Wednesday, 30 November 2011



Since the beginning of the epidemic in the early 1980’s nearly thirty million people have died of AIDS.
Gay and Straight -- the virus makes no distinction -- it does not discern…

Monday, 28 November 2011


Finally! It’s here! Pirate Booty is out! An outrageous anthology of erotic pirate tales -- with a heavy emphasis on erotica! Sexy sexy sexy -- dip into this superb extravaganza -- buy it for your nearest and dearest, or in true pirate fashion, steal it for yourself! There’s all kinds of yardarms here from Zander Vyne, Jude Mason, Theda Hudson, Catherine Lundoff, PM White, Joe Vadalma, Wade Heaton, Jay Lawrence And Harry Neptune, RV Raiment, Karen Taylor, and Blake C. Aarens - and little old me, Billierosie. I’ve got such a silly grin on my face, you’d think I’d won the Nobel prize for literature! But I’m proud to be included in this book, and it’s edited by the wonderful M.Christian -- a guy you can’t go wrong with!

Pirates are hot, with twisted passions and lusty, rough, sweet kisses. It’s all here, your Christmastime reading of historical pirates, contemporary pirates and space-faring privateers, plus a hot dip into BDSM to tingle your erotic taste buds. We’ve waited a long time for an anthology of this calibre -- I promise you, you won’t be disappointed.

It’s out right now at Sizzler Edititions -- at Amazon, probably later this week.

Friday, 25 November 2011


Yes, it’s amusing -- it’s meant to be. But for some men and women, it’s a very real scenario. FEM/dom. In a world where traditionally women have had to fight every step of the way, for any sort of real recognition, the right to inherit, the right to vote, the right to have equal pay, even the right to take the initiative in terms of birth control; in the world of the FEM/dom the female dominates the male.

For some it’s a scenario acted out playfully every few days/weeks/months.; for others, it can be a complete choice of lifestyle. The male is told by the female when he can stand, sit, eat, sleep or speak. She gives orders and he obeys, absolutely. She may control his orgasms. Sex happens when she initiates it; when she gives her permission. And heaven help him if he orgasms before she does!

Here are some extracts of FEM/dom Erotica, from some of the finest writers, penning some of the best of the genre around today.

Janine Ashbless.
“…'This isn’t the end, Herrick. Not yet. You are not going to die until I tire of hurting you. And in this place I can take you to the brink of death and bring you back again, over and over, for my pleasure. Until your pain has brought me ease.'
Fresh damp sprang from every pore. His insides seemed to turn liquid. She raked claws down his chest and stomach, testing every patch of skin between the criss-crossed bonds. He rolled his eyes back and tried to call upon the mercy of God, but it came out sounding completely wrong somehow.
'What’s this?' Her voice was low with surprise.
He strained to look down at her and found she’d reached his lower garments, had been sliding about on his crotch, had found something that should not have been there at all: his massive, stony erection, pushing up against the cloth, the swollen head seeping with such eagerness that it was making a damp patch. Herrick was washed by a crimson tide of shame.
Dear God give me the strength to resist her, he begged.
She ripped his clothing to shreds, delicately. His cock thrust out blasphemously through the rent fabric and jerked with eagerness as she traced the veins with the tips of her deadly claws. Like a dog rising to greet its mistress, he thought, sick with humiliation.
'Oh Herrick. Now I know.'
'No,' he groaned.
'This is a gift, isn’t it? A phallus like this, and a man like you in my power?'
'You’re wrong…'
'Wrong? No. Men may lie, but this does not. It makes plain what it wants, Herrick.' She slapped his prick with first one hand then the other, like a cat playing with a mouse. He burned with shame. 'Slattern,' she mocked.
He twisted in his bonds uselessly, driving each pinpoint of pain deeper.
'Lick me,' she ordered, looming right over him, lowering her breasts to his mouth.
He put his tongue to her nipple but she snatched it away, giggling, before he could touch her. He groaned, scoured by her glee and his weakness. Then she wriggled back down and crouched over his prick, laying her lips to the underside of the shaft and nipping her way delicately right down to the root, never quite hurting him but threatening all the way. She took his balls one after the other into her mouth, rolling them between her teeth until sweat ran down his temples. Spitting out his slippery ball sac she then found the silken skin stretched between his soaring cock and his scrotum, and took a fold delicately between two eye teeth. She held it for a moment, letting him realise what he was going to do.
Herrick quivered, choking out incoherent prayers.
She bit down. Two sharp teeth met through a thin fold of skin and he opened his mouth in a soundless roar. His cock jerked twice, and clear fluid bulged at the slit and, welling out under its own volume, ran down his hard length, testament to his need.
'Herrick,' she chided.' Look at you.'
'Oh God, no!'
'Shh. Stop pretending.'
With her tongue she traced the path of his overspill back up from his balls to the head of his cock, where she lapped at his ooze. He groaned again and shook like a man with the ague. His world was in flames. Could any defeat be more shameful than this -- to be beaten in combat, then abused as a whore, his body a treacherous accomplice?
And her mouth was exquisite comfort now after the hurt she’d inflicted, as tender as a mother hugging her child after smacking it. The pleasure was overwhelming: he knew he needed more. More hurt. More solace.
Her lips, wet from painting his glans, left it bereft and straining. 'Pain,' she whispered, straightening and kneeling up astride him again. 'Your pain is my pleasure, I thought. But your pleasure too. Don’t worry, Herrick, I will give you what you need.' She guided his erect cock between her thighs, into her tight, slick grip, her eyes rolling back with the effort of taking his girth. Then she refocused on his face. For the first time she sounded a little breathless.
'You will not spend, Herrick. You will hold it back. Because if you let spill before me I will walk away and leave you here and never return. You understand that?'
'Yes.' Oh my God, yes….”

Extract from 'The Scent of Hawthorn.' by Janine Ashbless, in her 'Dark Enchantment' collection of Erotica. Despite declaring that they weren't going to publish any more paranormal erotica, "Black Lace" commissioned this collection from Janine -- they think highly of her!

