Friday, November 22, 2013

Idle Hands In The Devil's Workshop

An ember can ignite a fire with thousands crackling whispers, an inferno with nothing less than a million roaring thoughts, each swirling flame like a soldier in a war that swallows everything you've even known.

All it takes is a spark, and a willing Conspirator.

Monday, September 23, 2013

Conspirator Spotlight: Lie To Me, by Malediction

When I opened up Earthbound Eroticism to conspirators, I didn't know what kind of submissions I would get.  There have been some amazing pieces that have come across my desk, and this piece, by Malediction, stunned me.   

Sometimes pain is more than skin deep...

Lie to Me.
By Malediction.

The rain pelted hard on my bare skin; it felt unusually warm, and inviting.  I slicked my hair away from my face and angled my head into the downpour. The water flowed across the plane of my back and followed the curves of body around my legs to brush over my clit.  I sighed – not really a sensual pleasure, but relaxed.   It felt good to be in the rain, good to feel a simple joy at the strange warmth on my skin.  It was so peaceful, and inviting --  except for the sound of it.  It was loud against the tiles, too harsh for such a peaceful place.  Yeah, it was too damn loud.

Reality hit me like a freight train, and I blinked, trying to reorient myself through the blur in my head.  My eyes focused slowly, and then I saw him standing right in front of me.  He smiled, and then I remembered.  I remembered why I went into the rain that wasn’t really there.

“Come shower with me,” he said, holding out his hand.   I followed him.  I didn’t protest, because I knew how much the simple act would please him.  It reassured him of my love.  Yes, I went, and now, we were naked, standing in the warm flow of water that sprayed from the showerhead, not the sky.

I managed to escape again, even while I stood there with him.  I escaped to the place where I wasn’t a disappointment, where I wasn’t a liar -- to a place where I could be everything his eyes said I was.   Yes, he looked at me like I were a goddess, bright eyes shining with over thirty years of timeless love. I gave him a small smile, and he pulled me to him like a toddler’s favorite toy returned after washing.  Locked in his arms, I swayed as he rocked us from side to side.  It was his own private happy-dance, a show of pure, absolute joy at being with me.   I hugged him back to keep him from seeing my stricken face, from seeing my Hell.

He thought my hug was encouragement -- his lips and teeth nipped my shoulder and neck.  I did the same, using my teeth to graze over the water droplets on his shoulder.  I grimaced at the black ink of his new tattoo.  The shape was foreign and angry, angular and sharp against his pale skin. The artist was a true craftsman, but it felt like a scarlet letter. I alone knew why he emblazoned it on his body, and it wasn’t for his satisfaction, but for mine.  He did it, because he thought I wanted him to.

He always did things for me.  Hell, his whole life coalesced around being my perfect mate.  He hung his own self-worth on my happiness.   For him, it was so simple, so comfortable -- at least, until he discovered that I was something more, or perhaps less, than what he thought.  His wife wanted things, liked things, things that “normal” people didn’t.  The revelation threatened our existence -- his existence as the center of my world.  And now, he scrambled to be the man he thought I wanted.

His hands pushed me away, gently, so he could look in my face.  I knew what was coming and looked down.  I could feel guilt written in Sharpie across my forehead -- fuck, written all over my damned body...  He gripped the sides of my face and turned my lips up to his, then kissed me passionately.  I tried so hard to remember when that sent heat pin-balling through me.  I tried to conjure up something -- anything -- and failed.   I pulled away and hugged him to me again. He sighed softly in our embrace as he squeezed me back and whispered in my ear, “I love you so much.  You’re my whole life.”

Pain. It washed over me as steadily as the water flowing over my body. I welcomed it, but it didn’t cleanse me like I thought it would; instead, it made me feel dirty.  I didn’t want to be your whole life – I just want wanted to be your wife.

Your relentless need crushes the life out of me.  I want you to live for something more than me, because I need something more than you can give.  I need it -- can you understand that?  Will you let me take it?  Please.  Let me take it.  I promise I will come back.  Please...

