Seaside frolics

Franz von Stuck: Faun und Nixe (1918)

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
Blog
Twitter
Facebook

Mythological misalliances: the art of Max Pirner

The Sleepwalker

Today's fabulous Victorian/Edwardian artist is a bit of an obscurity, but clearly a man after my own heart. Maxmilian Pirner (1854-1924, and you may need an online translator) was a Czech who loved painting symbolist and mythological subjects, preferably ones with boobies in, and actually did a series on "mythological misalliances" - i.e. sexual mismatches - and if this lot aren't Ashblessy, I don't know what is!

Guess which one's my favourite, ahem?

Here's his take on the triple-goddess of witchcraft Hekate, complete with attributes of moon, flaming torch etc - he knew his stuff.

This grim allegorical piece is called Homo Homini Lupus - "man is wolf to man" and shows the natural world watching in amazement as Humanity (still semi-animal in some characteristics) is raised above them as both god and sacrificial victim.

... I think. Symbolists eh? 

The Temptation of St. Jerome is a good old-fashioned saintly subject, yet somehow I reckon this treatment is not entirely suitable for church display:

He did a few excellent portrayals of Medusa - along with sleepwalkers, she seems to have been a subject that fascinated him:

Here she is again in Finis: the End of all Things

... with Death hanging over her shoulder:

But if you don't want to end on a sombre note, here's The Prey, which is a dark joke ...

The lady leads the ogre home for supper, having successfully captured dragon, knight, and his steed!

Sidney Sime

A postscript to my blogging upon the art of nightmares and sleep paralysis - this subtle incubus is a creature of pure formless darkness:

Sidney Sime: The Incubus (1899)

Sidney Sime is one of my absolute favourite artists at the moment. He worked mostly in black-and-white, for magazines and for illustrations to the fantasy tales of Lord Dunsany (coincidentally one of my favourite authors!).

The City of Never

I find his visions incredibly evocative and thrilling and creepy ... however sadly for this blog it must be admitted they are largely lacking in sexuality, except when he's deliberately copying Beardsley's style. I've fished around for the few exceptions...

This is the centaur Shepperalk indulging in some typically centaurish behaviour:

He galloped with half-shut eyes up the temple-steps, and, only seeing dimly through his lashes, seized Sombelenë by the hair, undazzled as yet by her beauty, and so haled her away; and, leaping with her over the floorless chasm where the waters of the lake fall unremembered away into a hole in the world, took her we know not where, to be her slave for all centuries that are allowed to his race.

The Bride of the Man-Horse

 The goddess Inzana (the Dawn) calls up the Thunder:

A Legend of the Dawn

I've no idea what this one is about, but it's dated 1904:

And this beauty is possibly Sime's masterpiece:

Romance Comes Down out of Hilly Woodlands

If you want to see more Sime, you might start with Monsterbrains :-)

Art appreciation

If you're ever in a gallery of ancient art in some foreign city ... I'm the one wandering around taking pictures of all the scrota.

The famous Barberini Faun

He is a faun - he has a tail!

Scrota both Classical and Archaic:

But wait - I have range - I do bums too!

And here's another faun / satyr, twisting round to look at his own bum.

I'm told travel broadens the mind :-)

The Scapegoat

William Holman Hunt: The Scapegoat (1854)

Today's pre-Raphaelite painting is more cruel than kinky, but it does link to fallen angels, and Cover Him with Darkness. 

A scapegoat is someone who gets the blame for everyone else's misdeeds. The word comes from Leviticus 16 where the ritual for the Israelite Day of Atonement is set down:

⁸ And Aaron shall cast lots upon the two goats; one lot for the Lord, and the other lot for the scapegoat.

²¹ And Aaron shall lay both his hands upon the head of the live goat, and confess over him all the iniquities of the children of Israel, and all their transgressions in all their sins, putting them upon the head of the goat, and shall send him away by the hand of a fit man into the wilderness:
²² And the goat shall bear upon him all their iniquities unto a land not inhabited: and he shall let go the goat in the wilderness.

