horror of the terrible deed that the little voice inside our head bids us do. Freud tells us that repressing feeling will amount to neurosis – Jung says pretty much the same – the repressed will bubble to the surface in one way or another – it will find a way out.
It will find its voice and it will demand to be heard.
The two stories presented here delve into the idea of ‘what happens next?’ What do you do – where do you go, after crashing and smashing your way through the final taboo?
A Queen, her depravity told through the millennia. Homer tells her story –Pasiphae the unnatural; the King, her husband, made a cuckold. Men snigger about the royal couple – even now, centuries later. What she did, her shame exposed to all, when she gave birth to a monster.
If you know Homer’s story about the Minotaur, you will know that the Monster is proof that Queen Pasiphae was indeed guilty of a terrible perversion.
And my own tale “The Beast in Me;” the taboo ever present in Daisy and Noah. They are lovers, besotted with each other; besotted with a terrible secret. They break man’s law and God’s law too.
Sensitive readers should be cautious, especially if easily offended."
Queen Pasiphae had even made drawings on parchment of the type of construction she wanted Daedalus to build for her. He was impressed; she had approach the matter of construction intelligently.
She realised that if the bull were to mount her he would kill her. The bull would crush her to death. She wanted him to build her a hollow cow. Something that she could crawl inside and something that would take the bull’s mighty weight. Her cunt would be exposed; somehow Daedalus was to convince the bull that she was a cow and the bull would copulate with her.
Daedalus had reasoned with her. Had she realised the size of the bull’s erect penis? Would she be able to accommodate him? Didn’t she realise that he could split her in two?
But the Queen countered those questions. She had thought of all of those things. If it was the god’s will that she should die in that way, then so be it.
Daedalus had told the Queen that the King must be informed. Daedalus was, after all, the King’s guest at the court of Knossos. It seemed wrong to actively help the Queen in an unnatural act of adultery without seeking the King’s permission.
Then Daedalus surprised himself at his boldness. Their dialogue had aroused him. And he could smell the meaty, animal stink of the Queen’s arousal. His cock was erect. He lifted his tunic and exposed himself to the Queen. Let her see, he thought. What could she do? She needed him. He stroked his cock, pumping slowly. All the time watching the Queen’s face.
***
And so I saw what I had come to. Daedalus’ vile behaviour showed me what men and women would think of me. There was no longer any respect, as he exposed and pumped his cock. This was how it would be from now on. Pasiphae, the slut. The Queen who would copulate with a beast. Men would joke about me in taverns, laugh behind my back. They would sing lewd songs about me. The story would be carved out in history; Pasiphae the depraved whore. Pasiphae the perverted, debauched Queen. Daedalus grunted and spurted his seed on the tiled floor, never taking his eyes from my face. He bared his teeth at me. I knelt at his feet obediently, lapping up his spent seed.
***
The Queen stood before the King, in the magnificent throne room; Daedalus stood at the King’s right hand. King Minos was a big man, yet on this day he seemed shrunken and frail. He had aged years in just a few small minutes. He sat on the sculptured throne, his head in his hands. The frescoes of gryphons guarding the royal throne looked on at the King’s devastation impassively.
Queen Pasiphae was composed; she had told Minos, clearly and slowly what she wanted, needed to do. Now she stood before him, her eyes wide, steadily watching him.
And how magnificent she looked. Every bit a Queen, her blue flounced skirts setting off her deep blue eyes. Her voluptuous breasts were bare and swayed when she moved. She had gold tinted her nipples, as was the custom for a high priestess. Her arms were covered in gold bracelets filled with precious stones. Golden hairpins of crocus flowers decorated her long, tumbling, fair tresses. She wore a costly pendant, shaped and hammered by the court goldsmith, into a bee hive pattern. Pasiphae had dressed for the occasion. Speaking with the authority of the goddess, she diminished her husband. Both she and he knew it.
***
Daedalus smiled; the previous day he had ordered the Queen to suck his cock. Not because he particularly desired such a thing. But because he wanted to see her beautiful mouth stretched to its capacity by his thickness. She’d gagged as he pushed his long, thick cock into her throat but he’d been relentless. He’d talked to her throughout; telling her that she was dirt; a slut. He’d pulled out to ejaculate on her face; her silky, fair hair sticky with his spunk.