The words were there in my head, but I didn’t say them.  I couldn’t.   It would be the tipping point, the beginning of the end of his world, and then mine.  I raked my fingers through his hair instead.  It used to be brown, and then it turned to red, and now black.  He did it because he thought it would please me.  He thought that if he looked more like the people I photographed that I would love again, that I wouldn’t want to see other people if he looked like that.  I can’t love him again, because I never stopped loving him in the first place.  Fuck, he still wants me to see him as the nexus of my world, too… but I just can’t.

I stepped out of his embrace and moved to rinse my hair.  He eased past me and let himself out of the shower.  I saw him through the veil of drops gathered on the plastic curtain, and I’m struck at how much they looked like the tears I couldn’t cry.  Maybe it was those unshed tears that hung between us, like the curtain did. We can see each other, even touch each other, but the barrier remained and kept us from connecting.

I felt a rush of anger and slashed my hand over the shower curtain.  I slammed off the water, and the rain died.  I braced myself for his adoration as I reached for a towel, but he’d already slipped into the bedroom.  I felt a stay of execution, but it dissolved when I considered what waited for me.

I dried off before I stepped into our room.  We shared it for 25 years, but he wasn’t on our bed.  He was standing off to the side, waiting for me.  With one quick motion, he stripped my towel away and pushed me over the bed.  He landed a resounding slap on my ass.  The pain spoke to me, but not in arousal – more in relief.  This was what I deserved, this and so much more.  He started talking to me -- talking dirty, I think --, but I couldn’t hear it.  I was already drifting.  It was so easy to remember the night we nearly ended it all.

He was whipping my ass, trying to prove he could dominate me like I wanted him to.  It was so close to the night he nearly killed me.  He was so angry, so fucking pissed that I lied to him about my ‘unusual’ desires.  His fingers wrapped around my neck, and through clenched teeth, he told me he was going to give me all the kink I wanted.  He said I was going to orgasm while he held my life in his hands.  See?  Right from the start he didn’t understand.  He didn’t get that it wasn’t about him -- it was about me.  His hand prevented any explanation.  He gripped me tighter, and then tighter,  as he thrust into me.  I felt everything clench until I saw stars, beautiful stars.  

My hands were free, but I didn’t move. I didn’t even try.  This was the moment all the lying, all the secrets, all the conspiracies were done.  I wanted those beautiful stars more than life itself, and they were just within my reach.  I relaxed, I said goodbye to my kids, the whole fucking world!  My body sighed in relief.  It was all going to be over…  But Death only teased me.  His hand released my throat, and as blood flooded back into my lungs, my chest heaving, betraying me with gasps, our eyes locked.  I saw fear, plenty of it for the both of us.   We realized how close we had come...

“Where is your riding crop?”  His voice broke the spell.  I shivered and then stood.  The drawer was my tomb of magic tricks, and I unearthed the one stick I knew he couldn’t hurt me with.  I handed it to him and bent back over the bed again -- waiting.   The crop stung my skin, but I barely flinched.  I resisted every sign that he hurt me.  Ever since that night, he was more careful -- but only because his anger was more contained. He thought he knew everything about what I wanted, but nothing about what I needed.  He thought he knew the truth.

The sting bloomed, and I asked him to hit me harder, just to see if the heart shape on the crop would bruise me.  I told him I wanted it to leave a mark of amore on to my upturned ass, but it was just another lie.  I’ve hit myself enough times with it to know the heart won’t mark me.  I just wanted the pain.  He did hit me harder, and the sting was delicious, but just as I started to savor it, he rubbed it away.  I sighed softly into the mattress.  I hid the real pain that tore through me.  The pain that had nothing to do with whips or bruises on my skin.

He thought he broke me and set the crop aside.  He rolled me over and caressed me.  He tried to bring me the arousal that I refused to fake for him.  I gave him a small smile of encouragement, and his face blazed brilliantly with hope.  “I love you so much,” he said.  