From “Pink Ribbon” by Jude Mason

"Rick knelt in his cage. The bars running from front to back dug into his knees and shins, but he was used to that. Even the cool air didn’t bother him like it did the first few times she’d sent him into the punishment room and locked him in. What did bother him was why.
His knees hurt terribly, but he dared not move. Cass, his lovely sweet Cass, would be upset, and he knew she watched him sometimes. He didn’t even dare raise his eyes to see if the camera’s little red light was on or not. He’d learned not to do that, months ago, when she’d caught him masturbating guiltily, while she watched from the comfort of the living room. He shuddered at the memory.
She’d been upset with his dinner preparations that evening, the gravy had been lumpy, and the salad warm and wilted. So, angry at his lack of attention, she’d sent him to his cage. He’d gone willingly enough, thinking it would be an easy way out of some punishment he knew he
deserved. He’d thought nothing of stripping down, and crawling into the four-foot square steel cage. When she’d locked the door and reminded him to behave, he’d smiled and replied, “Yes, Mistress.”
She’d no more than walked out the door and closed it, than his hands were reaching for his privates. Never mind the rules, or that he hadn’t asked permission to touch himself. What did it matter? She wasn’t there. She’d never know.
He’d lain on his back, stretched his legs up the bars on the opposite side, and was madly pumping away at his erection when he’d heard the door. He was too far gone to stop, or so he’d thought. The bucket of ice water had changed his mind, instantly.
“Slave,” she’d roared. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Shivering, frustrated, he’d lumbered around until he got his knees under himself, and his head bowed respectfully. Dripping wet, freezing cold, he’d tried to come up with a reply that wouldn’t make it worse. “Mistress, I-I,” he’d stammered, his mind racing. He knew he had to come up with some kind of answer, but his mind was blank. Finally, he’d said, “Mistress, I was thinking of you and…well, one thing led to another. I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“Stop, right there. Not one more word.” Her tone left no question as to her indignation. “You dared think of me in that manner? And then you masturbated, stroked that puny, little cock and no doubt, fingered your balls, without asking my permission to do so.”
Rick hadn’t been sure if he should answer or not. His erection had still strained from between his legs; his balls pulled up tight to his crotch. The excitement of being caught, plus the attention of his lady and his own exhibitionistic tendencies had all conspired to keep him painfully hard. He’d decided to keep his mouth shut, and to quickly comply with whatever she said.
Wrong decision.
“I asked you a bloody question, slave boy,” she growled.
Rick remembered how he’d cringed and the reply he’d made didn’t help matters. “Yes, Mistress. I’m terribly sorry. I just couldn’t help myself. You’re so lovely. I just couldn’t keep my mind off you. It’s been over a week since I came, and—”
“Shut up!” she’d cried, and he’d immediately shut his mouth.
He’d been worried then. She’d never seemed so angry before, and he wondered what kind of punishment he’d have to endure. As it turned out, he was wise to be concerned.
“Dinner was horrible,” she’d said. She paced
around his cage, her stiletto heels doing a light tap, tap, tap as she leisurely circled him. “And you have the balls to complain about not coming for a few days.”
Something had struck the cage behind him, and he’d nearly cried out. He’d blurted, “No, Mistress. I mean, yes, Mistress.” Confused, he’d clamped his mouth shut and prayed for it to end. Prayed she’d just punish him and get it over with.
“Yes mistress, no mistress. Damn, you don’t even know what you’re trying to say, do you?”
Cringing, he’d opened his mouth to answer, knowing he was going to say the wrong thing, but also knowing he was supposed to reply to a question she directed at him. Luckily, she didn’t give him the chance.
“Never mind.” She returned to standing in front of him, and said, “Keep your eyes downcast, but lean back. Put your hands on the floor behind you.”
Rick quickly got into the position she’d requested. The bars grated against his knees, even more so against his shins, but that didn’t deter him as he’d manoeuvred his long, lanky frame into the desired pose. He made sure to keep his eyes focused downward along the length of his body. Hairless, at her command, his chest and belly rippled with muscles he’d worked hard to maintain. His erection pointed accusingly at him.
“Spread your knees,” she’d said, and again, he’d complied eagerly. He vividly remembered the feeling of his balls dangling between his widespread thighs—how defenceless he’d felt, how excited and horny. The cool air and cold water made each testicle shift closer to his body.
“Now then, it’s lesson time,” she’d said and, reaching down, unlatched his cage door.
He’d known better than to move, but the temptation was definitely there. Instead, he’d gritted his teeth and remained still. The tension had mounted in him. When he’d thought he couldn’t take the silence, the anxiety, and the excitement another moment, she spoke again.
“Keeping in position, come out of your cage.”
It was awkward, and it took a little time, but finally, he’d emerged from the cage on his knees and hands. His shins ached where the bars had dug into them, but the minor pain was acceptable.
“Here,” she’d said, pointing to a spot in front of the chair she’d crossed the small room and settled into. “Hurry up, I don’t have all day.”
It had taken him a few minutes to get to the spot she’d picked, but again, he didn’t complain. When he’d stopped before her, he’d been extremely apprehensive, but more than willing to take the punishment he knew was coming.
“Push your hips up, show me what you’ve been diddling,” she’d said in a voice as sweet as honey. He’d pushed his hips upward, displaying his rampant erection and his tight balls. His stomach muscles strained, the backs of his thighs tightened, and moments later, ached from the forced posture. His inner thighs quivered with tension.
Beyond his erection, he saw her seated in her soft, blue easy chair with her legs crossed, and a high heel dangling off her toe. He couldn’t see her face, and at the time, he was glad of it. But, he’d been so close to orgasm that seeing just her lower body was more than enough to keep him excited. Actually, she made sure he got a good glimpse of more than her legs. After deftly swinging her shoe from her toe for several moments, making sure his attention was fixed, she dropped the shoe. He’d thought she was going to ask him to retrieve it for her, but she did no such thing. Instead, she’d extended her foot, easing her legs apart, and flicked her toe under his balls.
He hadn’t dared to move, or speak. He’d hardly breathed as she moved her toe around his sac, pushing his testicles to one side then the other. With the flat of her foot, she’d pressed his balls down, forcing the skin to stretch.
He remembered moaning, not so much with any pain she’d caused, but with that fear any man would get when his balls were being handled less than carefully. Yet, he’d remained in position, and his erection had pulsed with pleasure. Cass kept toying with his balls, pressing on them, nudging at them until he’d groaned piteously and begged her to stop or he’d come. She continued, and continued until he’d sobbed and his hips had thrust wildly, uncontrollably into the air, as he’d shot off all over his belly and chest.
Just as his cock had begun to throb and spew its long ribbon of white cream into the air, she’d pulled her foot back, refusing to allow him to stimulate himself on her. So, he’d come, without permission and without so much as a touch to give him pleasure. He’d been humiliated and embarrassed, but he’d also remained almost as hard as he’d been before he climaxed.
“Now you’re in trouble,” she’d said, and he’d cringed. Not only had he masturbated without permission, he’d then followed it up by coming without asking, right in front of her. “You just don’t seem to get it.” She re-crossed her legs, again making sure he got a glimpse of the tops of her stockings, and the creamy white flesh above. “I’m beginning to think you’re not taking this seriously. Big boss during the day can’t seem to let go and be the slave at home—even when it was you who asked for it.”
“Please, Mistress, I—” he’d tried, but she’d leaned forward in her chair and with no more than a flick of her finger to his tender ball sac, had silenced him. “I didn’t ask, and you should know better than to argue or speak to me when I haven’t asked you a direct question.”
He knew he’d just made it worse. It seemed he was destined to be punished that day, and unless he kept his mouth shut, it would go very badly for him.
“You’ve got both Saturday and Sunday off this weekend, am I correct?” she’d asked levelly.
“Yes, Mistress. Tomorrow is my last day of work for two days,” he’d replied softly. He’d planned to go fishing, and perhaps encourage Cass to go along with him to their cabin. She didn’t fish, but she’d always loved the outdoors, and he tried getting away with her whenever possible.
“Excellent.” She got to her feet and took a step over to where her shoe lay on its side. Deftly, she slipped her toes in, then dragged the shoe across the floor towards him before sliding the rest of her foot inside. He never took his eyes off her foot, and shuddered when she sauntered around him. The tapping of her shoes matched the beating of his heart, and he’d wondered at that. She stopped when she stood behind him; her feet placed one on each side of his head. Again, he dared not raise his eyes. “I’ve decided to invite a woman to help me with a couple of training sessions while you’re off work…”

