Shibari, or the enslavement of the id

The Pleasure Principle

The pursuit of pleasure takes the human soul down inscrutable paths, fueled by lust, and shrouded in darkness.

The energy that powers this chase stems from the id, that elusive and impulsive side of our psyche that drives our sexual instinct.

According to Sigmund Freud, the id operates on the pleasure principle, i.e., the idea that every wishful impulse should be satisfied immediately, regardless of the consequences. The id is not affected by the reality around us, nor by the logic or the everyday world. This primitive and primordial creature resides deep within the psyche, immune and ignorant of common things. Instead, it seeks immediate and total satisfaction.

If that fulfillment is attained, the id rests. Conversely, if the sought satisfaction is denied, tension and anxiety rise to the surface. The id demands attention.

The pleasure drive within the soul is strong, and we can find a clear correlation between sexual fulfillment and a state of calm, or happiness.

It is the primordial nature of the id that drives this lust. As stated previously, it cannot be denied. The id will not allow us to rest until its desires have been sated. The nascent need originates deep within our minds, but soon, it is our body that requires complete satisfaction. Therefore, it can be inferred that the deliverance of the id is paramount. The it seeks, wants, and needs to be put at peace.

There are many ways in which this satisfaction can be achieved, but at a basic level, humans pursue sexual gratification on a continuous basis. It is one of the supporting pillars of existence, both for the male and female sides of the spectrum.

The pursuit of sexual pleasure drives us on, and in a way, it is our guiding light. The sexual impulse grows organically and exponentially with every passing minute. If left unchecked and unsatisfied for too long, it will taker over our organism, thus creating a physical manifestation of the id’s basic instincts. The source of this anxiety is the id’s retribution for being ignored. And if left unchecked still, the sexual impulse will keep growing, swallowing all reasoning and blinding the subject with a thick mist of desire.

The Ropes of Willful Imprisonment

When the mind is in a constant of desire as a result of the id’s being forsaken, several chambers are created within the human psyche. Each of these chambers plays host to a different fantasy, a virtual extrapolation of the unfulfilled desire. The content of these fantasies range from the innocuous to the extremely violent, depending on many factors. Entire tomes could be written about the nuances and texture of human sexual fantasies, but in the context of this piece, we will focus on the Shibari chamber.

The art of Shibari takes its inspiration from prisoner-restraining techniques developed in feudal Japan. Hemp ropes with elaborate knots would be used to hold and restrain prisoners. Over time, this entered civilian life and evolved into an art form in which ropes are used to braid and restrain both males and females.

Shibari is exquisitely complicated to pull off, as some of the knots require great skill and complexity to accomplish. Nevertheless, the end result is a beautiful combination of fetishism and unconventional sensuality.

Yet the ropes wrap and braid more than skin and flesh. It is the id’s hungry desire that’s been subdued. The most intimate sexual desire of man or woman is manifested on those ropes, via the id. The need for submission, to relinquish control to another human being, is a clear manifestation of the id’s craving.

The rigger’s craft depends on the willingness of the subject to offer his or her body to be bound, and if such willingness exists, a sensual bond is established.

The ropes that crawl in a serpentine motion around the human curves, muscles, and cavities draw the id’s nectar out, pleasing it, placating it with a clear and unequivocal intent. The knots decorate the human canvas, and as they do, they enslave the id, subduing it and taking it to its rightful place of solace and sexual rapture.

Azure dreams

She glides towards him, her bare body moving elegantly across the fathomless ocean, describing a perfect arc around the moonlight’s reflection on the azure surface.

He remains motionless, merely waiting. His body is as bare as hers on this warm summer night. The haste of unfulfilled lust burns bright within him, just as the memories of a thousand nights of shared passion linger inside her.

Even gods despair sometimes, he thinks, and a little smile draws upon his lips.

She notices, and stops. Looks at him, looks at that beautiful smile of his. How his lips crease up, how the soft lines of his face become somewhat deeper, and certainly more alluring.
Time has ceased to exist for the pair. They’re gods, after all, and gods and goddesses care not for such mundane things. In this place, and in this moment, only them and the moonlight truly matter.

She resumes her advance, and this time, it’s his turn to gaze at her.

She moves swiftly, effortlessly, her long, crimson red hair trailing behind like a thick veil. The dark, ochre tones of her skin shine with a beautiful golden hue tonight. The silver luminosity of the night imbues her body with a gorgeous, somewhat unearthly glow.

He moves for the first time, and raises his strong arms. He says ‘Up’ as he does this, and a thousand white doves fly up into the night. The birds briefly outline against the moon, and shadows dance and leap across her body as she approaches him.

‘A god’s whim, how remarkable,’ she says.

‘I could unhinge the stars if I so desired,’ he answers. ‘Yet, my desire is more focused tonight’.

‘A god’s desire.’

‘Indeed.’

He moves again, and they are so close to each other now that he can see her breasts rise and fall as she breathes the night air. She can now see his whole body, the hardness of his shaft barely concealed by the translucent waters. She smiles wryly.

‘A thousand years hence, we may be still bathing in these very waters. But tonight, all of you belongs to me, my Lord.’

‘Only lust is eternal. The wheel of fate spins endlessly, yet, all that truly matters is the desire in the heart of gods, just like it does on men. It is the engine of life. Rise.’

As he uttered this word, a pleasant tingling sensation enveloped her, and her body lifted off the water. It rose slowly, effortlessly, describing a beautiful ascending curve over the horizon. Water dripped from her legs, and as the goddess’ slender body soared, two dolphins jumped under her. The animals disappeared below just as suddenly as they had appeared.

She smiled as he drew her body towards him. She offered no resistance. Instead, she shook the excess water off her hair, and as she did, a myriad dragonflies materialized. A colourful kaleidoscope of light rose into the night, each of the insects shining with a different shiny hue.

‘I have party tricks of my own, my Lord.’

‘So I see.’