“I love you, too.” I knew my words weren’t empty.  I did love him.  He was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with but… 

Always the but…

His fingers fumbled around my clit, but there wasn’t any hope.  My aching body didn’t respond to gentleness anymore. I motioned to the toy drawer, and he brought out a collection of power tools that could leave a real woman screaming in orgasmic joy.  But…I knew that I wouldn’t cum for him.  I walled that part of me off with steel bricks of resentment.  I resented his limitations, on his unwillingness to hear the truth. I resented that he left me with no options but to lie.

I let him play for a while, tried to direct, tried to build a fantasy world where I could respond the way he so desperately wanted me to, but I just had nothing left.  I reached for him instead and put the toy against his cock.  He moaned as I stroked him.  I could feel the vibrations in my fingertips, and they sang through our skin together.  I bared my teeth in a genuine smile.   It wasn’t long until my fingers were warm with his pleasure, and I marveled at how happy I felt.  Finally there was something I could do for him without feeling the agony of my betrayals in every touch and kiss.  My God, it was too good to be true.   Then he leaned in and kissed me before hurrying off to the bathroom to fetch me a wet rag.  The bridge to happiness collapsed under the weight of my false hope.  He went right back to taking care of me -- like always.

He cleaned up my hand and began to caress me again.  I rolled onto my belly, just to keep my face turned away.  I bristled when he apologized for the bruise on my ass.  I told him that it was fine.  More than fine.  I glared at the pattern in the cloth and wished there were 20 or 30 more just like it -- marks from a true dominant, marks of a slave --, but I kept silent.  We already went down that road, and I couldn’t trust him anymore.  Anger held no place in my world.

He rose from the bed and moved to his closet.  I considered him as he dressed for work, but I didn’t see the man I once knew.  This man, the one before me, was tattooed, dyed, and 60 pounds lighter -- a shallow reflection of every young, inked, and hair-tinted man I’ve ever photographed.  How could I explain that what I wanted wasn’t based on outward appearances or on the feel whips against my skin?  How could I tell this man that saw me as his entire world that he just couldn’t be everything I needed?

He turned to me as he went out the door and signed –‘I love you’- with his fingers.  “See you, tonight,” he said and then shut the door.

I pressed my face into the bedding, hoping tears might come, might help ease the pain of my lies, but I didn’t have any tears left.   Yes, I would see him tonight, and sadly, I’d pick up where our charade left off, with me pretending to be happy, over and over again.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Earthbound Eroticism Presents: Auralism Episode 04

Auralism, Episode 04
Sci-Fi Fantasy Erotica
Explicit Content

This podcast is intended for mature audiences only and is not safe for work.  It contains erotic audio, descriptions of a sexual nature, coarse language, and adult sexual themes. Presents: Octavia crashes a slumber party, We're adding a new conspirator, Jamie Love, who's got some practical editing advice for budding authors and we're going to learn about the craziest places Ivy and Ben have had sex!

Thursday, September 5, 2013


Zenoska, photographed by OctavianEarth

This story was written for the lovely A.O., who wanted me to make something she loved into something she longed for.  Thank you for the wonderful inspiration.

by A. Octavia

I still remember a time when the fjords were teeming with life.  The winds often carried the songs of Midgard across the seas.  We danced to them, and we sang along.  The world of men was a shining jewel among the branches of  Yggdrasil.  But that was such a long time ago...

The winds are hollow now, cold.  They're filled with the sound of mechanical hearts beating in time to the chattering noise of mortal hives.  The world tree withered, and even Nidhogg refused to open his maw.  This age of men rose from Ragnarok's ashes and with them came the end of the old ways.

We stayed on as long as we could, but the reach of men grew so strong so very quickly.  We did the only thing we could--we ran.  Some took to the other realms, some assimilated into the stretching void, and those like me vowed to keep our relics safe from harm.  All of us knew we'd never see each other again.