From “Pink Ribbon” by Jude Mason

From “Moving, by M.Christian

“Don’t move,” she said.
“That’s it?” I said.
“That’s it. That’s it, exactly. Don’t move.”
“Right now?” Smiling.
She returned my smile. “Right now. But get comfortable first.”
“Isn’t that sort of counterproductive?”
She tapped the tip of my nose. “Comedian. Don’t worry, you’ll get an experience.”
“But not a moving one, eh?”
The smile stayed, but her words were serious: “Great experiences are always moving – but not vice versa. Not at all.”
At least Sylvia’s basement was warm … no, not basement. Dungeon: that was it, though I still couldn’t think of it that way. “Dungeon” – that was bricks, rats, iron bars, and the Man in the Iron Mask. Who was in that, anyway Lon Chaney? Errol Flynn? Jose Ferrer? I’ll have to look it up later.
“Dungeon” certainly wasn’t a basement rec room in the Avenues, the perpetually foggy ocean side of San Francisco. No bricks, no iron bars, no rats, at least not as far as I could see. But that’s what Sylvia called it, so that’s what I should probably call it, too.
Golden-yellow, close-cropped, shag carpeting. A heavy table covered in black leather. A pine chest with a latch and padlock – closed and locked. It certainly wasn’t anything Lon Chaney, Errol Flynn or Jose Ferrer would have been scared of.
But I wasn’t Lon or Errol or Jose, or even Brendan Fraser, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least nervous. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Sylvia, but this was more than a bit new to me. For me, sex had always been about a cock (mine), tits and pussies. Not whips, chains and “Yes, Mistress.” But that’s what it was for Sylvia. At least she understood my trepidation, thus the padlock on her war chest.
What am I doing here? It wasn’t the first time I thought that, walking in the door to her place. The response was the same as it had always been: because this was part of her life, and I wanted to be part of her life, too.
But there was something else – bing! – right in front of my face. Sure I wanted to stay in good graces with Sylvia, but there was something else as well. Face it, I told myself, you just want see why this isn’t a rec room but a dungeon. You want to get it.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Rip roarin’ – to do absolutely nothing that is,” I said, smiling as always.
“Get comfy – you don’t want to cramp up,” she said. In a bow to my nervousness she wasn’t wearing any of her S and M gear, the leather and latex she’d showed me in the dark depths of her closet, but rather a comfy yellow bathrobe. She still was damned sexy—a beautifully full, round woman with deep night hair and flickering amber eyes—and, looking at her, the last thing I wanted to do was play her game. It took a huge effort not to just part that robe, cup her breasts, run a thumb over her nipples. But a promise was a promise.
It was also hard – or rather I should say “I” was also hard, because I definitely was that – because she’d asked me to strip down, and I had. I hopped up onto the table, my cock slapping back and forth against my thighs, and tried to work myself into a comfortable position.
After a few minutes I thought I’d found it. “Okay,” I said. “I’m all set – to do nothing.”
“You said that,” she said, tightening the flannel sash around her waist. “Now look me in the eyes.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I said, curbing the mischief I felt ticking my voice.
She frowned, and I felt suddenly, deeply sad. “Don’t say that unless you mean it. I’m serious.”
“Sorry,” I said, opening my hands in supplication.
She looked at me for a moment. “Okay.” She took a deep breath. “You do the same, a couple of deep slow breaths: in, out, in, out. Think about your body, the position you’re sitting in. If it doesn’t feel good then move.”
I breathed in time with her, feeling my chest rise and fall. I moved my leg a bit, then my right arm.
“When it feels good, when it feels right, then nod and we’ll start. It’s a really simple game: just don’t move. Try and keep the same position as long as you can.”
“Hum …. how do I win?”
“Win? Sweetie this isn’t a win/lose kind of game.” She kissed the tip of my nose and I smiled, despite myself. Then she looked thoughtful for a long minute. “But you know, there might very well be a way to win, but I’m not going to tell you. You’ve got to figure that out for yourself. Now, you ready?”
What the hell was that about? I thought. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Good. Now start: don’t say anything, don’t nod – don’t move.”
I didn’t say anything, I didn’t nod, and I didn’t move. We started.
There were rules. For something that wasn’t a game, it seemed to have a lot of them: breathing was okay, blinking was okay, involuntary movement was okay, but anything like a conscious twitch or jerk was right out – game over, thank you for playing, here’s your complimentary Turtle Wax and a copy of the home game. Thinking of that, the game almost ended before it began: an image dancing through my mind of a 2.5 kid nuclear family sitting down around a Parker Brothers game of S & M, spinning the punishment wheel. “Oh, oh, Bobby, you drew the golden showers card...” But I fought down a smirk, locking down my face.
Sylvia, meanwhile, sat down on the chest and watched me. She was quite simply exquisite, old bathrobe and all. Looking at her, watching her watch me, a thought flickered through my mind. With a view like this, who cares about moving? Distantly, I was aware that my cock still hadn’t gone down. It was still gently throbbing, and the sight of Sylvia seemed to increase its tempo.
I blinked.
Then I wondered, still looking at my lover, what am I supposed to do now? The rules of the game were easy enough, but what was the damned point? Was I supposed to make her feel good, by obeying her? “Yes, Mistress; no, Mistress; right away, Mistress.” That could make anyone feel good, having a humble little slave – but what the hell do I get out of it, aside from a nasty cramp?
When I agreed to play Sylvia’s game I knew it could be weird, but, hell, I loved her – or at least I thought I did. But this part of her life was something that baffled me, and after a minute of immobility, it still did. But something was also niggling at the back of my stock-still noggin. I didn’t want to be a pet, a slave, a subservient little twit who’d follow her around, wipe her ass, or who knew what. That pissed me off.
I wanted to move, to say “fuck this” and get up and walk away. I wanted to break her spell, smash it up and get the hell out of there. It wasn’t something I’d thought of when I’d agreed to play Sylvia’s game but sitting there, frozen, it made my face burn: I’m not one of those “top dog” kind of guys, but I sure as shit didn’t want to be a whipped one.
Then I thought of something else and I fought to keep a sneer down again: one finger. I wanted to lift just one finger on the hand she couldn’t see. She wouldn’t know, but I would. There was something juicy in that: a little victory in our battle of “play”. When the game was over she’d think she’d had a victory when I’d really won, and I’d get to smile my secret little smile as she came out the big, bad, Mistress.
I felt my hand, behind me on the warm leather. I was sitting on the edge of the table, one hand at my sides, one where she could see it, the other behind me. That one. The one behind. My left. Maybe the first finger, perhaps the second? The birdie digit I decided was too rude, too harsh for my subtle little gesture of defiance.
Have you ever thought about moving a part of your body before you actually move it? It’s weird, putting consciousness into something you don’t often even think about. I felt a tension in my hand, my finger (the first one, if you’re curious), the muscles, tendons, tissues and all that wet, squishy stuff changing from not moving to start-to-move. The will was there, definitely, and my body was prepared, absolutely, but then something really interesting happened.
Nothing – that’s what happened. Or didn’t happen. I didn’t know. But I do know that I didn’t move, not at all, not even my finger. The room, which previously felt warm if not hot, was suddenly chilly and a parade of goosebumps ran up and down my spine, arms and thighs. I remained frozen, still, immobile.
Why? Thoughts in my head, thumping together around like idea bumper cars, weird feelings, odd impressions – and something else. Have you ever suddenly realized that your body was doing something you didn’t ask it to do – some part of yourself that normally you have to tell to perform, all of a sudden acts on it’s own? Because that’s what happened.
My cock, you see, was still hard – rock hard, steel hard, very damned hard. I was angry, or had just been angry, and the one thing that doesn’t happen to me when I get angry is to get hard. I shrink, shrivel, deflate – you name it, that’s what normally happened, or didn’t happen. Negative erection. But then, frozen for Sylvia, my cock was still hard – no that’s not quite right. I’d been hard before (my dick pulsed against my thigh) but, still not moving, I was incredibly hard. My whole groin ached, swollen, tingling, huge. The one thing I wanted more than anything in the world was to sink my wonderfully hard dick deep into Sylvia. I didn’t move though, didn’t let the slightest grimace of pain or desire show on my face.
Sylvia, watching, smiled and winked at me.
I don’t think I’d ever been as hard as that, but I certainly hoped I’d be again. It felt like a deep part of myself, somewhere down below my belly button, my guts, my soul even, was happy at this situation. Very, very happy.
But that was deep down, cock-response deep, but at the top of it all, in my brain, something else was ringing loud and long: why?
I still didn’t know Sylvia’s “why” – not really – I’d guessed but I didn’t know, but that wasn’t what was bugging me. Why didn’t I move? Why didn’t I get up and leave?

Extract from “Moving”, by M.Christian
Available from Amazon as a Kindle download -- in the UK and the US

And here’s my own humble contribution. I’m not in the league of the above writers -- I’m still learning!

“A Submissive Male.” by billierosie

“Jasmine sat in the passenger seat of the powerful Mercedes, her head bowed; her dark, gleaming hair hiding her face. Eli watched her, puzzled. What the hell was wrong with the woman? It wasn’t as if he’d asked her to marry him. He’d simply asked her if she was going to invite him in for coffee.

The lamp light across the quiet Chelsea street illuminated the interior of the car. He could see her dark, sleek hair moving as she breathed.

They sat in silence. They’d met that evening at a party, given by a mutual friend, and they’d hit it off straight away. At least Eli had thought they had.

It was like a bad black and white movie. The interior of the car, lit by one street lamp.

Then just like a bad movie, they both spoke awkwardly at the same time.

“Look…” Eli started to say.
“I’m sorry…” said Jasmine.
“…I’ve had a wonderful evening,” she went on. “But taking things any further would be a big mistake. But thanks for the ride home.”

Eli shifted in his seat. “Just tell me what the hell’s going on. Are you married? Engaged? In a relationship? I ask you for a cup of coffee and you freeze on me, like I’ve asked you to suck my cock.”