He also now rose, and met her body in mid-air. Their union was perfectly smooth. He entered all the way into her just as the luminosity from the dragonflies faded out. She moaned, long and true, and embraced him. Wrapping her legs around his waist she welcome him in deeper.

‘The power of a thousand orgasms shall fill you tonight. It is a God’s due to atone your body for an eternity of pleasure lost, vanished forever in the maelstrom of redemption.’

‘A God and a gentleman,’ she whispered, and gave fully into him.

The azure below turned deeper. Rising and falling sunlight would come and go. Aeons passed, and yet, a God’s passion is endless.

Lust

It ebbs and flows, a rushing cascade of unleashed emotions, a swirling maelstrom of unstoppable power. The first sting of lust is like a epiphany of the flesh, the revelation of an ancient power that roams the halls of a house made out of desire.

There is no denying when this force takes you over, when it grips and seizes your mind and soul. Its sheer kinetic energy fuels life, laying waste to morals and restrain.

From the eldritch shadows of me it emerges, a handsome vampire that needs to feed its thirst every night. An organic creature that breathes and lives on unspeakable fluids, old as time itself. Muscles and sinew and bone become an instrument of longing and desire, casting a different light on a world that most don’t see.

It is a restless beast, a sleeping giant that never slumbers, but lies awake, prowling the hallowed waterfalls of the mind, looking for her.

The soul becomes a vagabond, a nomad of the night, dancing without sleeping, breathing to the rhythm of a mystifying lover.

Then the soul touches down on a soft navel, and it glides, spreading its wings around, and lust awakens with a grinning howl. The connection is immediate, and the senses glisten and swell, and there is a slow dance that becomes a throe, and then there is blossoming screams that long for more.

There is heavy breathing at midnight, and the soul of lust sighs with bated anticipation, wielding its mighty power with the pride of a thousand thrusts. And then there is no self-control, once you give yourself to your own overriding want. And her own, and she’ll take what she wants and needs from you, in a candlelit ceremony of yielding sensuality. Once that soulful lust gives into temptation, the gates of Hades crash open, and a rush of wind underneath your skin blows the curtains sky high, and the fires that burn low turns into an inferno, and the mist of hesitation fades away, giving way to the power of the Gods, a power that shines as bright as the stars and knows no bounds.

The first kiss binds the energies, blood for lust, and lust for blood, and the words that are unspoken hang in between and fade away, melting into one another. There is heat, and there is untamed behavior. The zest for life uncoils from its own moorings and springs into overdrive, tangling itself in a communion of fire and flesh.

Animal instinct: The dark side of the id

When your life is ruled by desire, where does the road to fulfillment end? When one’s existence is an endless sexual fantasy, how does one’s mind find rest and tranquility?

There is an energy that’s both vital and dark, and when it flows through you, every nerve ending and every pore secretes sin. And there is another side to us, isn’t there. A relic left behind by the heathen gods of sex and impurity, the lust and the ardor of long gone deities that guide the bodies of men and women as they fuck, playing with our bodies like wily puppeteers.

And what is sin, but the gift bestowed upon mankind to find out who they truly are. It is the tool to self-realization and freedom. Sin is the key that must turn twice before opening the portal to the other side of us, where the id slumbers, and breathes, and whispers things that feed off sin, and viceversa. The mind vicariously plays a tag game with darkness and the light, and in the realms of fantasy and devotion to the sinful reality, light does not always prevail.

So an obsidian night is inside of me, dark as a mother’s womb, and the force of arcane runes simmers right beneath my eyes, and in the heat of the moment, the puppeteers laugh and play their serpentine game of hide and fuck.
Desire is the bride in black, the maniac with a grin, and the ghost of your own fear. Desire speaks to you, sometimes loud enough to drown out the voice of reason and correctness. Desire takes you with the same impunity as an incubus fucks a sleeping female. Desire is the shadow that stalks your conscience, the mask that conceals the true face of your animal instinct. Desire is impish, and pitiless. It is cruel, too, for it strikes at any time, and the cravings are not always easily fulfilled.

There is a darkened room inside the id, a crawling space with only a sliver of clarity piercing its hollow. The animal instinct sits there, waiting. Not quite asleep, but not quite awake either. For some, it never rises. For some, the animal sleeps an unjust slumber, quietened by the aversion to reveal itself, its flame quenched by fear, and repression.

But others embrace its wicked charm, and absorb the power of its lure. The instinct awakens, breaking free of its moorings, and takes you over. And at that moment, the ties that bind your freedom are severed, and the beast is loose and ready to do your bidding.

There is no altruism in the beast’s intentions, nor there is pity, or a sliver of care. When those cabalistic instincts take over, the darker side of the id unsheathes its scepter of pleasure, and smites down anything in its path. Desire, as eternity itself, is relentless.

So the bride in black walks down the lingering shadows of the human body, ravaging men and women alike, for desire is not just the property of man.
And I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints, as the song goes.

Of bondage, sex, and darkness: The art of Takato Yamamoto

The aesthetics of sex are beautifully crafted by both the performers, and he or she who watches one, or a multitude of bodies evolve in the thrall of Eros. There is an innate and primordial savagery permeating every aspect of human sexuality.

It is a boundless and unique realm where the reality of the act transmogrifies into an almost beastly behavior, one where the male and female body become vessels for an aeons-old force and energy that feeds off desire and the lust of man and woman.

Good sex is a like a perfectly crafted and artful masterpiece; the timing, the engaging visuals, the lovers’ projected auras, and the satisfying outcome. All elements come together to express one, or more’s, will to attain a new state of heterogenous orgasm.

And there is plenty of dark facets surrounding the relentless pursuit of pleasure, too. With the With the relentless exploration of new boundaries comes the lust for ghouls, demons, and the blood that enables life. When the world of experience with human subjects reaches a critical threshold of boredom and commonality, the mind walks upon a gravelly path to another place, heading for a temple of mists and winds that whisper with the promise of sublime desolation. This is a place where the ghosts of long-dead witches sing you a lullaby and lovingly dab your brow with their wretched saliva when you lay down to sleep the long night away, dreaming of what is like to commune with a succubus. It is a place dotted with darkened alcoves overflowing with the fluids of those who came there before you. This asylum for the mariners of the flesh looms large just over the horizon of perception, hiding in plain sight within us all, yet few dare to look past the veil of society’s traditional values and conventions.