I chose Mimir's well.  When the All-Father fell to his grandson in the end of days, I mourned as all of us who survived did, but a small part of me, the smallest part that I never dared speak of, secretly rejoiced.  It meant I was free.  The hunt was over, and the baying of his hounds, and the thunder from Sleipnir's hooves would never haunt my dreams again.
But he was still the All-Father, and his eye still rested at the bottom of the well.  I could never see it through the mirrored surface of the water, but I knew it was there.  I could feel it staring up at the heavens as if asking why the worlds would abandon us all.

I've had to move the well three times.  Each step a little further away from the crossroads of where men and gods meet.  First, I moved away from Yggdrasil's roots to a nameless place within the Earth's heavens.  Years later, it became a star with a name no one could pronounce.  It was eons before men came to me.  
When I moved the well again, it was to a massive comet that tore through the universe in muted silence.  I watched men evolve, changing as easily as I could at a whim.  They built ships that could breathe fire, and eventually, they were able to catch up.
Now, the well and I rest on the very edge of Niflhiem.  The winds howl in barren rage, but I have enough power to keep them at bay.  No mortal or god would dare enter this world but to die-- but that didn't stop them all.  Every year, the limbs of the world tree creak a little louder at the sheer weight of Midgard's obesity.  Men cannot control themselves.  That was part of their allure.
Odin never wanted the Huldes chasing after the mortals.  He never said why, and we didn't obey him anyway.  There were countless men and women we preyed upon.  The forests were thick with men in those days.  They were naive, pure, and unadulterated.  They were wanton and coarse, but eager to please.

It's easy to fall into your memories when they're all you have left.  The lines between fiction and reality blur together and turn in on themselves along the edges.  That was where my mind was when I heard the sound of voices.  How I could have missed the thunder of the retro-rockets or the streak of crimson flames as a ship tore through Niflhiem's night sky is still beyond me.  
But I heard the voices first.  They were choked with fur and gasping breaths against the cold air.  They came closer, following their computerized gods in front of them, a north star in the palm of their hands.  Seven of them, hearts beating fast, breath pluming in cold bursts.  I thought about killing them.  There was no one to argue with me, no one to plead their case--except for the silent eye on the bottom of the well. 
My forest extended for miles in all directions.  I never bothered to count how many.  I knew the perimeter, though.  Every centimeter of it out to where it pushed back against the frozen wastes.    I knew exactly where they were the moment they crossed into my world.  Oh, I could have killed them, but they had a ship waiting for them, one capable of finding me here.  If they never returned, another ship would arrive, and then another, and another until I either ran out of room to hide the bodies, or I'd have to move the well a fourth time.

They spoke among themselves in a language I'd never heard, but the tones were the same.  The man leading the others had a harsh, unforgiving voice.  He was one used to telling others what to do, and being obeyed.  I let my mind coil around him like a serpent.  He would have to be the first to break.  Without him, the others would be lost.
There were two interesting things inside him that I felt stir at my touch.  The first was his abstinence.  He was a widower of nearly two decades, and he blamed himself for his wife's passing.  Mortal vanity at it's finest, always thinking they were the center of power in all the nine realms.  The second buried secret he held was his desire for his research assistant.  This revelation carved an icy smile across my lips.  I seldom think of myself as cruel, but his view of her as more a daughter than a colleague was something even I couldn't resist.  Yes, breaking him would be easy.

From there, the others would fall like dominos.  The research assistant had a lover in the expedition, too.  A hulking man, walking sixth in line.  He had a great respect for both the professor's command, and for his lover.  He didn't think for a moment that she was anything but loyal to their bed.  When he shattered, he was either going to explode, or implode like a great all-consuming vortex; I could feel it in the air.
There was a cartographer among them.  He was tall and lean, but he had a submissive streak he wouldn't ever reveal, even to himself.  The medic, a full-figured blonde woman, liked him.  She kept making subtle advances to him that he never picked up on.  One of the guards, a woman carrying an assault rifle, noticed it, though.  She doubled as the cook, and every time the medic found a reason to be alone with the mapmaker, she started counting the bullets in her magazines and any number of ways to poison her food.  It wouldn't take much to feed that jealousy until it broiled.