She turned to face him and smiled. It was the same smile she’d hit him with, across the room at the party and it made him quiver inside. He loved it that she hadn’t been shocked by his crude remark. That was something he’d liked about her, when they’d talked earlier at that boring party. How she’d fallen in with his silly game of guessing what type of underwear the other guests were wearing. What they’d be like in bed.

“You’re sweet, and funny,” she told him. “But really, you’re just not my type.”
“Well that’s strange,” he said. “Because, here’s me, thinking all night, that you were just my type. I…I’ve never met anyone like you before. I thought we got along just fine.”
“We did …we do. But just leave it at that will you,” her voice was low and husky.
“No,” Eli persisted. “I won’t just leave it at that. I won’t be just left on your doorstep. I want to see you again.”

Jasmine sighed. They were going round in circles. She felt bad, and sad. She did like Eli, and if she were any other sort of woman, perhaps they could have a nice time together. Some fun, some sweet sex. She knew that he would be a gentle, tender lover. He just wouldn’t understand her cravings; her needs. Why couldn’t she be like other women; normal? Wanting a nice home with a kind man. A couple of children too. That had been enough for her sisters and they were happy. But Jasmine knew she needed more than domesticity and vanilla sex.

“Let’s just say I have unusual tastes.”

Eli grinned. “Go on.” He reached out and ran his long fingers through her hair. She gave a barely perceptible shudder. Revulsion, or desire?

She tilted her head. Her dark eyes were huge, her dilated pupils told him it was desire. Eli persisted; he tilted her small chin with a forefinger.

“I’m only suggesting coffee.”

Jasmine felt strangely wrong footed. She wasn’t used to having to explain herself to a man. She didn’t like it. It didn’t sit easy with her. But she was strangely attracted to this big, strong guy. That had never happened to her before. Usually, she picked her men carefully; they had to be…well, just not like Eli. He was strong and controlled. In charge of himself; he’d want to be in charge of his woman too.

One thing that Jasmine knew she could never be, was someone’s woman.

“I like a certain type of man, and…”
“I’m not it.” he finished the sentence for her.
“That’s about right,” she said bluntly.
“ So what is this certain type of man?”

Jasmine was quiet for a moment, framing her answer.

“I like submissive men. I like to be in control.”
“Hell, I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Yes, you do…you would. You don’t understand what I’m saying. You think it’s just some sort of kinky game. It’s not. It’s a way of life.”

“So are you saying you want a guy to be some sort of slave to you?”

Jasmine took a deep breath. She looked up into his strong, determined face. She at least owed him an explanation.

“It’s not just that; although it can be like that. It’s more a negotiation of power between two people. The slave gives his or her Master, or Mistress power over him. For some, it may be two women; one of whom is dominant, the other submissive. The same for two men. In a straight relationship, it may be the woman who is submissive. She serves her man, unquestioningly. It’s not always sexual, although that usually plays a big part. For me, I am a Dominant; I rule my male submissive in every aspect of his life. Physical, sexual, emotional, social. I tell him when he can orgasm, when he can eat, drink, sleep. He obeys me without question. I might tie him up and whip him. I might loan him to my friends. There is nothing my submissives won’t do for me.”

A quiver ran through Eli’s frame when she’d mentioned being tied up and whipped. It was a long held fantasy of his. His cock was instantly hard.

“Wow,” he said. “Still sounds good to me.”

Jasmine sighed again. He wasn’t going to let it go.

“You better come in for that cup of coffee,” she said.

She waited while he walked around to the passenger door. She took his arm as they stepped out into the warm summer night.

Jasmine’s mews cottage was deceptive. It was like a tardis; bigger on the inside than you would at first think. She must have had two cottages knocked into one. There was a long sitting room, with a kitchen area at the end overlooking a small garden. She flicked a switch and the room was instantly bathed in a soft, glowing light. She picked up a remote control; the French doors at the far end of the room opened silently. Perfume, from what smelled like an exotic rose garden wafted in.

Eli looked around him. He was shocked; then he was surprised that he was shocked. The Art work that led the eye around the room wasn’t just erotic. It was pure pornography.

It was all huge photographs. Pictures of naked men all being lusciously violated by women. Eli held his breath; then he breathed.

He glanced at Jasmine; she was watching him, as he’d known she would be. He couldn’t meet her commanding gaze and looked away.

Eli was surprised at his nervousness. His mouth was dry. He was still hard.

“I guess I should have asked permission to look at the photographs?” He tried to sound light hearted, but he was anything but.

“Yes, you should have, but you won’t make the same mistake again. Tell me what you think of them.”

Eli stood in front of a large black and white photo. It featured a naked male being raped; but not by a man, by a woman. You could just see the line of her strap-on. She was lithe and muscular, with short, cropped, blonde hair. Her pert breasts were small. Her victim was on all fours and wore some sort of bridle. A metal bit was in his mouth. The same sort of thing that you use to control horses. The woman was raping him doggie fashion. Her cock was rammed into his arse, up to the hilt. The victim’s own cock was huge; the rapist was reaching beneath him, her fingers curved around his erection. He was being held firmly by his head by another woman; she was clothed in a black leather corset and high heeled boots. The male was being controlled and violated by the two women. Eli had the feeling that these weren’t actors, staging a scene. This was an event. This had happened.

He glanced at the next photograph. A different guy; a naked blond was hanging by his wrists. He was chained; his arms being pulled painfully out of joint. His toes were an inch away from the floor. His wrists were taking his whole weight. His body, mostly his genital area, was bruised and bloody; he’d had a thrashing. A woman stood to one side, dressed in a tight corset and high heeled shoes, her arm raised to bring her cruel whip down again. She was aiming her lash at his huge testicles and massive erection. Eli could see the tormentor’s profile; with a jolt like an electric shock, he realised it was Jasmine.

Eli blushed, but he found the courage to meet her eyes. At last he felt able to speak.

“The photos are…alluring.” he said. “But you said that relinquishing power was something the slave did willingly…”

She looked exquisite; her simple black gown enhancing the creamy whiteness of her skin. Her hair shone. She was relaxed on a chaise longue, a glass of red wine in one elegant hand. She hadn’t offered him a drink. Neither had she invited him to sit down.

“I didn’t say quite that,” replied Jasmine. But yes, the slave has given over total control to his Mistress. He gave his consent for her to do with him as she pleased. That’s what I meant by a negotiation. For a slave to start putting in clauses and safe words, takes away the whole point. Besides, the Mistress, the woman holding the slave’s head, in the rape scene, has paid a lot of money for the slave and spent a fortune on his training. She doesn’t want him damaged. And, yes. The Mistress in the second photograph is me. The slave is Joel; as you can see, he’s enduring a whipping.

“You bought him! You can’t buy people.”

“You can if they sign a contract. The slaves in the photographs signed away all their rights, willingly. They sold themselves. Never have I been asked to put in restrictions on the contract.”

Common sense told Eli, that he should get the hell out. But he was intrigued, he’d stepped into a strange, surreal world. He was also helplessly aware of his throbbing erection. Why was he aroused? He wanted to know more about this elusive woman, and her sinister life.

“Why do they do it?” he asked. “The guys I mean.”

“They recognise that their sexual orientation is submissive. They are happy, they don’t want any other way of life. As Mistresses we are honoured that they give themselves up to us. And it’s better that they make that decision, rather than get involved, perhaps even marry a woman who can never understand their needs. Both husband and his mate would be miserable. He would never dare to tell her of his urgent needs. Even if he did, she wouldn’t understand. She would run from him, screaming that he was a freak.

Nothing is done out of force; that would be pointless. They live for the pain we inflict; the humiliation. A good Mistress helps the slave find his limits; we have found that always a slave can go much farther than he had ever though possible. And when the slave orgasms, when he is permitted, it is like nothing you will ever have ever experienced.”

“You really make them hold back their orgasms?”

“Sometimes for weeks at a time. Their ethos in life is to serve; that is their pleasure. Come here.”

Her order took Eli by surprise. He didn’t obey her immediately and she clicked her tongue and snapped her fingers.

