The sun was beginning to set. Not that Snow White would have known. The forest remained dark and gloomy even when the sun shone bright overhead, so thick was the canopy of tree branches that stretched out above. Indeed, it seemed to her that she had been stumbling in darkness ever since she had escaped from the clearing, and the raging Woodsman.
Upon first fleeing the scene, Snow White had sprinted and galloped like a frightened fawn, terrified that the Woodsman was following her. Though she had tried to listen for any tell-tale signs of him giving chase, the volume of her own ragged breathing and the panicked pounding of her blood in her ears made her deaf to everything outside her own head. It was not until she had been walking for what felt like hours that a sense of calm came over her. No, she was sure that the Woodsman was not on her heels. She had escaped his lecherous clutches. …
With age comes wisdom, that is what they say,
I see truth in that statement every single day.
Though I do not claim to be wise and all-knowing,
I can certainly assert that I’ve been, and am, growing.
When young I was timid, frightened, and meek,
I felt like an outcast, a weirdo, a freak.
I was scared of my shadow, I hated myself.
My poor self-esteem destroyed my mental health.
I struggled to get through to the end of each week,
I could never find the ‘inner peace’ we all seek.
But as I’ve gotten older, the passing of the…
“… I began to drift upwards into consciousness again. I could hear her voice echoing in my ears, and I yearned for her. I yearned for her company, the strange stuffy smell of the room, the story, all of it. For the first time, I wondered if Neal and Deirdre and the others could be right: if it was possible to put a spell on someone through telling a story….” (Kim Wilkins, “Angel of Ruin”, Harper Collins Publishers, p. 184.)
My introduction to Australian author Kim Wilkins was through her second novel, “Grimoire”, an eerie blend of magic, sex, horror, and history set in a university campus in Melbourne. As a university student at the time, and as a fan of sex and the supernatural, I was drawn to the premise of the book: a group of academics who dabble in ritual magic are trying to piece together the remnants of a 19th century grimoire (book of magic). Meanwhile, a trio of Masters students, are also hunting down the grimoire, drawn into the murky web by the ghost of a young man, the former assistant of the grimoire’s author. …
Do you feel my fevered imagination reaching out to you, hot tendrils stretching sinuously across the Atlantic?
Do you feel my hungry kisses on your chest, on your neck, on your mouth?
Can you hear me whispering your name, with furtive fingers stuffed under my waistband, a second-rate approximation of your sublime touch?
Have you pictured my lipstick-smudged lips enclosing hot and wet around your head, sinking down slow, drawing you deep? Have you imagined the sensation of my tongue against the thick, veiny shaft, my hand cupping your balls?
Does the warm, damp scent of my arousal rise in your nostrils when you climb into bed each night, and does the ghost of my musky fragrance spur your hand on harder, faster whenever you palm your angry, red tumescence? …
“May I have permission,” asks the girl.
He responds “not yet,
I’ve told you, this is punishment,
You’ve been a naughty Pet.
I deprive you of the right to come,
Until I say it’s time.
I’ll count you down to your climax,
Your orgasm is mine.”
The girl responds with strangled moan,
The peak is getting near,
She needs release but it’s denied,
Her Master’s made that clear.
She must endure his edging game,
To prove that she is good.
To give him her submission now
Just like a good Pet should.
His fingers tease and tickle,
He’s relishing this…
Whenever you hold me,
I feel safe and secure.
The whole world disappears,
And there is only here and now.
Whenever you hold me,
I forget all the darkness.
I feel lightened of my burdens,
Because you share my load.
Whenever you hold me,
I feel like myself again.
The woman that you love,
Not the broken thing I hate.
I wish I could carry you,
My treasured linus blanket,
Have you with me every day,
To keep the bad at bay.
Because whenever you hold me,
My lightness comes back.
As you soothe all my darkness
And take it away. …
I abhor having my photo taken. There is nothing like somebody getting out their camera and pointing it in my general direction to make my stomach clench and my skin break out in a nervous sweat. So how is it then that I became comfortable with publishing quite revealing candid snaps of myself on my blog, Jupiter’s Lair?
First and foremost is the fact that I have complete editorial control over my images. I can cut, crop and tinker with photos until they meet my approval and, for those pictures that look absolutely horrendous, bin bin bin! No one but me will ever have set eyes on them. …