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An Afternoon’s Appointment (NSFW)

You arrive at 1500, on the dot. You let yourself in, wearing the uniform as discussed, woefully impractical for the task but that is part of the appeal. He sits at the table, working on a legal pad, dressed in a crisp white shirt and jeans, faded to white at the knees, snug and broken in as a mother’s nipple. His feet are bare and he writes without looking up.

You do the dishes, picking up the mug he takes his morning coffee in. Your hands are wet and you watch him. His expression of determined focus makes your desire take wing, it’s feathers tickling as it travels up your spine. He does not acknowledge your presence, although he is unfailing in his manners with you. You are watching him when you lose control of the handle and the cup drops from your wet fingers.

His chocolate brown eyes spark with interest and you blush, apologising and shaking your head. He sets his pencil down onto the pad and asks you to come over to him.

Your knees are hollow, and your thoughts lose coherence in a rush of anticipation. It is a game, and also utterly, ridiculously real to you this is. You’re apologising until the words are a babble and he smiles, indulging you. He raises his hand and you stop.

‘Sit down.’

You pull out a chair and he shakes his head. He pats his left thigh and meets your gaze. You frown and he tells you to sit on his knee. You bite your lip to hide your nervous smile and perch down. The denim of his jeans is warm against the backs of your thighs and you perch carefully on his knee.

‘I’m just nervous around you, I will be more careful next time.’

He gazes into your eyes and you feel your heart thump hard as his hand rests on your knee.

‘You’re not telling me everything.’

You swallow and run your tongue over your lips.

‘You. You really distract me, sir.’

He asks you to clarify how. You worry at the collar of the dress, flushed with the heat excited and terrified by the impending confession.

‘I think you…sorry, it’s difficult to say out loud.’

He pats you on the knee and smiles at you. His patience is a strength and he observes you.

‘Try me.’

You suck in a deep breath and tell him. The words are clumsy, but the need behind them lends them a weight and a velocity that forces them up from the bone cage you keep them in.

‘I think about you punishing me.’

He gives a small nod and asks you to lie on your front across his lap. The hem of the uniform rests above your thighs when you’re stood, and now with your buttocks exposed, you feel a tingle of self-consciousness but the mingling of anticipation and release is louder.

He tugs down your underwear to your knees. The humiliation is delicious, a warring whirligig of shame and delight. You used to fear the need, how it dogged your steps, insinuated itself and fed on your shame, a vampiric urge until you opened the windows on your dream house and killed it with the sunlight of acknowledgment.

The rough power of his palm stings hard enough to make you arch your back and you curl your lips. You arch your back to ease the building pressure in your pelvis and thighs, raising your buttocks to the promise of the cleansing, bright sting. You take it like an obedient girl, and it softens you, allows you to feel with a clarity that brings tears to your eyes faster than the pain could. He is firm and thorough, varying the tempo and depth of his blows. The pain takes hold, smoothed into a floating, ethereal state of detachment. When he parts your legs and strokes you with the tip of his index finger, your pussy sucks him in, drenched and oily with arousal.

He withdraws his finger and smacks you there. The tender ripeness of your arousal adds a layer of sensation that makes your eyes water and a sob escapes your lips. You endure his punishment, but it is as much a celebration, a tunnel dug from the prison of repression and shame. When he alternates between precise blows and a delicate, focused circling motion of his fingers, it is an inexorable force that holds you in its jaws; you are so much damp skin and coiling, electric need.

Your orgasms vary in tempo and intensity. At first they are like sneezes, temporary bursts of relief, but as he continues to move between blows and strokes, they become primal, religious in their intensity. You weep with the force of them and it is a struggle to recall your own name.

He strokes your damp hair from your face, kisses you lightly on the cheek. He tells you he loves you, and that the game is over, for now. There is time enough for you to crawl up into his arms and he holds you tight as you finish weeping. You kiss his neck and cheek with gratitude and he chuckles where your wet lips tickle him.

You ask how the writing is going and he tells you he’s not been able to think straight, thinking about you.