We owe the word itself to William Tyndale's 1530 translation from the Latin Vulgate. Scapegoat means "escape-goat" - the one that is sent away, as opposed to the one that is sacrificed for a sin-offering.

But modern translations direct from the Hebrew don't use the "scapegoat" word at all. They say say something like this:

⁸ and Aaron shall cast lots on the two goats, one lot for the Lord and the other lot for Azazel. ⁹ Aaron shall present the goat on which the lot fell for the Lord, and offer it as a sin offering; ¹⁰ but the goat on which the lot fell for Azazel shall be presented alive before the Lord to make atonement over it, that it may be sent away into the wilderness to Azazel. 

Azazel is identified in extra-Biblical Jewish tradition as one of the fallen angels. (And he's identified by me as the (anti-)hero of Cover Him with Darkness.)

Of course, the association of goats and fallen angels turns up repeatedly...

Goats are symbols of iniquity (remember how Jesus in parable divides the righteous sheep from the wicked goats) and in particular - because of the way billy-goats go for it with enthusiasm - of lust. Lust, for example, is a prime attribute of the goatish pagan nature-god Pan, who is arguably one of the root sources of the way we picture the Devil:

He's got wood ... statue of Pan and Daphnis from Pompeii

It just gets worse ... statue from Villa of the Papyri, Herculaneum

I think I can pretty much guarantee, though, that my version of Azazel will not be caught in flagrante with any goats. It just doesn't go down well in Romance circles... :-)

Eyecandy Monday: the last post

Welcome to the last Eyecandy Monday I'll be posting. Over the years I've thoroughly enjoyed sharing the excellent pics - sweet, hot or downright filthy - that I've come across on Tumblr, Facebook or Pinterest, but I'm afraid there will no more from here on. I have to be a good girl now. Because I'm not a photographer, and the Eyecandy pics aren't my own creations. *sigh*

What else shall I finish with than some sexy minotaurs, eh? It's what I'm noTAURUS for, lol... And if you don't like them (or my crap bovine puns), at least you can be glad it's all over!

And next week? Well, I'm starting a new Monday theme which I hope will be cockle-warming too. See you then, hopefully!

Grinding - excerpt

Well, the e-version of Geek Love is now available for purchase, and the hardbacks are on their way to their Kickstarter backers ... so here's an excerpt from my fiction contribution to the anthology: Grinding.

You may spot the subtle WoW references ... and the minotaur ...

---

Time was, when humans guarded their souls. They’d fence them about with prayer and rabbits’ feet, with four-leafed clovers kept in a pocket or medallions of the saints. In those days it was only when they slept, and their souls wandered away from their bodies, that I could find them and feed.

It’s so much easier now.

These days they just can’t resist sending their souls off—quite unchaperoned—into dreamworlds I could never have anticipated. For me, it’s a banquet. I feed and feed, and though I’m never sated—it’s not in my nature to be sated—I’ve almost forgotten the ravenous hunger of earlier centuries.

Take this man, for example. His avatar is a huge, bull-headed humanoid with broad shoulders and fists like hammers. I can’t help liking that promise of masculine virility, though I know that appearances here rarely correspond to fleshly reality. But what really draws me is the way the soul-light shines so brightly in it. Not everyone gleams like that. He’s inhabited this avatar for years, and invested a great deal of himself in it.

I find him among the luminous fungi of a great marshland, killing giant wasps. It’s late at night and he’s on his own. I only approach mortals when they’re alone … It wouldn’t do to have them colluding. The name tag hovering over his head reads Andrija Rade Dragan Popovic, Technomancer at Large.

“I have what you need,” I tell him.

“Hold on,” he answers. His voice, even through Ventrilo, is pleasantly deep. I like that in a man. He kills one last wasp with a flame spell and then stands still. I feel the cold ping as he tries to click on me with his mouse.

“Who are you?” he asks, curiously. “You’ve got no name. No icon.” He means the identifying texts that hover over every other avatar, the marks that reveal their guild and name and which side they are on in the endless skirmishing. I’m completely anonymous. No one in the game is anonymous.

