Erik Ash

Month: November, 2012

The Femme I.

The Femme

I.

            On the day of my birth, I was pockmarked by the beast and shunned by a dusty pack of preachers. Silence became my world and bigoted fondling my pleasure. My hands grew greasy with sick labor. My eyes grew stretched with reddening nights.

            I fled from my ancestral home, sprinting across the starving grass. I lapped up the colors and noises of the modern world, and was savagely beaten. Bloody and exposed, I cast myself into the baroque womb of the marble church.

Enveloped in a lovely incense,
   he sang the holy hymns with tender love.
His sweeping robes
   softly brushed my fluttering soul.
From his mouth came not the booming voice of God,
   but the all-loving song of the martyr.

I snatched his soft smile in my eye
   and pursued love in the only way the gods allow.

 

Mists

Mists

A cold mist has descended,
   twixt the stockings and the leg,
in a rusted city of restless sleep
   as the flora grows grey and the fauna brown.

A quiet rumble has tumbled
   into the streets.
In rainbow puddles it dwells,
   ominously hinting at a final dream.

In the evergreens weeps
   the charred-up beasts
whom no machinery can quell,
   in the dimming of hell.

The Priest: I.

The Priest

I.

            I was truly becoming a holy man when It came.  I had read the blessed book of our ancient dialects.  I had been bathed in the odor of an angelic choir.  I had nuzzled every night with the fleece a loving flock.

            Then It arrived with Its wicked smile and tender eyes.  It had hair that swirled out of smoky taverns and the kind of spirit that quivers and terrifies.  Was this the creature I had been warned about?

            The Fiend!  It stirred me with Its creamy sweets and wrinkled red meats.  I cowered under my desk as bloody flags of war were raised in the rectory.  At night, the juices of Our Savior would drip from my lips and pool in a sad puddle upon my chair. 

It was the hero of sorrowful laments.
It was the succulent fruit of sin,
the ripe gem of every nasty innocence.
Like a magnificent work of art,
I could not resist its aura.
It was then I became ensnared.

I prayed for hours in our ancient tongue.
I wailed for forgiveness from the Holy Mother.
I confessed to myself with horror in my heart
and laid my fate at Hell’s door.

Tree on Fire

Tree on Fire

The tree squeals
   in the agony
   of its own hatred.

An orange ghost leaps
   in a fit of joy
   as it makes love
   to the pulpy flesh.

The yellow fog
   of a sick smock
   gushes into the air
   and blows on.

And blows on…

The Maestro’s Symphony

The Maestro’s Symphony

            Claire stood in apt attention as Ludwig Rossetti walked into his parlor.  She watched his serious blue eyes as he examined her; inspecting her outfit, ensuring that it met his specifications.  “I’d like a drink,” he said slowly.  Her lacy little dress rustled as she rushed to the bar.  “The usual…” she hesitated for a moment, considering whether she interpreted the directions correctly.

            How wonderful it is to be a maid to the magnificent Maestro Rossetti!, she thought as she served him his jalapeño martini with a bow.  She heard his compositions weeks, sometimes months, before anyone else.  She beheld the engineering marvels of his instruments, listening to the new arcane forms of music he was concocting.  She was able to attend all of the great operas in Vienna, dressed in the most lavish gowns.  There were, of course, other, less ladylike perks.  The Mad Maestro, as he was called, was a man with less savory obsessions than music; and it just so happened that Claire was a woman who was all too eager to satisfy his urges.

            The Mad Maestro.  He was called that because his music was new, wild, and above all gorgeous.  He constructed new instruments using arcane engineering, most famously a steam organ which could sing sweetly one moment, and then scream ferociously the next.  And so it was with the Maestro, beneath his tender affection was a ferocity begging to be released.

            The Maestro was slowly sipping at his drink, “put your hands on the table and bend over.”  She did as she was told.  The electricity of being in this submissive position was buzzing about her.  Anything could happen.

            He positioned himself behind her and slowly lifted the hem of her lacy dress over her buttocks.  He ran his hands across the contours of her silken black panties, massaging the globes of her buttocks.  Claire felt herself becoming more and more wet.  Her undergarments would soon become sodden with desire if this treatment continued much longer. 

            He smacked her upon the ass, once on each cheek.  A slight sting prickled upon her bottom, despite the buffer of her panties.  He began to smack her in a rhythmic patter, stopping occasionally to massage her increasingly sore behind.  The room was silent except for the melody of Claire’s whimpering and the beat of the Maestro’s spanking.