The last man, the one following the woman with the assault rifle, was a much more intriguing specimen.  He had an average build, average height, and an average libido.  He didn't think any better or worse for any of the men and women he marched with.  He carried himself with a kind of determined grace.

When I probed his consciousness, I didn't sense any hidden desires for the women he was with, or the men.  If they all fell into oblivion, he would simply watch and wait.  I probed deeper.  Something had to tick in his mind, or deeper in his soul.  Was he a fetishist, a rapist?  His thoughts didn't twitch at the suggestion. I plied him with one vision after the next, scrambling to find something that would open him up to me.  I tried homosexuality, bisexuality, sodomy, oral, aural, animals, everything I could think of…  

I began to throw things at him so fast I almost missed something.  Almost.  I felt his mind twitch at being treated like a god.  I hadn't meant to give him a hint of omnipotence, only to see what he would think of being in the center of an orgy.  I presented his psyche with a flash of every member of the expedition bent over him, pleasuring his mouth, nipples, hands, cock, and ass; it rang true, but only peripherally.  He wasn't aroused by being the center of attention so much as being the one to command that attention.

I often loathe having to fend off visitors to the well, but this time, I felt something twinge inside me, a fire that hadn't been stoked in decades.  I couldn't wait for them to stop for the night.
It was hours before they did, and I was almost panting in anticipation.  I shadowed them all day, taking every opportunity to slow them and impede their progress.  It was going to be so simple, so beautiful, like a snowflake on a mountain peak that started an avalanche.  Their leader, the professor who secretly longed for the touch of his assistant stopped them near the heart of my forest.  They’d never know how close they were to Mimir’s well. 

Most of the group had a few minor cuts and abrasions from stray branches and loose rocks, so the medic started making her rounds.  She saved the map-maker for last.  The two guards posted themselves at either end of the campsite with their backs to the others.  The camp was little more than a handful of erected tents and a small fire.  I watched them from the shadows, willing myself to remain hidden from their eyes.  It was easy enough to do after centuries of practice.  If they stopped long enough to think about it, they would have realized that nothing else lived in my forest; it wasn’t that I didn’t like animals, I just didn’t like to be distracted.
When the cook’s rifle was set aside in favor of a rotisserie, the light banter started to flow.  I watched the group settle into what looked like an ingrained routine.  The cartographer entered one of the tents and worked under a lantern.  The medic finished dressing a cut on the professor’s forearm in his tent while the other guard sat with the professor’s assistant by the fire.  Her boyfriend was gathering wood along the edges of the camp.
I drifted into their camp like a damp fog and hugged the ground by the fireside.  My muse, the guard with the god complex, didn't even notice.  I drifted up the edge of his boot and hugged myself against his sock, then let myself slowly settle along his bare skin, just below his knee.  He felt warm, and I could almost taste him.  I planted a single suggestion in his head, a spark of inspiration and a fleeting knowledge that he had a power here, beyond mortal comprehension--my power, but only for a short time: hours, maybe less.  It would be here and now, and nevermore.

I retreated before he became aware of it. I darted back into the shadows and coalesced in time to watch his body react.  The glow of the firelight radiated off of his face and I saw his pupils dilate.  He blinked and looked around him, as if seeing the world in a whole new light.  His gaze drifted from person to person in the camp, lingering on them for a moment longer than necessary, reading their souls like a pictogram.
The assistant asked him if something was wrong, and he smiled.  He placed his hand gently on hers, and his smile widened.  In the firelight, it looked almost hideous, obscene.  I felt myself moisten between my legs.  He leaned closer to her and whispered in her ear, a handful of words that made her gasp, and a rose color flushed into her cheeks.  She didn't pull away, but looked over her shoulder toward her boyfriend as if he might sense her thoughts.  
My mortal god nodded at her, then toward the woman cooking at the other side of the fire.  He whispered something again, and the assistant covered her mouth to stifle a short gasp that no one else noticed.  His hand rose steadily, and he cupped her breast openly in the middle of the camp.  He eased into his powers, my powers, gently.  