Eli stood close to her. He inhaled her fragrance; it mingled with the scent of the roses from the warm garden. She placed her hand on his erection. Eli gasped as she squeezed his hard bulge through his jeans. This was everything he had ever dreamed of; a sexually forward woman, not afraid of taking what she wanted.

Jasmine unzipped his jeans; Eli groaned. He didn’t know where the night was going, but he was happy with the action so far. She pulled his jeans and boxers down to his knees. His erect cock slapped and bounced against his belly.

Eli didn’t know why, but it seemed appropriate for him to put his hands behind his back.

She stared at his cock, absorbing every detail. Eli was proud of his thick cock and large tight balls and he preened beneath her gaze. His erection didn’t fade. Her face was close; he could feel her breath on his cock head, cooling the pre-cum that oozed from his slit. He wished she would suck him, but knew she wouldn’t.

She took hold of his cock, sliding the foreskin back, then she peered at his erection from first one side, then the other. She flicked it, bounced it, pulled at it.

Eli’s heart was beating; pounding against his rib cage. His breathing was heavy. He had to stop himself moaning. He mustn’t come. He just mustn’t. It was suddenly important to demonstrate his self control. He tried to think of something else; anything else. But her long fingers teasing his cock was all that was on his mind.

“How many women have you had?” Jasmine asked.
Eli swallowed, afraid to speak.
“Well?” She pushed the tip of her pinkie finger into his slit.
Eli gasped. He spoke as best as he could, through clenched teeth.
“Four, maybe five.”
“Well what is it four? Five?”
“Five,” he grimaced. Still concentrating on not coming.
“How soon are you hard again after you have orgasmed?”
“I don’t know, I’m sorry.”
She jiggled his balls in the palm of her hand. She fingered his scrotum. Eli felt like a prize bull being assessed for stud.
She slid his foreskin back and forth.
“Are your veins usually so pronounced?”
“It’s because I’m close to orgasm.”
“You have not been given permission to come.”
Eli was silent. What could he say? All he knew was that this was the weirdest, most erotic experience of his life.

“Turn around. Bend over,” she ordered. Eli turned so that his arse was facing her. He bent and clasped his knees. She parted his arse cheeks with her fingers and peered in at his anus.
He could feel his little puckered hole opening and closing; pulsating.
She allowed him to stand, having finished her inspection. She turned him to face her.

“Men?” She asked.
“What!” her direct gaze was unnerving.
“How many men have you had?”
“None,” he said emphatically.
“Your anus has been used.”
“I use a butt plug on myself.”
“What size?”
“Do you use it continually.”
Eli didn’t answer. He was too embarrassed.
Jasmine punched his testicles.
“I won’t ask you again. I’ll kick it out of you.”
He was doubled over from the force of her blow. “Sometimes I wear it all day.” He managed to croak out the words.

You wear it all day at your work?

Eli was glad she couldn’t see his painful blushes. He had never felt so humiliated in his life. He wanted to weep and apologise for being unworthy. More than anything, he wanted her hand in his rectum, fisting him. Eli had read about fisting in a porn magazine. He’d seen a photograph by Robert Mapplethorpe. A man being fisted by another man. The fist was in the recipient’s rectum up to the violator’s elbow. Eli had thought it the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. The thought of Jasmine’s clenched fist inside him, nearly made him orgasm on the spot. He imagined her violating him in that dirty way; perhaps she’d be wearing a long opera glove.

“Fetch me a tape measure, pen and notepad from the drawer in the sideboard. Top left.”
Eli shuffled across the room as best he could with his jeans around his knees.
“Stand up. Face me.”
She measured his cock from root to tip. She scribbled a figure down on her note pad. The she measured his erection’s circumference, at the root and near the head. She measured his slit. She made extensive notes. Then she wrapped the tape around his cock and testicles; was she measuring him up for a cock ring?

“On your knees and masturbate,” she ordered, suddenly.

Trembling, Eli obeyed, sliding his foreskin back and pumping his cock. He prayed for release; he’d never needed to come so much in all his life.

She was still watching his every movement. He was close, very close to orgasm. His breathing rasped.

“Stop.” she snapped.

He groaned in desperation. His confusion showed in his face.

Jasmine ignored him. She sipped at her wine. Then she pulled out a laptop from beneath the chaise. She switched it on and surfed for a while. Eli stood by the chaise, his jeans and boxers around his ankles; he was still confused.

Jasmine was not confused.

“Go and look at the rest of the photographs,” she told him.

“Um, can I pull up my pants? Zip myself up?” Eli was feeling at a disadvantage.

“No, you may not,” she said, curtly.

Humiliation was a useful tool in training a slave.

Jasmine tapped away at the laptop. Did Eli have the potential to be a slave? She knew he would leave soon, he would have seen enough. She also knew that he’d be back. He would be feeling a kaleidoscope of emotions. Revulsion, despair, curiosity, fear.

He’d asked her where the slaves were kept. What happened to them after they had been purchased. How they were trained. The fact that he’d been curious enough to ask told her a lot.

She’d told him. And that alone would be enough to keep him awake at night.

But more than anything he would want to know why he’d got so turned on.


Eli was weeping as he pulled up his boxers and jeans, struggling to shove his still erect cock back inside. There wasn’t enough room to do up the zip, so he left his fly open. He exited with as much dignity as he could muster.

When he arrived back at his flat, he poured himself a drink. He needed one. Fucking bitch. What right had she got to make him feel such an idiot.

But she hadn’t done anything, had she? That thought came from the part of his brain that was still rational. She’d explained what she was, what she needed in a relationship and he’d found it quite a turn on. He’d persisted and pushed her.

Eli knocked back his whiskey and shuddered. He poured himself another, splashing the amber liquid into the glass.

He sat slumped on the floor, his back to the soft, suede sofa and started to cry.

A bus drove by his flat; light and shade flickered across the room. Then a car, its horn blaring. He could hear the shouts of drunken revellers in the street. He thought about people leading ordinary lives. How ordinary his own life had been before Jasmine’s extraordinary revelations.

Damn her, and damn him. He’d never felt so humiliated as when she wouldn’t let him orgasm. Up to then he’d been enjoying himself, masturbating for a beautiful woman. His fault again. She’d told him, more than once, how she denied her submissives’ orgasms.

She’d treated him like a potential submissive and Eli was shocked to realise he’d actually liked it. The photo’s had turned him on; he’d imagined himself in those degrading positions and he’d been aroused. He’d wanted to be the slave being sodomised by that slender woman. He’d wished that he was the guy being whipped by Jasmine.

Had a door been opened that could never be closed?

And there was another photograph that had caught his eye. A huge blow up of a naked guy in a metal cage. His strong arms straining in heavy chains. His massive erect cock, pushing through the bars. Despair in his dark eyes. The photographer had focussed on the slave’s erection. Pre-cum dripped from his slit.

God; to be so restrained. But where the hell had all this come from? Why had it turned him on so much? He felt his cock stir again at the memories. His erection, which had faded with his tears, became insistent again.

And another naked male. His arms bound in thick ropes. His erect cock and huge balls tied tightly. Jasmine, beautifully naked, apart from very high heels, leading the slave by rope knotted to his genitals. The slave’s head was hanging. He was weeping.

Eli wondered why the slave was crying. Shame? Pain? Ecstasy?

He thought about what Jasmine had told him about the old Manor house, deep in the heart of the English countryside. A place where wealthy Mistresses, like her, sent their slaves to be trained. Where many of the slaves stayed, after their training, to be used as their Mistresses required. She’d spoken of stables, where the hardier slaves were kept. How they were trained as “pony boys” , pulling a little cart, with one, or two Mistresses driving them hard.

She’d pointed out a small framed painting of the very subject. Two naked, exhausted slaves pulling a heavy pony trap. The red haired Mistress was lashing them to go faster. It was set in the chill of mid-winter; snowflakes falling. You could almost hear the slaves’ booted feet clanging on the hard ground. The slaves were well matched; their cocks identically erect.

She’d told him about parties, where the slaves had to compete, to see how many women they could service at a time. There were beatings and brandings. Even a special brand; a seal of quality that was given to slaves of exceptional ability; those slaves would be sold on to Mistresses in faraway countries. Their brand heralding them as one of the Manor’s triumphs.