It is within this context of transformation and the evolution of desire that we come to discuss the art of Takato Yamamoto, a Japanese illustrator and painter whose art perfectly conveys the concepts hitherto exposed.
In many ways, Yamamoto’s art exemplifies the traditions of Japanese iconography, while also displaying references to classic manga and the historic artistry of shibari (Japanese bondage). This is an interesting point; the ropes braid the bodies of the living and the dead, and the latter feed off their control over the former.

Yamamoto’s craft is full of twisted eroticism and darkened and arcane sex that oozes rivers of spectral fluids. There is a soulful asymmetry of askew consequences; ghosts and the living dead fuck each other in a sick and yet fascinating cross-dimensional romance. Wraiths feast upon wet dreams of a still life, and Yamamoto’s vision is one of desire for inanimate liaisons.

It is a polarizing vision, for sure, as one either loves it or loathes it. But if one is willing to embrace and ride on the back of one’s pursuit for the ultimate experience beyond the field of conventionality, time spent in this world of mature death and evolutionary sex is well worth losing one’s grace for the sake of embracing darkness and the death of the old you.

‘Lines’ featured on this month’s edition of eLust

Very proud to announce that my short story “Lines” has been chosen as one of this month’s top picks at eLust, one of the most prestigious erotica-themed sites on the web.

Why not head over there and browse all the exciting material available? You won’t regret it.

Lines

The altar stood in the very center of the chamber. Four feet in height, it looked solemn, brooding, and pristine in its own darkly and striking irreverence.

Intricate tapestries woven in crimson and black velvet draped it in its entirety. They hung low, spilling onto the floor below and spreading around in no casual manner. Trinkets and junkets of indescribable origin lay scattered in odd but seemingly purposeful patterns around the altar. Here, an animal skull the colour of ivory; there, a furry thing which may have once been part of a living being, but now hung limply from a rusty chain. Whatever these things were, they possessed a palpable significance and purpose.

And flanking the altar on both sides, wooden statuettes of the Sired One stood guard, with forked tongues, slit eyes, and cloven hands that held the unnamable power of past and present in their grip. Heathen idols, perhaps, the legacy of a long since dead progeny. They stood still and silent, and yet, their agape mouths were forever frozen in the middle of a savage snarl.

At the dark altar’s foot, a pentagram had been drawn in chalk. Short, stocky black candles burned bright on each of its vertices, almost in timid respect of the altar’s throbbing power. A heavy, almost stifling atmosphere hung in the air. And it was hot, very hot.

And dwelling within the pentagram’s confines, a man and a woman sat cross-legged before one another. The male had a well defined, muscular body. A patch of dark hair right in between his pectoral muscles granted him an attractive, virile look. The female’s body was no less toned. Her skin was smooth and sun tanned, and as she breathed, her small breasts rose and fell in unison. Any man watching it would long to feel the heartbeat that kept those elegant breasts alive.

He wore a black studded leather thong, and she wore nothing but a leather collar around her neck. The pair concealed their identities with ornate decorations; he had a faun mask on him, with deep, blackened ridges, thin eyes and long, thin horns sprouting from it. The female wore a golden Egyptian mask, decorated with red trim, an oval-shaped jewel in the center, and long, narrow tassels the color of sunlight running all along its underside.

In complete silence, the man reached for a flask of bluish liquid set to his right. He dipped his right index finger into it, and the thick fluid seemed to react when disturbed. Long, bright filaments trailed the man’s fingers as he made a stirring motion inside the flask. Then, they vanished as he drew his finger out, leaving behind nothing but a ghostly luminosity.

He ran his finger across the woman’s bare chest, and where the fluid touched the skin, a streaked line appeared. She moaned, not in pain, but in pleasure.

‘The power of the Sire grants you this stygian delight,’ the man said as he carved a line parallel to the first one. His voice was deep, and somewhat intimidating. Yet, the female did not flinch. ‘These runes will bestow you primordial pleasure, and in return, you shall relinquish your body to the Sire.’ When the second line was finished, he drew a horizontal one across the two vertical ones. The female threw her head back and moaned loudly.

‘Do you relinquish your body?’

‘I do,’ she said almost in a whisper. ‘I do. I relinquish my physical being to be taken by the Sire.’

He dipped his finger into the fluid again, and once more those eldritch filaments appeared. Then, he began drawing semicircles around the female’s breasts, and whenever the fluid touched, a dark grey line appeared. The man’s finger had turned into an artist’s brush of sorts. Once imprinted on her skin, the lines became imbued with a faint organic glow, like a dull, throbbing luminosity. They appeared alive.

The man kept drawing lines all around the female’s body. Soon, her chest and back were entirely covered in throbbing streaks that emitted a palpable energy. She was enthralled, caught up in a trance of ancient pleasures. Her body swayed like a candle’s flame, and the lines on her skin pulsed in synchrony to this hypnotic dance.

The man stood up, genuflected before the altar, walked around it, and reached into an unseen space at the back. He took a small book, bound in red leather and inscripted with arcane runes and symbols. Then, he walked back to the pentagram and stood over the woman with the book open in his hands, as a priest would do before his congregation. When he spoke, he intoned his words in a solemn manner.

‘And He walketh upon this Earth before time itself was born, and He alone commanded the legions of darkness when light hath no voice. This is the word of He who reigns in a kingdom unseen.’
He turned the page.