***
Daedalus admired her composure as she stood before her husband. Not once had she flinched, not even when her husband had cursed her for an evil whore. That she was no better than the women who sell themselves to the sailors at the docks and harbours around the island. She had simply replied that it was what the god demanded; that her husband was to blame for not sacrificing the beautiful white bull to Poseidon.
King Minos had wept his response. He would go down in history as a cuckold. A fool, who would encourage his wife in this perversion. He knew what the gossips around the court whispered; that Minos was an impotent idiot, who couldn’t satisfy his wife.
Now they would know that they were right.
Again, Pasiphae had asserted that it was the god’s will.
Daedalus bowed his head to hide another small smile from playing around his lips. It maybe the god’s will, he thought. But the Queen was desperate for this fucking. The fucking may kill her; but without it she would surely die.
The King rose to his feet as if to strike his wife, but his large frame tumbled and crashed back onto the throne, his limbs twitching and jerking. He tried to speak, but his words were slurred. One side of his mouth dragged down in a terrible sneer. His head fell back; the eyes rolled beneath his lids, showing only the whites. The god had struck him down, silencing him.
***
Daedalus left the Queen pouring over the drawings he had brought to her apartments. He had ordered her to finger herself before he would give them to her, and desperate as she was, she’d obeyed him. He’d made her pull up her skirts and open her thighs, displaying her open cunt. He’d grinned as he watched the Queen’s fingers slurped, squelching, in and out of her wet hole.
She wept as she fingered herself, little sobs coming from her throat. How much longer would she have to wait? She had begged Daedalus to make haste with his work. She’d flung her arms around his knees, begging him to hurry. The tension had gone on for too long; she couldn’t bear to wait much longer.
Buy The Beast in Me at Amazon US :: Amazon UK
People fascinate billierosie. What makes them tick; what are their secrets and lies. The effete guy in the bank; the blonde lady shopping in the supermarket, the elderly lady living in a care home. What stories could they tell? Perhaps erotic stories of sex, intrigue and fetish?
And fetish is high on billierosie's agenda. The strange, haunting stuff that informs our darkest desires. It could be fur or feathers. Shoes, silk stockings, or toes. Poop or pee. An amputee's stump. If we made a list it would go on forever.
billierosie lives in a pretty village in England. She doesn't fit with village life; certainly not the Women's Institute. billierosie loves the theatre, Art, film, books and all things eccentric. billierosie plans to have fun and stay young, writing sexy erotica.
billierosie's Amazon page
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My guest this week is billierose, with an excerpt from her short story Pasiphae, which appears in the The Beast in Me. And it is, by the way, a superb read, and I loved it - but OMG NOT for the fainthearted, even by Ashbless standards!
Can you guess the theme?"Our sexual proclivities are an enigma. We have them, we know that they are there; we hide them, we keep them secret – sometimes we act on them. We cannot talk about them – no one would understand. We feel heated shame. We block feeling, turn away from feeling; we do anything not to feel. We crush the horror of the terrible deed that the little voice inside our head bids us do. Freud tells us that repressing feeling will amount to neurosis – Jung says pretty much the same – the repressed will bubble to the surface in one way or another – it will find a way out.
It will find its voice and it will demand to be heard.
The two stories presented here delve into the idea of ‘what happens next?’ What do you do – where do you go, after crashing and smashing your way through the final taboo?
A Queen, her depravity told through the millennia. Homer tells her story –Pasiphae the unnatural; the King, her husband, made a cuckold. Men snigger about the royal couple – even now, centuries later. What she did, her shame exposed to all, when she gave birth to a monster.
If you know Homer’s story about the Minotaur, you will know that the Monster is proof that Queen Pasiphae was indeed guilty of a terrible perversion.
And my own tale “The Beast in Me;” the taboo ever present in Daisy and Noah. They are lovers, besotted with each other; besotted with a terrible secret. They break man’s law and God’s law too.
Sensitive readers should be cautious, especially if easily offended."
Queen Pasiphae had even made drawings on parchment of the type of construction she wanted Daedalus to build for her. He was impressed; she had approach the matter of construction intelligently.
She realised that if the bull were to mount her he would kill her. The bull would crush her to death. She wanted him to build her a hollow cow. Something that she could crawl inside and something that would take the bull’s mighty weight. Her cunt would be exposed; somehow Daedalus was to convince the bull that she was a cow and the bull would copulate with her.