 

 

 

 

 

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Sir 2.0 Episode 3: Spoken Word/Audiobook

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Sir 2.0 Episode 2: Processing (spoken word)

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Sir 2.0 Episode 1: Processing. (audiobook)

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Sir 2.0 Episode 2: Processing.

86

You swallow but your throat is acrid with tension. You cannot make out the details of the people watching you, only that they are there. The gown continues to shift up on the back of your legs, adding self consciousness, drop by drop, over the stir of emotions that collide and change within you.

‘To complete processing, you will undergo a cursory medical examination and a bathing procedure. Once those are complete, you will be assigned sleeping quarters and then left to your own devices until tomorrow morning.’

You narrow your eyes against the light. The voice has retreated behind an air of routine and its emotional content is all that you have to go on in terms of figuring out what is going on here. How much trouble, you potentially are in depends on what information you can glean from your present circumstances.

‘The correct response is yes sir.’

Your heart beats hard and faster. There is a low murmur of conversation, and a stifled giggle which rakes its nails down your spine. A hot flash of humiliation bursts in your stomach, a perfect emotional time travel, taking you back to high school again. The spotlight is hot, and you can feel perspiration beginning to teem underneath your arms and at the small of your back. At this precise moment, every sense is sharpened, ready to cut like a theatre of eager surgeons. Whether it’s you or someone else, depends on the response you give.

‘Yes, sir.’

You raise a hand and a titter snakes through the audience.

‘Am I being held here against my will?’

The laughter grows and someone calls out ‘not with those thighs, dear.’ Your cheeks burn with blood and tears well in the corners of your eyes.

‘Don’t laugh at me.’

That draws a series of oohs.

‘What upsets you more, being held here against your will or being laughed at?’

The voice comes through, silences the others in its wake. The way a comet burns up air on its passage through the night sky.

‘Don’t play doctor with me. I want an answer to my question.’

The voice gives a dark chuckle that makes you shiver to be its subject.

‘What if you had already been asked that question?’

You frown, aware that the spotlight makes every expression exaggerated. Another ripple of laughter starts up. It hurts more than the first time and you start to back up.

‘Stop right where you are.’

You jerk at the change in tone and volume and in response, the back of your gown hitches up a centimetre, highlighting the backs of your thighs where they meet your ass. You give an involuntary yelp, which fuels the embarrassment even further.

‘I wouldn’t, there’s nothing wrong with me.’

He pauses and the laughter dies away again. It’s application reminds you of a whip or a paddle and its sting unsettles rather than the pure, stable joy of pain that you enjoy. That you recognise this comes to you unbidden and without import.

‘My point, exactly.’

A wall to the left bursts into brilliant, white light and coalesces into a screen. A series of numbers dance across, teeming in patterns of deliberate complexity before it opens on a woman’s face, smiling.

Your face.

‘Hey, look you’re probably freaking out about now, but that’s kind of the point. I am you and you are me, before all this starts off.’

You watch yourself give your name, date of birth, social security number, mother’s maiden name and that you have paid to experience SIR, signed a raft of paperwork to avoid indemnity and that you should just relax and go with it.

Offscreen, a female voice asks you onscreen how you heard about SIR. You smile, and you recognise yourself, the telltale blink that you give and the bitemark on the inside of your lip that you could probably slip the edge of your front teeth again and find the indentation by instinct.

Your capacity to tear yourself to pieces without cause, a thought arises, might be part of why you are here.

Not that you are sure what here means.

‘I go to a munch two towns over once a month and one of the subs there went. She did not stop talking about it so I looked into it and -‘

You watch yourself spread your arms and grin. A hopeful light twinkles in your eyes. If this is not you, then it’s terrifying in its accuracy.

‘Here you are. Or I am. Sorry, I get tongue tied with things like this.’

The interviewer chuckles and you join in, a little ahead of the beat and the audience in the room follow along. The screen fades into black.

‘We’ve installed a block on your memories. We don’t change anything about you, and at every turn, we’re a bit like the opposite of a supermarket. We always offer choice. You are here because you want to be, but part of what makes this so popular and so important to maintain discretion is that we agree that this is all part of the play.’

Your breath is molten in your lungs and a heat begins to pool in the pit of your stomach, drawn downwards by gravity and you clench your thighs together to make the sensation flare deeper and warmer.