‘In times past, a shepherd took his herd through a land barren and desolate, and in the winter blizzards, a quarter of his sheep perished, and a half of his fowl lost their yield. The shepherd lived in hunger and necessity, and in desperation, he called to Him to save the remainder of his herd, and to banish the perennial winter sleet. And He listened, and He acted upon the shepherd’s wish. The man’s lands became fertile again, and his herd thrived once more. But He always claims remittance, because his deed is final, and demands fair retribution.’
‘One night He called to the shepherd’s dwelling to ask for His requital. The shepherd protested, but He entertains no such whimsical lamentations. He took what it was rightfully His, and the shepherd’s daughter was called upon His side to join His choir. This is the word of He who reigns in a kingdom unseen.’

The markings on the woman now glowed harder than ever. She swayed and murmured, thralled, and enchanted.’

‘His herd is as large as it is loyal, and it is forever expanding. He takes this female unto His bosom, to fuck and to cherish and worship Him.’

Upon these words being uttered, the shadows came alive. There was a stir among the darkest recesses all around the chamber, and the atmosphere shifted.

Three men and three women emerged from the shadows, walking without haste. The men were clad in similar fashion, black leather thongs and red cloaks, and their forearms were decorated with long, black leather bracelets reaching up to their elbows. And they all wore the same faun masks.

Masks also dressed the females’ faces. They wore thongs and cloaks, and their bodies were bare chested. Their breasts were decorated with nipple chains that swung and sparkled as they walked.
All six carried an ornamental chalice in their hands. They walked towards the woman and formed a semicircle around her.

‘Tonight, on the eve of Baphomet’s Day, we turn this female over to Him,’ the man said. ‘ This woman shall join His conclave, in adoration and enslavement.’
‘This is the word of He who reigns in a kingdom unseen.’

The man closed the book and gently lay the woman’s body on the pentagram. The marks on her body continued to throb as he gently arranged her limbs around the burning candles, ensuring that her legs were wide apart. Her perfectly shaven pussy became was swollen with anticipation, and it glistened with oozing nectar.

Then, all men and women intoned these words at once: ‘His blood shall purify this woman’s body, for it is the life of all that is flesh. It shall wash and cleanse her soul, and she shall atone from the wantonness of her life prior to giving herself to Him. This is His word.’

They tilted the chalices. Thick, crimson blood began pouring on the female’s body. When the blood touched her skin, two things happened; she began writing and contorting, moaning as if in extreme ecstasy, as long tendrils of red fluid started to spread around her. And then, the lines carved on her body began throbbing harder, pulsing with an unnatural phosphorescence. Once emptied, the men and women held the chalices upright again, close to their bodies, and beheld the woman at their feet. Her body had now turned a deep shade of crimson, and her pussy oozed long strands of precum. The body became gripped in a paroxism of unnatural strong sexual desire.

‘Fuck me,’ she said, almost with a snarl. ‘Fuck my body until I scream and beg.’

The man who spoke first removed his thong, revealing a shaved cock with a powerful erection. He knelt beside her, held her legs open, and pushed his shaft inwards into the female’s pussy, reaching into her innermost recesses. She moaned loudly upon feeling his cock inside her body, and open her blood-soaked legs as wide as she could so she could be fucked unhindered. He began thrusting, deep and slow at first. She began kneading her own breasts, spreading blood everywhere. The sight of the bloodied female body being fucked was wild, raw, and fleshly obscene, and yet, it was imbued with an undeniably heathen sensuality that reached beyond men and women’s darkest fantasies.

Soon, the men joined. They shed their cloaks and thongs and turned their attention to the woman inside the pentagram.

First, three pairs of male hands began touching her body, feeling every inch of her bloodied and exposed body. Fingers entered her mouth, and she sucked and licked and took them deep into her throat as hands massaged and pinched her nipples. She moaned and groaned and opened herself to be fucked by all present. All male bodies loomed over her, and she sucked multiple cocks and relished their salty taste inside her mouth. Then, the men turned her body over and three of them fucked each and every one of her natural openings with unmatched eagerness, and all the while, the lines on her body glowed with primordial power and His blood coated the bodies of all participants. Soon, each and every body was dripping blood and sweat, and the men groaned as their cocks pierced her body, and she screamed as she came time and time again, feeling a carnal pleasure beyond her imagination.

As the orgy raged on, the women joined. Soon, eight bodies fucked each other on the pentagram. There was a swirling maelstrom of flesh and blood, an almost unimaginable vision of carnality and wanton fucking beside His altar. Men and women became fused into one another, and soon the room smelled of cum and lust, and the primordiality of such aroma spurred them to fuck even harder.

At the height of the bacchanal, as the crescendo of the human fucking reached the cusp of primordial savagery, the atmosphere inside the chamber shifted. A rift appeared among the darkened shadows behind the altar, and a low, preternatural roar broke the darkness. The revellers, caught in a throe of deep sexual trance, did not notice. Their bodies and minds were taken up my sheer desire, after all.

And as they fucked each other in every conceivable way and more, He materialized. His unseen kingdom became visible, peering through the shadows like a voyeur from the underworld. He watched, and He was satisfied with the scene before His yellow eyes. He listened to the pleasure of men and women, and He approved of such natural calling of the wild side. His bestial body loomed further into reality, and soon He stood at the altar, presiding over the proceedings. He raised his cloven hands high up in the air and murmured chants that were already millennia old when He was merely an infant in a dark and indecorous age.
His words echoed with a dark and ominous resonance across the chamber. Yet, they fed into the lust of man and woman, entering into their subconscious mind, commanding them to fuck into a new level for His satisfaction. Thus, He welcomed the bacchanalians into His bosom, and there and then He understood their acceptance of Him. Their combined sexual desire nourished his own ego, and He saw this was good. He bestowed His blessing unto them, and watched the women come like wild beasts and felt the powerful jets of male sperm shooting up every cavity that the females had to offer.