Eli’s orgasm exploded. He felt dizzy with its violence. He hadn’t even touch himself. Her whispered tales had done that to him. And the pornography that he had lapped up voraciously.

His jeans and boxers were soaked, sticky with spunk. He stood and took off his jeans and underwear. He held his boxers to his nose and inhaled the scent of freshly ejaculated spunk. He licked the crotch of his jeans clean. He needed punishment for having orgasmed without a Mistress’ permission.

He would go to his Mistress’ house tomorrow and beg her to have him trained as a slave. To be her slave. To be used. He would be the best slave she’d ever had.

It was fitting.

Eli was afraid.

The story is from the billierosie collection, “Fetish Worship,” published and available at Sizzler Renaissance and at Amazon.

Artwork by FEM/dom

Friday, 18 November 2011


William Golding’s Rites of Passage makes for a strange, haunting read. A ship bound for the New World, sometime in the 19th century. Witty observations, as the narrator weaves his journal. A self conscious narrator -- he wants to impress his reader. 

But then something happens. A violation so horrible that the narrator can scarcely put it into words. Shame, is perhaps the word to sum up this crime of violating the innocent. 

It's about culpability too -- we are none of us innocent, it's a question of how guilty. 

As with William Golding’s "Lord of the Flies" the action takes place in isolation -- far away from the bigger picture of society. The ship is a microcosm, a world within a world. The narrator and his fellow travellers try to keep to the rules that they know. The sensible rules, the ages old English rules, the rules that work -- but out on the creaking ship, on the vast ocean, something primal, something feral stirs. 

Yes, it is possible to "die of shame." 

We are at the beginning of the 19th century. The Napoleonic wars are coming to an end and young Edmund has joined a heterogeneous crowd of émigrés on board an old decommissioned warship, for a long voyage to Australia where he is to become an important man in the administration.

The early narrative takes the form of a journal that Edmund Talbot keeps on the way to Australia – ostensibly to amuse and inform his godfather back in England. He fills his description of life on an old warship at the end of the Napoleonic era with witty observations on the bad manners of his fellow passengers, salacious gossip and details of his own sexual encounters. It's light, frothy and – apparently – pleasantly superficial.

“The place: on board the ship at last. The year: you know it. The date ? Surely what matters is that it is the first day of my passage to the other side of the world…”

As the narrative unfolds, Edmund’s disdain for others, throws a light on the old class prejudices that still loiter today. The ship's community indulges it's boredom and thirst for a victim, and endorsed by the captain's own prejudices, finds its soft target in a Chaplin. 

True to Edmund’s character, and the nature of his undertaking, the journal reads as if it has been written in haste. So it's no surprise to learn that Golding wrote the first draft of the book in just one month. It reflects Golding’s genius to be able to recreate such convincing early 19th-century prose so fast and with such elegance. A talent that takes on almost eerie transcendence; Golding said that he simply transcribed conversations he was hearing in his head to create the novel's fluid dialogue.

Yet this easy reading should not be mistaken for levity. Golding insisted in interviews that this book was "funny" and proved that he wasn't the "dreary old monster" he was often made out to be. But he was being disingenuous. For all of its humour, “Rites of Passage” turns into a most disturbing book.

It would be easy to mistake the first 50 or so pages of Rites of Passage for a straightforward social comedy.

The comedy relates to one Reverend Colley, who gradually begins to dominate Edmund’s narrative. Initially, Edmund invites his reader to laugh at Colley – and it's hard not to. He is – as Edmund paints him – an absurd, obsequious man, ridiculous in his parson's clothing, his hacked-about haircut, his daft wig and his fawning over "gentlemen".

Edmund describes the parson;

“turning to ascend the ladder to the afterdeck, but seeing me between my young friends, and perceiving me to be of some consequence I suppose, he paused and favoured me with a reverence. Observe I do not call it a bow or greeting. It was a sinuous deflection of the whole body, topped by a smile which was tempered by pallor and servility as his reverence was tempered by an uncertainty as to the movements of our vessel.”

Edmund’s comedic description of the parson discomforts us with Edmund’s only too very English snobbery. It is tinted with a sneer. And much as we join in the laughter at the ridiculous Colley, we view Edmund with suspicion. We “know” his sort; Edmund is very much like ourselves.

For Edmund, everything is an inconvenience; everything that is, which disturbs his comfort. For the Reverend Colley, everything is a wonder. The mighty ship, the sudden clemency of the weather -- he sees the beauty of creation. We learn this, when Edmund reads Reverend Colley’s own journal. How two men, can view the same vista so differently.

The sailors and émigrés get Colley horribly drunk -- it is unlikely that he has ever been drunk before, and Edmund’s description of him, attempting to bless the passengers, while singing “joy, joy, joy” is very funny. It is the last time in the book, that Golding permits us to smile.

Colley dies of shame – starving himself after he remembers another, as yet mysterious, act he performed in his cups. The horrible feeling arises that we as readers have been complicit in his bullying and degradation.

Golding turns the screw tighter, when he introduces Colley's letter to his sister, which is, in a way, Colley’s own journal. Edmund’s coxcomb gone wrong, is transformed into a sympathetic, sweet-natured man who is terrified at smearing the dignity of his office by wearing the wrong outfit and whose wild haircut is explained by the fact that his sister tried to cut it one last time before he boarded ship and they parted, but was crying so much that she could hardly see what she was doing.

Every laugh we've had at Colley's expense turns to ashes in our mouths, every indignity he suffered seems barbarous.

The narrative turnaround is a wonderful display of writing skill, as Golding shows that Colley suffered many other cruelties that Edmund failed to observe – or ignored. The revelation of the details of the mysterious act that so mortified Colley are vague to the reader – but by this late stage Golding has done enough to overwhelm us completely.

The reader recalls Edmund’s observations of Captain Anderson. The Captain has a pathological hatred of the clergy believing himself to have been robbed out of his inheritance by one. 

Because he enrages the Captain, who likes passengers never to come near him, the naval warrior decides to exert his power over the crew by picking on the parson.

With the Captain’s blessing, the parson becomes an open target for abuse, and things come to a head when he appears ramshackled and drunk on the deck and is led away to his cabin in disgrace, after urinating in front of the shocked ladies. No one can tempt him out to talk. Slowly he withers away refusing food and drink and dies on an evening when the captain has ironically invited some guests, including Edmund into his cabin for dinner.

The Captain is forced to thaw because of the announcement by Edmund of his journal, which will be sent to his godfather, with the implied threat that the bullying will be revealed to a wider audience. The Captain calls for agreement that Colley died from a low fever and Edmund is forced to go along with that conclusion.

The only one who could have saved the parson is Captain Anderson. But his hatred of the robe in general and Colley in particular, sets an example to officers and crew alike and the reverend becomes a target for abuse. The Captain has the social status to reverse the flow of things but does not assume the responsibility which goes with it.

The letter/journal is replicated by Edmund in his journal; it is offered by way of an explanation. It is also offered as an act of contrition.

“And I? I might have saved him had I thought less of my own consequence and less of the danger of being bored!”

The reader quickly understands the reason that Colley’s fellow passengers keep a distance from him. His profession as a clergyman marks him out as different; so does his sensitivity. Colley writes about the sailors manning the mighty ship. He writes in beautiful, homoerotic language. He sees the sailors as beautiful.

“They go about their tasks, their bronzed and manly forms unclothed to the waist, their abundant locks gathered in a queue, their nether garments closely fitted but flared about the ankles like the nostrils of a stallion. They disport themselves casually a hundred feet up in the air…”

Colley is a voyeur. He takes pleasure in gazing at the male form.

In a later passage in the journal, Colley tells the reader of how he entered Edmund’s room, while Edmund is ill and sleeping. He sees Edmund as a Christ like image.

“The young man lay asleep, a week’s beard on his lips and chin and cheeks - I scarce put down here the impression his slumbering countenance made on me - it was as the face of the ONE who suffered for us all - and as I bent over him in some irresistible compulsion I do not deceive myself but there was the sweet aroma of holiness itself on his breath! I did not think myself worthy of his lips but pressed my own reverently on the one hand that lay outside the coverlet. Such is the power of goodness that I withdrew as from an alter!”