‘So, I volunteered for this?’

A hum fills the air and you experience the interview directly again. The leather chair underneath you, the scent of the Ethiopian coffee that you were offered on arrival and the drive over, calculating how much this was going to cost you. Chrissy had said it was ‘life-altering’ and you knew that your life could use some of that.

Some people went into simulations about the zombie apocalypse, you came here.

‘Does that answer your question?’

You stare into the darkness. The want is bolder than your fear, it puts a leash on it and a muzzle. The courage hardens your nipples, relaxes the muscles between your thighs, opening and transforming the emotions into fuel for the engine of your desire and your fear and your need.

There have seldom been clear distinctions between them and that, you know is part of why you are here. You smile and lower your head. Deferment is part of it, and you know that there is expectation and a responsibility here for you. It is a misconception that the submissive is powerless, and you stopped explaining this to vanilla types a long time ago. Here, you have the power and the voice, the eyes in the darkness are asking you to take it.

‘Yes, where do we start?’

The table is wheeled in with stainless steel stirrups mounted on telescopic stands mounted on the ends, a section cut away in the middle and velcro straps at the top end. A second table is brought in with a bowl of steaming, lilac and coconut scented water and a natural sponge. You run your tongue over your lips, and your heartbeat drowns out the thoughts in volume and rhythm.

No one is laughing at you now. Which is a good place to start.

‘Whenever you are ready.’

TO BE CONTINUED.

 

 

 

 

 

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Spark

20161128_123452

Trials lie in wait

On every corner

I hold within

A spark of purpose

I am earth, air, fire, water

And all things

Within it

Undefined

By anything

Beyond will

And purpose.

Each quiet hour

Before dawn

Pen makes

Love to paper

Fingers seduce

The keyboard

If you would

Find me anywhere

Find

Me

There.

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Beneath An Open Sky, We Dance

20161125_123225

Skies open

Brilliant with light

True as anything

You’ve known

Dancing beneath as we

Grace one another 

With

Feelings

Rushing through

Pores and veins

Magical in it’s intensity

Huge in it’s intention

Mutual kindness continuing

Unwavering

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The Rush of My Blood

https://soundcloud.com/matt-blissett/the-rush-of-my-blood
Come here
Put yourself in my hands
Because your purity
Makes me ache
To leave marks
To see how beautiful
You’d look
Flushed and spoiled
 
I want to break you
Sweetly and thoroughly
Hands bound
Because something in your
Eyes begs me to try
That you dare me
To show you the gentle
Fury of my lust
 
Fingers knotted
Around your damp hair
I call you names
That would make you
Cringe in public
But here, shame is a
Shadow extinguished
By your light
 
And afterwards
I am an ocean
On a calm day
Reflections of the sun
You can almost
Hear the rush of
My blood
Soothing us both.
20161121_165816
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20161125_123225

So often
Tattered rags
Costumes worn
To uninvited parties
Disguised as
Flags
Uniforms
Nonsense spoken
With solemn expressions
Is not eloquence
And there are those
Who call for no
Power from
Fear of acknowledging
Their own powerlessness
But I have
Found my dominion
A battle within myself
A purpose.
A path
The struggle
Is only in
Competition
With who I
Was yesterday
Always training
To defeat
The man of tomorrow
And you’re welcome
Only if you
Understand the path
Leads further than you
Might have the strength
For
But you’re welcome
To keep up
And in the pauses
When my attention
Turns to you
Ravishing you
With the force of
My self
A man about
his purpose
A beast of
The field
Who knows what
You want
And within that
Gives it
Until you’ve
Been broken
Beneath it
Beautiful in surrendered
Bliss

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A Bridge For The Furies 5: Performance and Cocktails.

alienabar

(This is a photograph of a bar designed by HR Giger. I know, right?)

Previous episodes are here, here, here and here.

Cara ushered them through a set of double doors into a small lounge, where chairs shaped like clam shells were arranged around rectangular tables. Which would not have attracted anyone’s notice aside from the fact that everything floated a good foot above the floor.

Cara caught their mutual expressions of disbelief and laughed.