Daedalus had reasoned with her. Had she realised the size of the bull’s erect penis? Would she be able to accommodate him? Didn’t she realise that he could split her in two?
But the Queen countered those questions. She had thought of all of those things. If it was the god’s will that she should die in that way, then so be it.
Daedalus had told the Queen that the King must be informed. Daedalus was, after all, the King’s guest at the court of Knossos. It seemed wrong to actively help the Queen in an unnatural act of adultery without seeking the King’s permission.
Then Daedalus surprised himself at his boldness. Their dialogue had aroused him. And he could smell the meaty, animal stink of the Queen’s arousal. His cock was erect. He lifted his tunic and exposed himself to the Queen. Let her see, he thought. What could she do? She needed him. He stroked his cock, pumping slowly. All the time watching the Queen’s face.
***
And so I saw what I had come to. Daedalus’ vile behaviour showed me what men and women would think of me. There was no longer any respect, as he exposed and pumped his cock. This was how it would be from now on. Pasiphae, the slut. The Queen who would copulate with a beast. Men would joke about me in taverns, laugh behind my back. They would sing lewd songs about me. The story would be carved out in history; Pasiphae the depraved whore. Pasiphae the perverted, debauched Queen. Daedalus grunted and spurted his seed on the tiled floor, never taking his eyes from my face. He bared his teeth at me. I knelt at his feet obediently, lapping up his spent seed.
***
The Queen stood before the King, in the magnificent throne room; Daedalus stood at the King’s right hand. King Minos was a big man, yet on this day he seemed shrunken and frail. He had aged years in just a few small minutes. He sat on the sculptured throne, his head in his hands. The frescoes of gryphons guarding the royal throne looked on at the King’s devastation impassively.
Queen Pasiphae was composed; she had told Minos, clearly and slowly what she wanted, needed to do. Now she stood before him, her eyes wide, steadily watching him.
And how magnificent she looked. Every bit a Queen, her blue flounced skirts setting off her deep blue eyes. Her voluptuous breasts were bare and swayed when she moved. She had gold tinted her nipples, as was the custom for a high priestess. Her arms were covered in gold bracelets filled with precious stones. Golden hairpins of crocus flowers decorated her long, tumbling, fair tresses. She wore a costly pendant, shaped and hammered by the court goldsmith, into a bee hive pattern. Pasiphae had dressed for the occasion. Speaking with the authority of the goddess, she diminished her husband. Both she and he knew it.
***
Daedalus smiled; the previous day he had ordered the Queen to suck his cock. Not because he particularly desired such a thing. But because he wanted to see her beautiful mouth stretched to its capacity by his thickness. She’d gagged as he pushed his long, thick cock into her throat but he’d been relentless. He’d talked to her throughout; telling her that she was dirt; a slut. He’d pulled out to ejaculate on her face; her silky, fair hair sticky with his spunk.
***
Daedalus admired her composure as she stood before her husband. Not once had she flinched, not even when her husband had cursed her for an evil whore. That she was no better than the women who sell themselves to the sailors at the docks and harbours around the island. She had simply replied that it was what the god demanded; that her husband was to blame for not sacrificing the beautiful white bull to Poseidon.
King Minos had wept his response. He would go down in history as a cuckold. A fool, who would encourage his wife in this perversion. He knew what the gossips around the court whispered; that Minos was an impotent idiot, who couldn’t satisfy his wife.
Now they would know that they were right.
Again, Pasiphae had asserted that it was the god’s will.
Daedalus bowed his head to hide another small smile from playing around his lips. It maybe the god’s will, he thought. But the Queen was desperate for this fucking. The fucking may kill her; but without it she would surely die.
The King rose to his feet as if to strike his wife, but his large frame tumbled and crashed back onto the throne, his limbs twitching and jerking. He tried to speak, but his words were slurred. One side of his mouth dragged down in a terrible sneer. His head fell back; the eyes rolled beneath his lids, showing only the whites. The god had struck him down, silencing him.
***
Daedalus left the Queen pouring over the drawings he had brought to her apartments. He had ordered her to finger herself before he would give them to her, and desperate as she was, she’d obeyed him. He’d made her pull up her skirts and open her thighs, displaying her open cunt. He’d grinned as he watched the Queen’s fingers slurped, squelching, in and out of her wet hole.