The letter which ends at the Parson’s death is followed by an interrogation, a cursory inquest, with which the reader tries, unsuccessfully, to fill in the blanks in the understanding of what has happened. They prevaricate when questioning Billy Rogers, one of the suspected perpetrators. They use innuendo.

“Come Rogers. You were the one man we saw with him. In default of any other evidence your name must head the list of suspects. What did you sailors do?”

Rogers response is: “What did WE do, my lord?”

Finally Captain Anderson says it like it is.

“Buggery, Rogers, that’s what he means. Buggery.”

At last, now we know. But is this enough for a man to will himself to die?

The interrogation is promptly closed, when the enquiry unexpectedly risks implicating some officers.

So now we know the whole story?

Not quite. Mr Prettiman relates a conversation that he had with Billy Rogers.
“…he’d knowed most things in his time but he had never thought to get a chew off a parson!”

So that’s why Reverend Colley “died of shame,” for an act of fellatio. Not for something that was done to him, but for what he did.

“…Colley committed the fellatio that the poor fool was to die of when he remembered it.
Poor, poor Colley! Forced back towards his own kind, made an equatorial fool of -deserted, abandoned by me who could have saved him-overcome by kindness and a gill or two of the intoxicant-
I cannot even feel a pharisaic complacency in being the only gentleman not to witness his ducking. Far better I had seen it so as to protest at that childish savagery! Then my offer of friendship might have been sincere rather than--”

“Rites of Passage” was first published in 1980. It is a moral parable, and is the first of a trilogy. It’s about atonement and sins that can never be forgiven; only lived with.
William Golding won the Booker prize in 1980. In 1983 he was awarded the Nobel prize for Literature.

Friday, 11 November 2011


THE LADY OF SHALOTT 1888 Sir James William Waterhouse: You can see it in The Tate Gallery London.

She sits alone and lonely, viewing the beautiful city of Camelot through a mirror. She weaves a tapestry, copying the images from the mirror into the picture that she sews. She doesn’t know why she sits like this, never to view the real world. She only knows that to look, is forbidden. The reader of Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s poem knows that “The Lady of Shalott” is cursed, if she looks, she will die.

“Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.”

"The Lady of Shalott" tells the story of a beautiful woman who lives in a tower in Shalott, which is an island on a river that runs, along with the road beside it, to Camelot; the setting of the legends about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Every day, the woman weaves a tapestry picture of the landscape that is visible from her window, including Camelot. There is, however, a curse on her; the woman does not know the cause of the curse, but she knows that she cannot look directly out of the window, so she views the subjects of her artwork through a mirror that is beside her. The woman is happy to weave, but is tired of looking at life only as a reflection. One day, Sir Lancelot rides by, looking bold and handsome in his shining armour, and singing. The woman cannot resist going to the window and seeing the beautiful Lancelot for herself.

“I am half sick of shadows,” JW Waterhouse, can be seen at the Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto, Canada.

“There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.”

“The Lady sees the exterior world, not through a window that opens onto real space and nature, but only as the shadow of that reality reflected in the magic mirror. The curse does not allow her to appear at the casement where the exterior and interior worlds can meet and merge; she is totally cut off. The emphasis upon love and confinement of the woman becomes intensified in the fictional Lady of Shalott, a subject that allowed the artist's imagination more freedom of interpretation.”
From “The Embowered Woman:” Elisabeth Nelson

Waterhouse continually frames her in poses in which her alluring beauty can be displayed.

“Paintings representing the Lady in her boat were as popular as interior scenes. The Lady setting out for Camelot, alive in her boat, allowed an artist like Waterhouse to portray the pathos of the "cursed" Lady, who follows her heart knowing she is going to die doing so. Mario Praz has perceived throughout the literature of Romanticism "the inseparability of pleasure and pain and, on the practical side, a search for themes of tormented, contaminated beauty" (The Romantic Agony, 1970). Tennyson and Waterhouse, poet and painter, seemed to have agreed with Edgar Allan Poe, who explained in "The Poetic Principle" that a "certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected with all the higher manifestations of true Beauty." Exterior scenes provided the artist a different subject, mood, and set of circumstances with which to work.”
Again from “The Embowered Woman:” Elisabeth Nelson -- you can read her complete essay here

“And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls.
And there the surly village-churls
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.”

The lady weaves her tapestry in a richly appointed, artificial bower, cut off from the world. Restraint is a word that seems to sum up the Victorian’s attitude to sex.

The Lady of Shalott is as restrained as any slave in a 21st century BDSM fantasy.

“The Lady of Shalott sees Lancelot”; JW Waterhouse, 1894: Leeds, art gallery, UK .

The lady doesn’t speak, she scarcely moves. Waterhouse here, presents her in chains; she may as well be wearing a chastity belt. Her look is lascivious; predatory. Her mouth shows the beginnings of a snarl, as she growls out her urge to copulate. She has seen her mate and even death will not stop her.

“His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror…”

Perhaps in works of art and literature like “The Lady of Shalott” and contemporary Erotica we have a meeting of minds. Readers of Erotica and Pornography are certainly turned on, and carefully tuned in to the Victorian notions of sexual restraint. The clothes restricting womens’ ability to breathe, let alone run. The concept of the woman just being there, until she is needed; until the male requires sexual release. The woman is displayed for the viewer in an erotic reverie; she is waiting, wet, wilting with desire for her mate. But this is not just a male fantasy; women fantasise about these things as much as men. Those tight, tight corsets forcing the breasts upwards and outwards. Velvet and lace stretching over smooth, silky, creamy flesh. It is an urgent notion of beauty that women and men both cherish. We allow the fantasy to tease out the moment when we copulate; a restorative, groan as that first thrust of penetration finally, finally occurs.

“She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror cracked from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.”

The Lady sees the beautiful Lancelot in her mirror. She will risk the curse to see him in the flesh. Sexual release will mean real death, even more than “la petite mort” -- she doesn’t care. Tennyson’s carefully crafted words bring the Lady’s passion from simmering, to boiling point. She is frantic with desire…

Lancelot, these days, wears leather. He’s a biker, I think. The engine throbbing into his crotch reminding him that he is all male. He has been too long away from his lady, the engine growls his frustration.

And the scenario has endless possibilities -- so let’s play a little. Have some fun. The role play can be as serious as you want to make it; or as joyous, but BDSM fulfils a huge need for many people out there.

It doesn’t have to be a submissive female, waiting for the attention of a Dominant male. It can be reversed; a Dominant woman and a submissive male.

He waits hopelessly for his Lady’s attention. All he needs is a gentle brush of her hand; a look would suffice. She will forbid him sexual release and he will comply; how can he not? Like the Lady of Shalott, he waits. He would wait for an eternity for her. His hard, muscular chest is bare, his tight, frayed jeans cover a throbbing erection. His Lady likes it that beneath the worn denim his cock pulses. His orgasm is forbidden, until his Lady permits…

…maybe it’s two women engaged in the Dominant/submissive scenario -- she is tied at her wrists and ankles -- spread wide and open on the four poster bed. She waits for the ecstasy of her Mistress’ lips caressing her soft inner thigh; her small, pointed tongue thrusting, dancing into her wet, willing labia. She will touch her clitoris with the tip of her tongue…

…or two men; his Master keeps him locked in the cage that is his home. There is limitless intelligence in his dark eyes, yet he paces the floor like the animal he has become. He remembers the night that his Master claimed him. His Master had laughed at him as he tried to deny the attraction; His Master knew that the slave was already half in love. The slave is trying so hard to be patient, but his strong fingers grip the bars and he growls his frustration. Seeing him like this, it is hard to believe that he is passive; living only for the moment that his lover’s cock will open him…

And it doesn’t even need to be about sex. Fulani suggests, if it’s done right, this kind of relationship can have an almost spiritual quality; an exquisite sharing of trust that many people find is as important as sex.