‘Rare earth magnets and molybdenum. They can take the weight of a Gysterfanica warpod, so we’ll be fine, I promise.’

She gestured towards the bar.

‘Now, I will get us drinks, and you have to trust me here. There are at least eighteen things on the menu that will kill you and about thirty that will turn you blind or insane.’

Drea chuckled and shook her head.

‘Sounds like my kind of bar. Although what the fuck is a Gysterwhatever?’

Gloria saw that Olivia had turned tense and pale, she put a hand on her shoulder and asked if she was okay. Olivia gave a tight nod and took a deep breath.

‘It’s a lot to take in, you know? My biggest concern was keeping the farm running and maybe someone to run it with, ya know?’

Gloria saw the pensive light in her eyes and expressed a true pang of sympathy for her. At least her and Drea had some form of pop culture to inoculate them against all of this, but Olivia was experiencing the cognitive dissonance that would result from giving a Victorian lady a Hitachi Magic Wand.

‘If it’s any consolation, I am ready to run around screaming at any possible minute. So look, let’s keep this in perspective. If you’re mad, then so am I and if we’re not, then we see what she has to say. Deal?’

Olivia managed a terse smile and put a callused hand out to shake. Gloria shook it and grinned, surprised at the strength she manifested in a causal handshake. Farm girls, she thought. The contact was enlivening and grounding, reminding her that she was not the only one going through this.

Cara came back with a black slate tablet and gestured to a nearby table.

‘Drea, a warpod is a species of an intelligent mollusc race that used to cause all kinds of shit, but they’re absolutely hilarious once you get over the whole cultural barrier. Now let’s sit down and I can fill you all in on the next bit.’

Drea frowned and pointed to the tablet in Cara’s hands.

‘Where are our drinks? If I’m going to listen to more space cosmic shit, then I want at least one entertaining anecdote to wake up with.’

Cara rolled her eyes and placed the tablet onto the table, where it sank into the surface with the ease of a pebble dropped into a body of water. Four tumblers emerged from the mass of the table and immediately filled with an orange carbonated liquid.  In the centre rose a small column that began to glow and hum with a sequence of different colours. The air around them vibrated and became tangible against their skins as they sat down.

Drea picked up the tumbler and took a sniff. It carried an oily, citrus scent and when she brought it to her lips, it was thick and warm with the aftertaste of bubbles. She set it down and stared into space for a second then looked at the three of them in turn.

‘When I used to watch Star Trek, they all used to drink these fruity, strange looking drinks and I always wondered how they tasted.’

Cara picked hers up and raised it.

‘Here’s to mayhem.’

The three women looked at one another, with mutual apprehension before Olivia and Gloria took sips of their drinks. When their powers of speech returned to him, Gloria asked if she could have a drop of water added to hers. Cara chuckled and said that she could, but only if she wanted it to explode in her lower intestine. Gloria set the drink down and it melted into the body of the table.

‘That’s a perfectly fine Undara Surprise you’re not drinking.’

Gloria winced and shook her head. She leaned forward, forearms resting on her thighs, afraid to touch the table in case it did something to her. She had always believed that the future would appear bizarre and at too high a velocity for a traveller from the past, but she could not say whether this was the future or not. Cara was the only recognizable human, and Gloria noted that her syntax and intonation had an odd, stilted quality to it.

‘I’ve had enough surprises to last me a lifetime. So, now that we’re all settled, why don’t you tell us what we’re supposed to do.’

Cara downed her drink in one and set it onto the table.

‘I like a woman who gets down to business. So, I’ve chosen the three of you-‘

Olivia coughed as she took another sip, with her eyes glazed over and a beatific smile on her face.

‘This stuff is…yeah…it kind of creeps up on you, don’t it?’

Drea tried to give her a thumbs up, but the brain-body connection that she took for granted had surrendered to whatever was in the drinks. Instead she gave a sloppy grin and tried to arrange her features into some kind of order that denoted mindfulness and concentration. She failed, but she figured it was worth the try.

‘It’s okay, it wears off in a bit if you just have the one, plus I’ve got RB’s if anyone’s a bit too off their tits.’

‘Arby’s?’ Gloria said.