She wept as she fingered herself, little sobs coming from her throat. How much longer would she have to wait? She had begged Daedalus to make haste with his work. She’d flung her arms around his knees, begging him to hurry. The tension had gone on for too long; she couldn’t bear to wait much longer.
Buy The Beast in Me at Amazon US :: Amazon UK
People fascinate billierosie. What makes them tick; what are their secrets and lies. The effete guy in the bank; the blonde lady shopping in the supermarket, the elderly lady living in a care home. What stories could they tell? Perhaps erotic stories of sex, intrigue and fetish?
And fetish is high on billierosie's agenda. The strange, haunting stuff that informs our darkest desires. It could be fur or feathers. Shoes, silk stockings, or toes. Poop or pee. An amputee's stump. If we made a list it would go on forever.
billierosie lives in a pretty village in England. She doesn't fit with village life; certainly not the Women's Institute. billierosie loves the theatre, Art, film, books and all things eccentric. billierosie plans to have fun and stay young, writing sexy erotica.
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January 20, 2016
I'm too sexy for my wood
Pirelli Calendar rejectBecause there's a public road bordering my bit of woodland, there's the odd bit of detritus shed by passers-by.Highlights of my litter-picking so far:
1 tyre2 hubcaps1 pair freshly-discarded latex gloves (WTF? Ewwww!)
If I'm not online, btw, it's because I'm here :-)
January 18, 2016
Blue Monday
Every Monday I post a wicked excerpt for your entertainment!
And this Monday it is - it HAS to be - an excerpt featuring my very own Goblin King, from filthy fairy tale Named and Shamed.
This is, btw, pretty mucky. You have been warned.
Humiliation-junkie Tansy has fallen into the clutches of the Elder Witch and has become her housemaid. Now the witch has a visitor...
So that was how I spent my days as scullion to the Elder Tree Witch. Until one night the fishes’ song gave a prediction I’d never heard before:
What does the morrow bring?
Golden sun, blackberries ripen, the Brenin rides by -
This we sing.
Neither the witch nor her sons remarked on the forecast at the time, but the next day I was out at the front of the cottage, feeding the chickens, when I heard a bestial snort behind me and I looked round. And there he was.
I really don’t see how he’d managed to sneak up on me, riding a big horse like that. It was a black stallion, with an arched neck and a mane like rough silk that was hung with tiny silver bells. The Brenin was dressed entirely in black too — a hodgepodge of fashion stolen from history. Mr. Darcy boots, a long Victorian riding coat, biker leathers on his legs and a belted medieval shirt embroidered down the front — all topped off with a black half-mask in the form of a skull. Behind the skull’s eye-sockets his eyes glinted. His hair was a dead white and it hung down as far as his elbows, while his skin, where it showed, was the colour of long-buried bone. Frankly, he looked like a manga villain, and he should have been risible anywhere outside of a convention auditorium . . . but he wasn’t. I could feel reality crinkling up around him, like cellophane exposed to heat.
As I stared, the horse reached down, snatched up one of the chickens and ate it, bones and feathers crunching in its teeth with a noise like a packet of crisps.
“Lady,” I said through dry lips. I didn’t dare raise my voice. But I didn’t have to. She stepped out from the cottage and strode toward the rider, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Oh, Brenin! Such an honour you pay me! Are you hunting today?”
He switched his attention to her, his thin lips twitching in a smile. “My Hounds rest at the moment, Grandmother. I thought I’d call in at the house of my favourite beldame and see how she is keeping.”
I noted that the moment he opened his mouth, the rest of the chickens bolted back into their ruined hut, though there was nothing unpleasant about his voice that I could discern. It was a cool, dry, well-spoken voice, and it somehow made me think he was used to giving orders.
“Well! I am well!” she cackled merrily, practically dancing on the spot. “These old bones are still strong. You must stop a while and break bread with me.”
“Willingly, Grandmother.”
“Quick, skivvy!” She signalled to me and I came nervously around the front of the horse to join her. The animal snorted at me in a disparaging way and pawed the rock with a silver-shod hoof, the bells strung in its mane making a shivery noise. “On your elbows and knees,” she commanded me, nodding at a spot below the Brenin’s boot. “So that my lord may alight.”