And when it was over, He nodded, pleased of their dedication to His deeds. All the females knelt and genuflected before Him, their bodies still glistening with the sweat of intense sexual activity. Cum oozed from each and their openings, dripping down their thighs and chins as they paid their respects to their Master and Owner. The men stood back, their heads bowed, and their hearts still beating fast and loud after the exertion. There was life and there was unlife within that chamber, and if any gods were watching, they’d blush and balk before His work.
He then hoisted every female by the neck unto his own shape, and with a tongue that grew unnaturally long He licked the entirety of their bodies. He tasted the very pheromones that those bodies gave off, the essence of their desire. One by one, He licked them all, he tongue fucked their pussy, probing shallow first, then deeper, seeking heat and warmth and cum. The women climaxed darkly for Him, their minds full of imagery that was both profane and forbidden, yet deeply arousing. And He saw this was good.

Then, sated, he receded into a darkness overcome that was both shelter, refuge, and lair.

Darkness and the Rose featured on this month’s edition of Elust

Very proud to announce that my short story “Darkness and the Rose” has been chosen as one of this month’s top picks at Elust, one of the most prestigious erotica-themed sites on the web.

Why not head over there and browse all the exciting material available? You won’t regret it.

A blade on a demon’s hand

Act I

The lovers

It’s another time, and it’s another place. The female right there, clad in leather and rawhide; she is the scion to the throne in a House that time forgot. And though her kinship with the clan bestows immense riches upon her hands, she has other things on her mind tonight.

And her counterpart, the male dressed in black and tan and currently tethered to the bedposts, he is a noble halfling. And more importantly, he is her lover and property.

Neliah’s quarters are in the Keep’s upper level, away from the bustle of the daily life going on in the levels below. An army of halfling maids and human vassals criscrossed the dwelling, ensuring that all aspects of the House run smoothly. In times of war, the Keep is a busy place indeed.

But up here, Neliah lives her own existence, at her own pace. She’s not interested in the pointless wranglings of the Upper Caste, nor the petty conflicts that more often than not sparked even more futile conflicts with some council or another along the Outer Arc. Instead, Neliah gazes at the stars in the night sky sometimes, imagining that one day she will become one, as Father used to say. You were born to last an eternity, like the stars that shine at night, he used to tell her, when she was little. But that was a long time ago. Neliah had long since become a full-bred, and her physique left no doubt that she was in her prime.
She was ripe.

Presently, she stood at the foot of the large bed where she spent a lot of her time. Set on the very center of her quarters, the bed kept Neliah warm during the long winters, and very much entertained during her frequent play sessions. Foraging parties made out of the strongest axe men (and always escorted by a detail of the Keep’s troops, as ambushes by marauders were common) cut down gigantic redwood trees and brought the rough wood back to the Keep, where it was crafted by artisans and turned into weapons, kitchen tools, beds, or any other item or piece of furniture that may be needed.

And Neliah loved her bed. So much comfort, so many memories; so much room to play with her favorite toy. She watched him there, her muscular body as helpless as a rabbit caught in a snare. And that majestic cock of his, erect and at full girth for her, just the way she liked it. It was hard to look away from that glorious manhood. Still, Neliah resisted the urge to take that throbbing wonder of nature into her mouth -for a while, at least, and looked around with a mischievous look in her yellow eyes. When she saw what she was looking for, she cast her roguish stare back at him. He looked back at her, but remained silent. He knew better than to speak at the wrong time.

Neliah used her tail to pick up an item, and almost in the same movement, she leaped nimbly onto the bed, landing on all fours on top of him. He grunted and winced. She was light, but not that light. He looked into Neliah’s eyes. Her yellow, cat-like pupils bore down on him as she swung her tail around to show what she had picked up.

‘This is the Skean of Dawn,’ Neliah said, and brought the blade gently onto his lips. ‘The riddle of the Elders is written on its hilt, and some say that the specter of this world’s creator dwells within.’ She ran the blade across his face with great care, her feline eyes never leaving his. ‘This skean has pierced the heart of champions, Mortain. One cannot understimate its power.’

Now up close, Neliah took in the scent of his body. Mortain’s smell always mesmerized her. He smelled of forest, and leather. He smelled of war, too. Of danger, and violence. Mortain wasn’t the only halfling she knew, but certainly was the only one she had ever fucked. And yet, there he was, this highborn man-o-war tied up to her bed, all vulnerable and somewhat undignified.

Neliah glanced at his cock, and her lust maxed out. She moved down, squatted, and half closing her eyes, took in the entire length of Mortain’s virile power in one long, slow motion. Mortain’s eyes widened as Neliah’s body fused with his. As she pressed down with her hips, Neliah’s pussy opened wide to take him in. His cock always felt divine inside of her, and this time it was no different. Her pussy swallowed him whole, without hesitation nor shame.

After taking his male pride, Nelia set her hands palms down on his wide chest for leverage and again used her tail to swing the Skean of Dawn into play.

‘Do you know, Mortain,’ she said as she began moving her body up and down along his cock, fucking him. Her pussy juices began coating his cock at once. ‘The blade on this skean has been forged a thousand times,’ she added, and began moving the blade down his throat. ‘It’s quite a deadly weapon. Do you trust me with your life, Mortain?’
‘There are many secrets inside those eyes, Neliah. But murder is not one of them.’

She smiled. ‘Even in the heat of passion?’ Neliah kept moving the skean across his chest, and around his nipples.
‘You wouldn’t want to cause a political rift by slaying the firstborn of the House of Atreos, would you Neliah.’
‘Well, the way I see it, as long as I have the firstborn’s mighty cock inside of me,’ she said, and moved her face closer to his. ‘I have the power.’

He thrust upwards suddenly, making his cock reach further into Neliah. She moaned loudly. ‘You may have the power, my dear. But I own this cock.’

The sudden motion took Neliah completely by surprise. Her tail swung wildly and the blade made a slight cut on her lover’s chest. Crimson blood oozed out from the wound, and Mortain grunted.
Neliah saw the vital fluid running down Mortain’s body, and immediately reached down. She licked his blood as eagerly as a thirsty nomad drinking at an oasis. Her tongue lapped every drop, and her eyes never left his. Mortain’s excitement grew exponentially at the sight of her raw craving for him.

‘All of you taste heavenly, My Lord. Inside and out.’
‘My fluids belong to you, Neliah. Drink, and be sated.’