Cara shook her head.

‘Receptor blockers, basically sobers you up  instantly. I swear by them, especially with the diplomatic functions I have to attend.’

Gloria sat back and decided to go with the confusion. Source yourself in nothingness, she told herself and let it all happen. She remembered the retreat at Spirit Rock meditation centre, how it had removed the thorn of grief left in her heart’s paw, but it still stung when she moved.

‘Anyway, so what makes us so special?’ Gloria said.

Cara pointed at her with her index finger and the platinum ring there began to glow with a soothing amber light.

‘You in particular, or in general?’

‘THIS BOY WEARS COVERS, KIND OF HIM TO FAINT.’

The four of them turned as a Klee cloud from earlier billowed into the room exuding drunken indignation, which resembled in it’s scent signature, a gas station bathroom at four a.m. Cara rolled her eyes.

Olivia raised her hand.

‘The guy said it was because ah can shoot.’

Gloria fought to keep the consternation from her face, for fear of offending Olivia, who had inspired a protectiveness in her even though they were roughly the same age. There was a lack of sophistication to her that Gloria warmed to, from the very first. Cara gave her the thumbs up.

‘Yes, you, my dear, are a regular Carlos Hathcock. Also you give off a tremendous amount of potential energy when viewed from my particular perspective.’

Drea sat back in her chair, cautious because she realised that she was sitting in something with no apparent means of support.

‘There’s better fighters than me, out there. No shame in that.’ she said.

Cara nodded, in agreement.

‘Again, I’m working from a particular set of criteria here. Sure, you may not be Ronda Rousey but all my data centred around you three as a cluster of possibility.’

Gloria chuckled.

‘You’re using English, but I will be damned if I know what you’re talking about.’

Cara’s humour left her and she fixed Gloria with a look that could freeze the blood in her veins.

‘I could give you reassuring techno babble, none of which you would understand and we could waste time. I chose you because all the horribly sophisticated intelligence arrays and the experiences I have had, most of which will have shortened my life expectancy by centuries said that you three would be the most effective means of subduing -‘

Olivia cocked an eyebrow.

‘Y’all said kill.’

Cara nodded and waved her off, her attention focused on Gloria like a magnifying glass on an anthill.

‘Subdue, kill, either way if we don’t stop the Leviathan, there will be months of diplomatic wrangling, some messy and futile military action and then nothing.’

‘Nothing doesn’t sound that bad.’ Drea said.

Cara blinked slowly and sat up, pulling her shoulders back and lifting her chin.

‘When I say nothing, because my fear is that Leviathan will eat creation itself, or enough of it to make sure that our lives, inconsequential as they may be, are no longer around to be mourned.’

Gloria tried to imagine nothingness, much like the concept of zero, it took a great deal to approximate the idea of it. Endless possibilities, ended and she would never see or experience any of it. She thought about it on a smaller, more manageable set of concepts. No more running in the mornings, no more books to be written or read. No more ‘I love yous’.

‘So come it falls to you?; Gloria said.

Cara winked at her.

‘You know how Bond was the bastard of the British Empire, you know, everyone knew it was him coming if you messed with the empire and he was going to kick seven shades of shit out of you, raid your liquor cabinet and shag your girlfriend?’

Gloria smiled, warmed by the endearing swagger that Cara projected.

‘You’re the alien equivalent.’ she said.

Cara winked at her and made finger pistols.

‘Got it in one, but part of it means that I get a degree of levity that means I can move resources around faster than organisations or governments can. You three are assets that all my intelligence shows to be the most effective, least messy way of sorting this out. I outfit you with the kit, point you in the right direction and we all go home at the end of the day. That’s really about it.’

Gloria chuckled and shook her head.

‘I write books, what possible kit do I think I can get from you?’

Cara reached inside her jacket and retrieved a slim case, the kind that you would find a decent fountain pen within, a gift set that looked classy but showed little to no consideration. She slid it across the table to Gloria.

Gloria looked down at it, then back up at Cara who gave her a challenging, smug expression. She opened it slowly then looked up and sneered.

‘False nails and contact lenses? How the fuck am I meant to save creation with that?”

TO BE CONTINUED