Nervous though I was, disobedience didn’t even occur to me. I was well-trained by this point. I put down my pot and sank into position as a mounting block for him, bracing my back. His booted foot was hard and he didn’t spare me his weight. I let out a little gasp of relief as his feet finally struck the dirt.
“Will you have beer, my Brenin? Wine? Milk?”
“Wine. But first I would relieve myself after the ride.”
“Of course. Skivvy!”
I knelt up. At first I didn’t realise what was expected of me. She signalled impatiently for me to face the Brenin, with his high boots and long legs. I noticed he wore a knife at his belt and the hollow horn of a ram, chased in gold, and that he had a riding crop with a thick stock thrust into his left boot. He was popping the crotch studs of his leathers.
“Open your mouth, girl!” the witch screeched.
A blowjob? That was no hardship, I thought. He was hot in his creepy way, and he’d make a welcome change from the three grotesque witch-spawn. As he revealed a smooth cock, full and curved but not yet erect, I licked my lips expectantly and set them in a welcoming pout.
“Open! You want him to piss all over your face?”
My eyes widened as realisation hit me. My heart clenched and blood rushed to my face, masking my freckles. After everything that had happened to me, everything I’d submitted to, I still found it hard to believe anyone could expect this. It made me feel dizzy. I felt a twinge between my legs too: shock manifesting as arousal. I looked up into his face, as he stepped in and I opened my mouth. He smelled of saffron, and rain upon dust, and his expression was unreadable. But he must have felt my involuntary tremble as, taking my jaw in his hand, he fed his elegant ivory cock between my lips and over my tongue, and set his legs a little apart.
I took his cock as far back in my mouth as I could, telling myself it was no different than necking a pint of beer, and the further back the less I would taste it. I was sort of right. Except it was hot. And not beer. In fact it tasted like honey – one of those strong, dark honeys collected from arid pine forests. As the flood commenced, tears brimmed in my eyes, making his form waver above me. I’d been pissed on by those two cops — long ago it seemed now — but never pissed in. Never reduced to such humiliation on such an intimate and primal level. I couldn’t breathe, he filled my throat so. And my belly. I couldn’t do anything but open my throat and swallow it all down, and it seemed to take him forever to empty his bladder. His fingers were cool where they held me, cool where they brushed the hair back from my face so he could watch my eyes. I couldn’t hide from him the emotions that battered me — the revulsion, the abject submission, the desperate desire to perform well, my slowly growing panic as my air ran out. I was going to gag soon. I was going to choke and wrench away. I would end up with his hot spray all over my face, as he held my hair to keep me in place — and the thought set me burning.
At the very last moment, just before fear became reality, the Brenin pulled out. Not all the way, but enough for me to snatch a gasp of air. And to recognise part of the cause of my distress. His cock was no longer entirely soft and slender, but pumped fat with arousal. He used it in a thorough exploration of my mouth, making sure I tasted the dregs before he released me properly at last. I was crying properly now, salt tears running down and mixing with the bitter-sweet drops on my lips as I licked them.
I could no longer look up at his face.
“I like her.” He stroked his cock idly and it bounced to full erection between his long fingers. “Those eyebrows — even her lashes — they’re like flame. She’s a rarity. And she’s very receptive.”
“Yes, she is. Try her cunny, my Brenin, if it pleases you. ‘
“I’ll have her rear entrance, for preference.”
“Of course. It will be quite ready for you.” Grasping the long leather rope, she pulled the butt-plug from my anus with no effort at all.
He pulled the riding crop from his boot, wielding it in the hand that was not busy caressing his stiff shaft. The whip, roughly rounded in cross-section, was much thicker than a modern one, though it tapered to a springy point. I had a nasty feeling it was made from some sort of dried animal pizzle. Contemplatively, he poked and slapped at my breasts, the muted sting exciting my nipples to points.
“Face down,” he said. “Grip your ankles.”
I obeyed, lowering my face and shoulders to the ground and reaching behind me to grip my calves. My ass was exhibited upward, pointing into the air. The Brenin walked round behind me, flicked my skirt up with his whip and surveyed the view presented. I could feel my asshole, pliant and open, oozing grease where the butt-plug had been pulled from it. He set the narrow end of his crop across the hole, pressing slightly. My sphincter fluttered, dilating. He tapped it softly then with the very point of the crop, and I felt my anus spasm, ripples of pleasure flaring out across my ass.