Neliah did. She took in every last drop of the flowing life fluid, until her lips and tongue were painted with crimson tones. She kissed him then, and shared the blood. Mortain accepted this without hesitation, and his cock acknowledged her deference by growing ever thicker inside of her. Ripped and powerful, the shaft now filled her fully.

Neliah wasted no time. As he licked his own blood from her tongue, she began fucking him harder. Her pussy, now fully aroused, became stretched open by his virile manhood. She moaned, and her pleasure resonated inside his throat. Mortain thrust upwards, feeling his cock touching her innermost recess.

Once Neliah’s breed reached maturity, their genitalia became the ultimate pleasure machine. Lining up its fleshy walls, there grew a myriad of small stalk-like hollow conduits full of nerve endings with the sole purpose of inducing sexual enjoyment. Once aroused, pleasure-generating enzymes were secreted through a small opening at the top of these stalks.

And she knew how to use this natural ability to her advantage. The enzymes had an addictive quality to them, something that Halflings didn’t know. Neliah kept her lover literally hooked onto her, without him realizing it.
And presently, she rocked her body down, taking in the entire length of that marvelous cock of his. And as she did, as she enjoyed her lover’s body to its fullest, she closed her eyes and let her mind soar back in time. She whispered ‘Remember…’

Reaping Moon

…that tonight is Reaping Moon,? Father said.
‘I do, Father’
‘Look skywards, child.’ Neliah did. The moon was full, and fat. Also, it loomed closer than ever, taking up a large sector of the night sky. Its silvery glow bathed the Keep in a ghostly shine, making its walls glow with the eldritch knowledge of centuries past.
‘Reaping Moon heralds the advent of The Harvesting. Soon, the fields around the Keep will be stripped of their yield, and our pantries will be full for another year.’

Neliah’s tail was swinging gently, almost playfully. She loved listening to Father’s voice there in the balcony outside her quarters. It was her favorite place in all the Keep. It opened up to a landscape of rolling hills and crisscrossing rivers in the distance. And on clear nights like this, one could easily make out the circle of limestone monoliths that the Elders had erected aeons before. She had never been allowed that far east from the Keep, specially at night. Father said that wraiths wailed and danced around that place after nightfall, and those unwary enough to wander close would become ensnared in their musical thrall, and their mind would be lost forever. The circle is a bad place, Neliah. Never stray too close, Father always said. Such tale had given her plenty nightmares through the years as she grew up.

‘Reaping Moon is also a time for change for females, my dear daughter.’ As if to highlight this, a cicada began singing somewhere near the Keep, far below in the fields. ‘When the moon is full and big in the sky, and the crops give up their yield, all females of our breed enter a new stage in life. Your body is now mature enough to bear offspring.’
‘I understand, Father.’
‘But you shall not concern yourself with such matters tonight. Tonight, I host Reaper’s Masquerade. A time to enjoy and have fun.’

Neliah nodded, and snuggled closer to Father. Their tails entwined and braided around each other, a sign of their love for one another.

‘This is a time of uncertainty, Neliah. It’s a time of war. The other clans vie for control of the West Ridge, and the Keep stands right on their path. But tonight, we celebrate. All clans respect Reaping Moon. And we must get ready, child. Guests will begin arriving soon.’
‘I will, Father. But I would like to stay here a moment longer. Alone.’

Father smiled as their tails separated. ‘Of course,’ he said, and walked back inside, and though Reaping Moon was indeed a sacred time across the Domain, he would make sure all the outposts were manned with extra men and the lookouts kept a sharp eye on all the approaches. Just in case.

As Father went inside, Neliah leaned on the balcony’s balustrade, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. She loved to smell the night. It gave her an indescribable sensation of belonging, as if a bond with Nature manifested itself on the night air flowing through her body. And she did feel the change that Father had talked about. Deep within her, she felt her body had matured. And the change had also brought on certain cravings, of a kind that she could not talk to Father about, or anyone else, for that matter.

Neliah had become aware of things that moved deep within her body, things that felt good when rubbed. There were nascent desires inside of her, a youthful lust that screamed to be fulfilled.  She opened her eyes, and for a fleeting moment, she perceived some movement across the monoliths. It could have been an illusion, or a mind trick. Whatever it was, or wasn’t, did stir something within her. Fear, perhaps, or awe. Maybe both. Neliah’s mind conjured up images of wailing demons dancing around the stones naked, perhaps at a time of their own change, reaching maturity. She thought of demons engaging in wanton sexual encounters, and such train of thought aroused her inner fire. Something stirred very deep inside of her, and she felt a sharp and wet sting of longing. Neliah moaned, half in desire and half in frustration. She looked eastwards again. All appeared quiet at circle now.
Neliah went inside and…

The lovers II

…at the moment of climax, all the stalks jetted out a thick, translucent fluid that kept the male and female both lubricated and fused. Ancient chemistries that nobody understood took over, and as she reached orgasm, Neliah coiled her tail around Mortain’s neck and arched her body backwards. The ecstasy was powerful, and incredibly satisfying. It rippled through the lovers’ bodies with amazing strength. The stalks inside her held onto the erect cock and rubbed against its hard flesh, elevating the halfling’s arousal to a whole new level. Neliah screamed first, Mortain soon after. And when he began squirting his seed inside of her, the stalks blossomed and absorbed the fluids through pleasure organs that prolonged the lovers’ combined ecstasy. At times like this, when both body and mind are in the thrall of sheer pleasure, when passion erases all rationality, there’s only one thing to do. Scream each
other’s name, and that’s just what they did.