            The Maestro smiled and pulled her panties down to her thighs.  Her red bottom seemed to gleam in the air as he worked the flesh with his delicate hands.  He gave her aching ass a tender kiss on the cheek.

            “P-please,” Claire whispered.  Her loins were aching.  She longed for him to be inside her; to make her come.  But she would get no such relief.  Instead, he resumed his spanking, now reveling in the sharp smack of his slaps against her rippling red ass.  His organ remained safely ensconced within the tight fabric of his pants. 

            “Do not move,” the Maestro said firmly.  The cool air tingled upon her red bottom.  Inside, Claire was burning with a myriad of emotions.  As she stood bent over a table, with her abused buttocks exposed to the world, she felt both joy and humiliation.  She wasn’t bound, she didn’t need to stay bent over.  Claire was no helpless maid from a wretched background.  She had studied her art for years, becoming a master at tending glamorous estates.  Her family had been tending to the nobility of Austria since the beginning of time.  She was a housekeeper with pedigree; she didn’t need to stay with this lecherous man.  She could go to any of the great households of Europe, and get paid more to boot.  She stayed because she wanted this.  She wanted to be spanked.

           The Maestro returned holding a small, flared device.  “This,” he said, thrusting the device in front of her face, “is my new invention.  It uses your body’s arcane energy to vibrate at just the right speed.”  She marveled at his ability to understand the arcane.  It is a skill possessed by so few.

            He turned on the vibrator and slowly ran it down her back.  It was soft as skin, but cold.  Her body gave an involuntary shudder as it reached her tailbone.  He pressed it upon her clit and teased her lips.  The vibration forced moans of pleasure out of her.  She wanted it inside her, to finish the job.  As though he had sensed the inevitable, the Maestro removed his toy from her lips.  He spat upon it and rubbed it with lubricant.  He spread the cheeks of her ass and placed it inside her bottom. 

            “Now,” he said, trying to remain dignified, though he was clearly hot and bothered, “you may return to you cleaning.”  He sat upon an armchair and began to thumb through the latest issue of Arcane Musik

            Arcane Musik, how absurd.  The Maestro is one of only a few dozen people in the whole world who can perform arcane music.  It’s a pompous magazine for a pompous ass, Claire thought, but the Maestro isn’t an ass.  She watched as his slim hands gracefully turned a page, he’s lovely.

            Claire began to dust the room.  With each step she felt the vibrator inside her, sending shocks of pleasure though her flesh.  It was like the Maestro himself was inside her.  It was humiliating being forced to work with this thing in such an unnatural burrow, but she was not bound; she could remove it at any time.  But she wanted it.  The shame of it stirred her.

            The Maestro had now given up all pretense of reading his magazine.  He was now focused on watching Claire’s obvious discomfort as she attempted to clean, his excitement swelling by the moment.  She moaned a little as she squatted to dust the legs of a coffee table.  “Stop,” he said, “bend over the table.”

            He once again lifted her skirt up, exposing her buttocks.  He resumed kneading her flesh.  The vibration in her ass intensified the effect.  He removed the device and applied a mixture of spit and lubricant.  He rubbed it upon the vibrator and massaged it into her asshole, gently tickling with his fingers.  He placed the device on her asshole, teasing her before plunging it into her repeatedly.  The force of the penetration combined with the vibrations to create a powerful sensation, before he finally left it firmly in her bum. 

            He conjured up a black lacquered paddle.  A deep red heart symbol was inlaid on the tip.  He rubbed it on her bottom and lightly tapped her buttocks, watching the flesh jiggle.  Claire was squirming with anticipation.  He smacked the paddle upon her ass, sending a shot of pain through her with a force unlike anything a hand could produce. 

            “P-please,” Claire whispered once again.  This time the Maestro could not contain himself.  He unfastened his pants and pulled out a swollen, slender, organ which he plunged into her netherlips, making her cry out with coital bliss.

            A curious music filled the air:  the melody of Claire’s voice, the drone of the vibrator, the beat of skin slapping skin.  It was the most beautiful symphony the Mad Maestro ever composed.

Flesh Red

I am bursting with blood,
sickening but joyful.
Bursting with blood
in a city of meat
and plastics.
Crying,
the taste of parched lips
with the pangs of muscles.

Red eyes
in a red land.
I am cloaked and longing
amongst the plaster.
I wish I could see something,
but all is the fleshy crimson.
Es rojo. Es roja.

I have cried out to the gods
and they showered me with molten glass.
I am frozen and burning.
Frozen and burning,
in bitter glass.

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