“Very good,” he breathed. Crouching down behind me, he fed the thick head of his cock to my waiting hole. “You may speak,” he told me indulgently, as he impaled my ass.
And this Monday it is - it HAS to be - an excerpt featuring my very own Goblin King, from filthy fairy tale Named and Shamed.
This is, btw, pretty mucky. You have been warned.
Humiliation-junkie Tansy has fallen into the clutches of the Elder Witch and has become her housemaid. Now the witch has a visitor...
So that was how I spent my days as scullion to the Elder Tree Witch. Until one night the fishes’ song gave a prediction I’d never heard before:
What does the morrow bring?
Golden sun, blackberries ripen, the Brenin rides by -
This we sing.
Neither the witch nor her sons remarked on the forecast at the time, but the next day I was out at the front of the cottage, feeding the chickens, when I heard a bestial snort behind me and I looked round. And there he was.
I really don’t see how he’d managed to sneak up on me, riding a big horse like that. It was a black stallion, with an arched neck and a mane like rough silk that was hung with tiny silver bells. The Brenin was dressed entirely in black too — a hodgepodge of fashion stolen from history. Mr. Darcy boots, a long Victorian riding coat, biker leathers on his legs and a belted medieval shirt embroidered down the front — all topped off with a black half-mask in the form of a skull. Behind the skull’s eye-sockets his eyes glinted. His hair was a dead white and it hung down as far as his elbows, while his skin, where it showed, was the colour of long-buried bone. Frankly, he looked like a manga villain, and he should have been risible anywhere outside of a convention auditorium . . . but he wasn’t. I could feel reality crinkling up around him, like cellophane exposed to heat.
As I stared, the horse reached down, snatched up one of the chickens and ate it, bones and feathers crunching in its teeth with a noise like a packet of crisps.
“Lady,” I said through dry lips. I didn’t dare raise my voice. But I didn’t have to. She stepped out from the cottage and strode toward the rider, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Oh, Brenin! Such an honour you pay me! Are you hunting today?”
He switched his attention to her, his thin lips twitching in a smile. “My Hounds rest at the moment, Grandmother. I thought I’d call in at the house of my favourite beldame and see how she is keeping.”
I noted that the moment he opened his mouth, the rest of the chickens bolted back into their ruined hut, though there was nothing unpleasant about his voice that I could discern. It was a cool, dry, well-spoken voice, and it somehow made me think he was used to giving orders.
“Well! I am well!” she cackled merrily, practically dancing on the spot. “These old bones are still strong. You must stop a while and break bread with me.”
“Willingly, Grandmother.”
“Quick, skivvy!” She signalled to me and I came nervously around the front of the horse to join her. The animal snorted at me in a disparaging way and pawed the rock with a silver-shod hoof, the bells strung in its mane making a shivery noise. “On your elbows and knees,” she commanded me, nodding at a spot below the Brenin’s boot. “So that my lord may alight.”
Nervous though I was, disobedience didn’t even occur to me. I was well-trained by this point. I put down my pot and sank into position as a mounting block for him, bracing my back. His booted foot was hard and he didn’t spare me his weight. I let out a little gasp of relief as his feet finally struck the dirt.
“Will you have beer, my Brenin? Wine? Milk?”
“Wine. But first I would relieve myself after the ride.”
“Of course. Skivvy!”
I knelt up. At first I didn’t realise what was expected of me. She signalled impatiently for me to face the Brenin, with his high boots and long legs. I noticed he wore a knife at his belt and the hollow horn of a ram, chased in gold, and that he had a riding crop with a thick stock thrust into his left boot. He was popping the crotch studs of his leathers.
“Open your mouth, girl!” the witch screeched.
A blowjob? That was no hardship, I thought. He was hot in his creepy way, and he’d make a welcome change from the three grotesque witch-spawn. As he revealed a smooth cock, full and curved but not yet erect, I licked my lips expectantly and set them in a welcoming pout.
“Open! You want him to piss all over your face?”