A Feast, a Masquerade, and a Lover’s Dance

The Paladin’s Ode kicked off the Reaping Moon festivities, as it always did. All attendees expected it, and traditions were strong in and around the Keep’s circle of influence. The Ode had been sung for generations, and it would probably continue to be sung long after a thousand winters had come and gone. Bards with lute in hand sung it with the passion and zest of those who truly love what they do. The Ode’s melody was dotted with words of defiance, and victory, and also the death of hope. Nobody remembered who wrote it in the first place, as the lyrics were passed down the ages by word of mouth, and in all likelihood, every bard and every generation added and substracted bits here and pieces there to suit a particular epoch. Still, the Paladin’s Ode was a staple of the Reaping celebrations, so omitting it would be unthinkable.
Neliah loved the Ode, and because tonight was her first Reaping as a full-bred, the melody took on a more poignant significance. She listened to it respectfully, with her head bowed and her tail resting on the floor. All attendees paid heed to the bards’ words and kept their silence as the Ode was sung. And at the end, all females threw a curtsy and all males jumped and clapped twice to honor the Paladin’s memory.

Then, the feast began.

A feast fit for a king

All tradesmen, craftsmen, and itinerary merchants invited to the celebrations sat down to eat, and as they did, an army of wenches brought out seemingly endless trays of cold meats, red meats, and huge bowls full of mashed potato and gravy, with vegetables on the side and enormous tankards of mead and grain beer to wash it all down. The Keep’s denizens were a hungry bunch. By the end of the night, there would be nothing but animal carcasses left behind, a very messy tablecloths full of gravy, beer stains, and likely someone’s vomit.

Throughout the feast, bards and jesters entertained the guests, and all through the night, trade deals would be done, fragile political alliances would be forged, and even one or two  shady transactions were likely to take place, specially after the second or third tankard of beer.

And tonight there was a special delegation of Halflings in attendance. They had come from Reene’s Peak, the neighbouing keep riding on the border of the Outer Arc, on a trade mission, Father had said. ‘Halflings are only good for two things, Neliah,’ her old man had told her earlier that day. ‘Business, and playing the lute with one hand, mostly when drunk.’ Neliah had laughed at that, and she would soon discover that Halflings -at least, some of them- were good at something else, too.

The atmosphere inside the Banquet Hall was jovial and relaxed. Even in the age of war and disquiet, a banquet was a time to relish and enjoy. All vestiges of political disillusion or incumbent citizen unrest dissolved inside tankards of rich wine and plenty red meats slaughtered just for the occasion. And as the feast got underway, there was but one thing in everyone’s mind: eat, eat, and then eat some more. And drink the seemingly inexhaustible supply of mead and other liquors. Neliah sat at the Great Table with Father to her right. Mother would have sat to his right, had she been alive. And though she was long gone, Father always made sure a empty chair was placed there, to honor her memory. Beyond, Baron Kalen -Neliah’s uncle- sat beside his mistress, an albino Northern Princess with sultry red eyes and flowing silver tresses. A long, richly decorated crimson tablecloth sporting the Keep’s elaborate coat of arms covered the entire length of the table. The guests had to accommodate themselves on long -and rather uncomfortable- wooden benches running alongside equally long wooden tables. Those who had been previous guests at the Keep and knew of the tiresome benches sometimes brought their own cushions, to alleviate the numbness.
‘Bureaucrats, child,’ Father said, and Neliah winced out of a reverie. ‘I hate them.’
‘Pardon’?
‘Bureaucrats. The low caste,’ Father said, nodding to a place about twenty feet from the dais and to their left. ‘Over there.’
Neliah followed her father’s gaze and spotted three men from the low caste. Short, stocky, with protruding eyes and disproportionally large ears. All wore garish, ill-fitting tweed garments and hats decorated with a white goose feather. As Neliah looked, the three were drinking mead and appeared to be having an argument with a young squire who stood beside them with a bewildered look in his eyes. The din inside the hall made it impossible to hear what the argument was about, but the vigorous arm movement of the three bureaucrats left little doubt it was a heated one.
‘They come from the slums, those three. They always cause trouble. Hate them,’ Father said, tucking into a chunky turkey leg.
Neliah was about to say something else when the oak doors on the far side of the Hall opened up. Five male halflings and one female entered, followed by an entourage of Lairds and squires.
‘Ah!,’ the king said, putting the mangled turkey leg down. ‘Here they are. The trade commission.’
In walked the delegation, led by a broad-shouldered Elder, middle aged perhaps, with a long beard the color of sunset and thick eyebrows of similar hue. He walked briskly across the hall towards the Great Table, carrying a neatly rolled scroll in his right hand. The rest walked behind him at an equal pace.
‘Your highness,’ the Elder said, dropping to one knee at the foot of the dais, before the king. All the others followed suit.’We thank you for the invitation. My people and I would like to avail of your hospitality. We are greatly honored to be your guests.’
‘Your kind words are well received in this House,’ the king said. ‘You and your people are very welcome here.’
‘In the name of the House of Orel, we accept your hospitality.’
The Elder stood up and went to hand the scroll over to the king, but the monarch waved him away. The Elder stopped mid stride. ‘Business tomorrow. Tonight, we eat. And we drink!’
The Elder nodded, bowed, and retreated politely. The rest of the delegation stood up, and as they did, one of the halflings caught Neliah’s gaze, and held it.
He was younger and not as broad-shouldered as the Elder, but still robust and well defined. He had a rugged look about him, Neliah thought. His face was completely devoid of hair, she noted, very rare in a male halfling. Even females sometimes had hirsute faces, but the skin on this one looked pristine. And he was tanned, way more than the rest. When he noticed her stare lingered on him, he nodded almost imperceptibly and smiled a little. Then, he turned and walked with the rest of the delegation towards a vacant space on one of the long tables, near its far edge.
Neliah followed him with her eyes, and wondered.

The feast went on for almost three hours. Vast amounts of meat, breads, and broths were consumed by the guests, all washed down with gallons of grain beer and grapefruit elixir. Towards the end, quarrels had erupted, deals had been sealed, and some cash had surreptitiously changed hands. The halls were an unholy mess; bits of discarded food littered the place, and puddles of beer and congealed gravy had appeared everywhere. The kitchen staff had some job to do. Yet, Neliah cared little about such menial tasks. Specially tonight. She could not get that handsome halfling out her head, and had been trying to catch glimpses of him all throughout the meal.