“Actually by no means all bdsm play involves sex (i.e. penetrative sex) at the same time as the bdsm - it depends on the people, their relationship, the nature of the fantasy etc. Obviously if the sub has a forced sex fantasy the two will be closely linked, but other possibilities exist - e.g. sex as the conclusion of play, or the wind-down after play, or something that happens on another occasion, or even in some relationships it's purely play and no sex in the usual sense of the word. That of course doesn't mean it's not sexual - just that the play itself satisfies sexual desires. Which is, I guess, the definition of fetishism.”


It’s a game, it’s a wonderful fantasy. It is played out in our Erotic night and daydreams. Some of us never move beyond the dreaming stage; but we have all inherited a gift from the Victorians in the tales that they tell, and through those tales, we have our own Erotica.

Thanks to Jan Vander Laenen for correcting my appalling French -- Jan knows what I mean! And thanks to Fulani for his incisive comments, and for allowing me to quote him.

Here is Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s complete poem. “The Lady of Shalott.”

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley, 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls.
And there the surly village-churls
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazoned baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often through the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror cracked from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seër in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance—
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right—
The leaves upon her falling light—
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turned to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in His mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

Friday, 4 November 2011


I think a lot about our erotic fantasies, those wonderful tales that we tell ourselves in the night. We cast ourselves as the hero, or heroine as we delve into our deepest, darkest desires. Yearnings that teeter on the edge of the profane, the taboo. I talk to friends about their fantasies; sometimes, I put their fantasies into my stories.

A few weeks ago I put a piece together on rape; how some of us fantasise about being raped. Not just about relinquishing control, about being forced. I was talking primarily, from a feminine perspective; some women have rape fantasies, but I’d never considered that men might have rape fantasies too. And I don’t mean a male being controlled and forced to serve, and service a beautiful woman, or women; there’s plenty of those stories on the web. I’m talking about a man fantasising about being raped by a man; being forced, being violated.

I hadn’t thought about that, until I had a conversation over a bottle of wine, with Justin.
I’ve known Justin for years, I was often a guest at his home, when he was married; like so many of us, he’s now divorced. I was friends with his wife, and with his two great kids. Justin drifted a bit after the divorce, he’s a freelance photographer, so he can find work wherever he goes. He’s unusual, rather than good looking, sort of Scandinavian, with silky, straight pale blond hair and stunning eyes. Watchful eyes, dark grey and heavily lidded. When he’s old, with his angular bone structure, he’ll look like an eagle.

Justin and I always end up talking about sex. We’ve never had sex, not with each other, but he knows about my stories and I’m aware of the private portfolio of his work. He told me about a book he’s putting together for a guy he knows who is a Dominant. Justin has photographed the Dom’s favourite slave girl, in every intimacy imaginable. The book will be exclusive. It will be a piece of pornography that collectors will kill for. Probably only a dozen or so copies will be made.

We were silent for a while. I poured more wine, then Justin told me about his own fantasy. Justin fantasises about being raped. Raped by a man. Violated.

I wasn’t shocked; there’s not a lot that shocks me these days.

There’s not a great deal on the web, but I found this.
“I know this is screwed up and unbelievable but I have no sexual attraction to men at all, only women, but for some reason, every time I get really horny, I have fantasies about someone bigger then me dragging me in an ally, pulling down my pants and raping me, especially when I stop masturbating all together, I have wet dreams about it.

It's taking over my life, I want to be raped; nobody knows this because I'm afraid someone might stage a rape and that's not what I want, I want it to hurt, be real and walk away…”
Cory James.

Male rape is acknowledged in the Greek myths.

Ganymede, the youngest son of Tros, the King of Troy, excelled in physical beauty. He was looking after the flocks of sheep, when Zeus, having fallen in love with him, swooped down in the form of an eagle, seized him and took him to Mount Olympus.

“When the gods in classical mythology fall homoerotically in love, they never do so with other gods or with adult human males; rather they always do so with a mortal youth. They enter into liaisons in which they, like Zeus, act the part of the erastes to an adolescent who, like Ganymede, serves as the eromenos. The sexual acts imagined to be performed by the divine-human lovers, though not described in detail, can be assumed to conform, just as the structure of the relationship does, to the cultural ideal of pederastic unions.”
From glbtq

“In Greek mythology, the rape of women, as explained by the rape of Europa, and male rape, found in the myth of Laius and Chrysippus, are mentioned. Different values are ascribed to the two actions. The rape of Europa by Zeus is represented as an abduction followed by consensual lovemaking, similar perhaps to the rape of Ganymede by Zeus, and went unpunished.

The rape of Chrysippus by Laius, however, is represented in darker terms, and was known in antiquity as "the crime of Laius", a term which came to be applied to all male rape. It was seen as an example of hubris -- pride and arrogance, and its punishment was so severe that it destroyed not only Laius himself, but also his son, Oedipus.” WIKI

“Laius, the king of Thebes, is thought to have been the first mortal to bring the practice of the love of youths to the Greeks. What we know for sure is that while he was still too young to rule, his cousins, Amphion and Zethus, grabbed the reins of power. With the help of loyal subjects Laius fled Thebes to save his life, and sought refuge in Pisa, a neighbouring kingdom. There King Pelops welcomed him warmly in his castle. When Laius reached manhood, Pelops entrusted his son, Chrysippus, ‘Golden Horse,' to him so that he would teach the boy the charioteer's art. The king loved Chrysippus best of all his sons, and wanted him well trained in the arts of war. Laius did as he was asked, but fell hopelessly in love with the beautiful youth. During the Nemean games, in which the pair competed in the chariot races, Laius kidnapped the boy. By then Amphion and Zethus had met with misfortune, so he was able to take him back to Thebes where he kept Chrysippus, by force, as his lover. It was not as if he did not know what he was doing. "I have understanding," Laius said in his defence, "but nature forces me."
From Gay-Art-History.

The 1972 film “Deliverance, directed by John Boorman, from James Dickey’s novel of the same name, features a male rape.

Four Atlanta businessmen, Lewis, Ed, Bobby and Drew, decide to canoe down the Cahulawassee Riverin the remote Georgia wilderness, expecting to have fun and see the glory of nature before the river valley is flooded by the construction of a dam. Lewis, an experienced outdoorsman, is the leader. Ed is also a veteran of several trips but lacks Lewis' machismo. Bobby and Drew are novices.
Pulling ashore to get their bearings, Bobby and Ed encounter a pair of unkempt hillbillies emerging from the woods, one toothless and carrying a shotgun. After some tense conversation in which the hillbillies appear to be goading the others, Ed speculates that the two locals have a moonshine still hidden in the woods and Bobby amicably offers to buy some. The hillbillies are silent; menacing. They force Bobby, at gunpoint, to strip naked. Bobby is then chased, humiliated, ordered to "squeal like a pig;" then he is violently sodomized. Ed is unable to help because he has been tied to a tree and is held by the toothless hillbilly.

In James Dicky’s novel, the narrator is Ed. Bobby has been ordered to strip off his trousers and pants and lay across a fallen log.
“The white bearded man was also suddenly naked up to the waist. There was no need to justify or rationalize anything: they were going to do what they wanted to do. I struggled for life in the air, and Bobby’s body was still and pink in an obscene posture that no one could help. The tall man restored the gun to Bobby’s head, and the other one knelt behind him.
A scream hit me, and I would have thought it was mine except for the lack of breath. It was a sound of power and outrage, and was followed by one of simple wordless pain. Again it came out of him, higher and more carrying…The white haired man worked steadily on Bobby, every now and then getting a better grip on the ground with his knees. At last he raised his face as though to howl with all his strength into the leaves and the sky and quivered silently while the man with the gun looked on with an odd mixture of approval and sympathy. The whorl-faced man drew back, drew out… Bobby let go of the log and fell to his side, both arms over his face.”

The terrible images stay with you, long after you’ve stopped watching the film, finished reading the book. The violation is graphic, in both Boorman’s film and Dicky’s prose.
And just when you think it can’t get any worse, you realise that the rape precipitates real tragedy. There is more to come, they just don’t know it yet.

I have put this piece together, because the concept of violation, of being forced, disturbs me. It really does disturb me. And writing about it, is the only way that I can deal with it.

But from my friend Justin’s point of view, and Cory James, a real rape is not just something to be desired, something to fantasise about, it has an urgency, it is a real need.