“I’m Zee. And I have what you need, Andrija Rade Dragan Popovic.”

”You mean—a captive firefly?”

“Hah. No.”

“What, then?”

“This.” I step in to touch the bull-man, running my fingers down his chest and sliding them between his thighs. Avatars weren’t designed with genitals, of course. But that doesn’t stop him from feeling me grip his cock, straight through his soul to his flesh. My touch is like an electric charge, galvanizing his shaft and filling his balls with roiling heat. I hear his gasp over the microphone. And now that I’m in contact with his soul, I can look through it, straight out of his computer monitor. I can see him sitting bolt upright in his chair, his eyes wide with shock. He can feel my hand.

Some of them log out and run at this point. Not many, to be fair.

“Okay,” he says, his voice betraying strain. “This is a dream, right?” He’s tall, in the flesh, with nut-colored hair that sticks out at the front and a square face just starting to soften about the chin. He’s wearing a heavy metal T-shirt, but it’s nice and new and clean. No over-muscled warrior then, but attractive enough.

“Of course it is,” I answer soothingly, stroking his ballsack and feeling it tighten in my hand. I can see a room full of files and books and DVDs behind him. It looks like a domestic study. “Do you like it?” I ask.

“Uh. Yes.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes. My … Everyone’s gone to bed.”

“What’s your real name, Andrija Rade Dragan Popovic?”

“Joe,” he whispers. His eyes look glazed. I can see him groping at his crotch, but he can’t intercept my hands. He can only feel the effect they’re having, and it’s making him buck and bite his lip.

“Would you like to fuck me, Joe?”

“Um. I guess.”

That’s good enough. I step through his avatar and 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. I glance around. Everything out here looks flat and dim and unreal to me. I was right about it being a study in a house, and it looks lived-in and comfortably cluttered. There are Lord of the Rings figures on the higher book shelves: his, I guess. There’s a plastic toy tricycle in the middle of the floor: not his.
 
Bereft of my touch, he leans forward and stares into the monitor at his lonely avatar. “Damn. Where’ve you gone?”

“Behind you.”

---

Buy via Stone Box Press

Happy Krampus Night!

Brom has written/illustrated a Krampus novel

You'd better watch out, you'd better not cry, you'd better not pout ...
No it's not Santa Claus you have to worry about - it's his hairy scary sidekick Krampus!

In some European traditions, Saint Nicholas turns up on December 6th (not the 25th) to give out presents to good children ... but there is punishment in store for bad ones. Accompanying St Nick in traditional Alpine lore is Krampus, a devil dressed in chains (to symbolise his subordination to the holy powers) who wields a whip of birch twigs and wears a basket on his back. His job is to find naughty children by the 5th, beat them with his scourge, and if they have been particularly bad, stuff them in his basket and CARRY THEM OFF TO HELL.

They didn't mess around in those days.

 From the 1800s on, as real fear of infernal powers and hellfire died out,  people began to send each other jolly Krampus cards inscribed with "Greetings from Krampus."  These cards were often blackly humorous, in the grand tradition of scaring the shit out of small children. Many are jaw-droppingly dodgy from a modern perspective.

Sometimes there was a sexual subtext that was certainly intentional.

Sometimes there was nothing subtextual about the sexual content at all.

If that's not a BDSM greeting card, I don't know what is!

Krampus gets a sex-change :-)

Krampus represents the dark side of Christmas/parenting/divine grace - the gift-giver who also punishes those who don't conform. He's almost certainly got pagan roots going back to the satyrs and "wild men" of nature, and represents the terrifying danger of the dark time of the year.

There are modern Krampusnacht festivals in Europe and the USA, and Krampus costumes can be truly astonishing. Attendence is not entirely safe however - tradition/roleplaying gives Krampus-players an imagined license to get very drunk and pick on passers-by (particularly attactive women) to thrash.

There's a BDSM XXXmas story in there somewhere...

If you want to see more of Krampus there's a very fine website here with a huge gallery of period greetings cards.

So Happy Krampusnacht to everyone! And BE GOOD!