My eyes widened as realisation hit me. My heart clenched and blood rushed to my face, masking my freckles. After everything that had happened to me, everything I’d submitted to, I still found it hard to believe anyone could expect this. It made me feel dizzy. I felt a twinge between my legs too: shock manifesting as arousal. I looked up into his face, as he stepped in and I opened my mouth. He smelled of saffron, and rain upon dust, and his expression was unreadable. But he must have felt my involuntary tremble as, taking my jaw in his hand, he fed his elegant ivory cock between my lips and over my tongue, and set his legs a little apart.
I took his cock as far back in my mouth as I could, telling myself it was no different than necking a pint of beer, and the further back the less I would taste it. I was sort of right. Except it was hot. And not beer. In fact it tasted like honey – one of those strong, dark honeys collected from arid pine forests. As the flood commenced, tears brimmed in my eyes, making his form waver above me. I’d been pissed on by those two cops — long ago it seemed now — but never pissed in. Never reduced to such humiliation on such an intimate and primal level. I couldn’t breathe, he filled my throat so. And my belly. I couldn’t do anything but open my throat and swallow it all down, and it seemed to take him forever to empty his bladder. His fingers were cool where they held me, cool where they brushed the hair back from my face so he could watch my eyes. I couldn’t hide from him the emotions that battered me — the revulsion, the abject submission, the desperate desire to perform well, my slowly growing panic as my air ran out. I was going to gag soon. I was going to choke and wrench away. I would end up with his hot spray all over my face, as he held my hair to keep me in place — and the thought set me burning.
At the very last moment, just before fear became reality, the Brenin pulled out. Not all the way, but enough for me to snatch a gasp of air. And to recognise part of the cause of my distress. His cock was no longer entirely soft and slender, but pumped fat with arousal. He used it in a thorough exploration of my mouth, making sure I tasted the dregs before he released me properly at last. I was crying properly now, salt tears running down and mixing with the bitter-sweet drops on my lips as I licked them.
I could no longer look up at his face.
“I like her.” He stroked his cock idly and it bounced to full erection between his long fingers. “Those eyebrows — even her lashes — they’re like flame. She’s a rarity. And she’s very receptive.”
“Yes, she is. Try her cunny, my Brenin, if it pleases you. ‘
“I’ll have her rear entrance, for preference.”
“Of course. It will be quite ready for you.” Grasping the long leather rope, she pulled the butt-plug from my anus with no effort at all.
He pulled the riding crop from his boot, wielding it in the hand that was not busy caressing his stiff shaft. The whip, roughly rounded in cross-section, was much thicker than a modern one, though it tapered to a springy point. I had a nasty feeling it was made from some sort of dried animal pizzle. Contemplatively, he poked and slapped at my breasts, the muted sting exciting my nipples to points.
“Face down,” he said. “Grip your ankles.”
I obeyed, lowering my face and shoulders to the ground and reaching behind me to grip my calves. My ass was exhibited upward, pointing into the air. The Brenin walked round behind me, flicked my skirt up with his whip and surveyed the view presented. I could feel my asshole, pliant and open, oozing grease where the butt-plug had been pulled from it. He set the narrow end of his crop across the hole, pressing slightly. My sphincter fluttered, dilating. He tapped it softly then with the very point of the crop, and I felt my anus spasm, ripples of pleasure flaring out across my ass.
“Very good,” he breathed. Crouching down behind me, he fed the thick head of his cock to my waiting hole. “You may speak,” he told me indulgently, as he impaled my ass.
January 17, 2016
Underground
David Bowie rocks the Urban Paranormal genre.
With tentacles.
January 16, 2016
January 14, 2016
RIP Rickman
Oh FFS.
Well, 2016 seems determined to take out every geek icon, doesn't it? First the Goblin King, now Snape.
Alan Rickman was a great actor and a nerdy sex-symbol. He played villains (usually smart, sneering villains - my favourite kind - pitted against meathead heroes). He played repressed self-defeating British middle-class men burdened by varying degrees of bitterness. He, like Bowie, was a fixture in our cultural life, and they both died too young, even at 69.
"I'll take this as a healthy reminder that subtlety... isn't everything" - upon receiving a BAFTA for 'Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves'He wasn't really handsome (well, maybe for a few moments in a good light).
All his sex-appeal was in his voice, his eyes, and his charisma. But he was pretty much guaranteed to steal the show in every movie.
Heh - I have to admit to a very school-inappropriate flutter when I first watched this epic thespian flounce-off:
Goddamnit. This year has seen too many momento moris already.