Neliah looked to her right. Father had drank the usual too much and was now having a lively chat with Kalen, who was just as drunk as he was. She scanned the hall again, and spotted the halfling just standing up from the table. He saw her looking, smiled, and once again nodded in her direction, this time holding her gaze for a moment that seemed to stretch forever. And though he was all the way across the hall, the intensity of his eyes made her stomach flutter. And much to her surprise, she blushed. Such an unfamiliar sensation to her, as all of a sudden she could not remember the last time she felt that queer heat creeping up her face. Almost in fear, she looked away from him. Her tail jerked and knocked a tankard of mead over. ‘Gods…,’ she said, feeling silly.
‘Oh dear,’ Father said, leaning over, and almost falling off his chair. Kalen just about managed to steady him. ‘What is the matter, my little one.’
‘Sorry Father. I’m so clumsy sometimes.’
‘You know Neliah…all those people out there, they’re pigs. Look at the state of my hall. Pigs!’
‘Father, please, calm your tone.’
‘Pigs I say. Anyway, Neliah. Feast is over. Tonight’s your night. Go and dance, and be merry. Now, one more for the gods,’ he said, and took a long swig off his tankard.
Neliah smiled and looked down the hall. The handsome halfling was gone.

A Masquerade
While an army of squires and vassals moved swiftly to clean the mess in the hall, those guests who could still walk moved to the Great Chamber, where most after-banquet parties and events usually took place.

 

The harmony of dawn

A melody drifts across the Hall of Mirrors, bouncing off the polished panes and blithely soaring high up unto the still air inside the chamber. The notes are pleasant, harmonious, and those with a keen musical ear might detect a hint of melancholy, like the song of a lonely nithingale at the cusp of winter.

The tune rises and falls, its musicality perhaps mimicking the whims of she who played it on her favorite piano. The woman’s hands danced along the instrument’s keys with undisguised dexterity, her fingers becoming a whirlwind of blurred musical motion.

Presently, she played an arpeggio. The melody sped up, ascending in rapid-fire fashion, and as Alexia played, the mirrors cast the image of her beautifully bare body back to her.

Her long auburn hair, neatly tied in a long ponytail, bobbed and danced with the rhythm of the music. Alexia’s toned and dark body almost was in a trance now. She often became mesmerized by the power of her own harmonies, withdrawing deep unto herself, breathing and breeding into the arms of night. Something unseen but undeniably real lived within the adantes and the allegros of her melodies, vying to be uncaged, lusting for a freedom only granted by those who gave into the truth inside themselves.

And yet the mirrors revealed all that Alexia was, and all she’d ever be. The mirrors cast back the long, winding and serpentine tattoo that spread from right under her shoulder blades and down her back, right across her ass, and back up again in a U fashion. Inked in obsidian black, its detail was intricate and spellbinding. It looked arcane in nature, yet somewhat fleshed out and alive, like a shadow boldly ripping out of a darkened alcove.

And that tattoo shifted and slithered sometimes, if Alexia hit the notes in her piano just right. It reacted to the music, and whatever lived in it, lived in a perennial state of sensual desire.

And so Alexia played on, arousing the tattoo’s finely tuned senses. It began to ripple out of her skin with an outward crawling movement, braiding and twisting around itself, as a baby in its mother’s womb. The woman paid no attention to this, as it did not cause discomfort or pain. The living tattoo rose out of her host in a spiral motion, surging upwards and hovering above its Master with newly found empowerment. Alexia’s eyes were closed now, and her hands kept on playing a beautiful adante that made the living symbiote open its maw with anticipation.

The thing began swaying high over the woman’s body, in a motion akin to a cobra’s dancing to a charmer’s thrall. Its shape shimmied and swung and spun around to the piano’s melody, and as the music played, the symbiotic tattoo began wrapping itself around its Master’s beautiful physique.

It started closing in on the soft tissue around her neck, then spreading downwards in between and around her breasts. Her flesh welcomed this sensations, and as the being’s alternate self strengthened its grip, her own arousal began to grow. The tattoo’s fine instincts instantly felt the change within her; it detected the pheromones of her nascent desire, and its hunger immediately awoke. It sought to feed on her lust, and thus, the tattoo intensified its activity. It slitered further down her navel and spread around Alexia’s bare pussy, braiding its labia, probing shallow, tasting the dew that was beginning to flow from the deepest reaches of her.

Alexia moaned, a surging whirlwind of pleasurable sensations beginning to flood her body. The living ink, now fully aroused, used its primeval chemistry to secrete its own fluids, further lubricating Alexia’s throbbing sex. She moaned harder, and the sounds of her pleasure became entwined with the tattoo’s own unnatural lust for relief.

Long strands of a blackish fluid dripped on Alexia’s wanting clit, coiled around it, and held tight to her engorged flesh. As this happened, she began climaxing. Guttural groans and moans of pure pleasure emerged from her throat and soared across the chamber. The mirrors reflected the human ecstasy unfolding before them, and as Alexia came hard, her symbiotic lover turned into an onyx wraith with male human form. The apparition used hands that weren’t really there but yet had heft and strength to pull Alexia’s ponytail hard as she climaxed. A torrent of thick, stygian fluid flowed into her, and as her pussy filled up she screamed and cried for more. And through it all, she kept playing her beautiful harmonies of pleasure and longing. The orgasmic waves bestowed Alexia with an epic ecstasy; her pussy kept contracting for as long the wraith wanted it to, and the woman became firmly held in the symbion’s thrall. And the being itself obtained its own satisfaction. It fed off its host’s pleasure, fulfilling an aeonian craving, an eternal and almost vampiric want for human lust.

Temporarily sated, the symbion’s hunger subsided. The fluids flowing into the woman first became a trickle and then stopped altogether. Inch by inch, the living blackness uncoiled and slithered back into slumber. The phantasm faded out, and the tattoo returned to Alexia’s skin to sleep in uneasy alliance with its host.

And the woman played on, played her beautiful harmony at the dawn of another day.