She startled at the contact and recoiled, staring down at his hand on her chest, then looking at the others as he moved to unbutton her heavy shirt.  He kept whispering to her, speaking in tongues, moving his hand into her shirt to grope the flesh of her breasts through her bra.   She tilted her head back and sighed.  Her shoulders slumped as she licked her lips.
He suddenly pulled away from her and stood.   He looked energized and eager.  His gaze darted  around to the others, and his eyes fell on the cook.  He left the assistant sitting with glazed eyes and a half-open shirt and circled the fire to inspect the meat roasting at the fire's edge.  The cook smiled up at him, but her smiled became fixed as he leaned in closer to her.  He touched her arm, just above her elbow, and she glared down at his hand.  He smiled again.  He spoke softly and even faster that before.  The woman glanced nervously around at the others, but no one seemed to notice.  The cook looked over at the map-maker's tent, at the silhouette of the man inside hunched over his charts, and she started to breathe heavily.

I watched my little god reach up to the back of the cook's head, his fingers slowly sifting through her short-cropped hair, and finally finding purchase near the top of her head.  His fingers clenched, and she gasped.  Her eyes never left the man's shadow on the wall of the tent.  My little god hissed in her ear, then pulled her off balance against his chest.  My nipples hardened.
Just as quickly, he left the cook standing at the fire's edge, teetering on her heels with her mouth hanging open.  The assistant's boyfriend was next.  The little god stopped him with a tap on the shoulder.  The little god spoke, and the hulking boyfriend listened.  He watched his girlfriend stand up, her shirt half open and turn toward the professor's tent.  I watched the confusion play across his face, and it suddenly changed to anger as his realization settled in.  He started to move, but the little god stopped him.  He held his hand up against the man's face and cooed into his ear as if soothing a child.  
The boyfriend stopped cold, and his anger was flushed away, replaced with a longing I shared.  My little god, much more patient than I would have been.  He left the boyfriend to watch his girlfriend disappear into the professor's tent.  No one noticed that the cook left the food to burn while she sought out the medic repacking her supplies at the far side of the camp.  
I didn't know which scene to watch first, and my attention kept shifting between them.  The little god just stood next to the fire and folded his arms across his chest, smiling wickedly.  The shadows playing across his face danced with the flames.

There was a sound from the professor's tent, a shout followed by a soft cooing from his assistant.  Something was knocked over, and I saw him appear between the tent flaps.  He held one side open and pointed to the outside world, dismissing her, but I saw the look in her eyes.  She didn't move.  He told her again, louder, but she only drew in closer to him and sank to her knees.  He startled, tears in the corners of his eyes as he tried to back away and was met with the edge of his tent post.

She gazed up at him, and when their eyes met, he looked away, slamming his eyelids closed.  She reached for his belt and opened his pants, running her fingertips up under his shirt.  I saw his stomach quiver at her touch.  She bent her head forward, rutting her face against his underwear and breathing hotly against his cock.  She worked her mouth against him, over and over until the professor nearly sobbed.  She used her teeth to pull his underwear down enough to expose his skin, and she swallowed him in one swift motion.
I heard the wet gulping of her throat as she bobbed up and down, trying to claim him, to make her father-figure and mentor proud.  To make him want her as much as the little god told her he did.  When he finally responded, it was with a subtle shifting of his hips.  He thrust gently up at her sucking mouth, and she moaned against him, redoubling her efforts.  She steered him back into the tent without ever taking her mouth off him, unbuttoning her shirt completely and leaving it in her wake.  Her bra followed, and the last thing I saw before she turned her back to me were her beautiful pink nipples-- almost as hard as my own.
The boyfriend watched them without a word. His eyes were fixed on the opening of the tent, on the back of her head as the professor gripped her head and helped guide her bobbing mouth up and down on his cock.  The boyfriend took a trembling step forward, and then another until he reached the opening and watched them.  They shifted, and the professor pulled his assistant up from her knees to kiss her hungrily.  He pawed at her breasts, fulfilling a fantasy he hated himself for having in the first place.

He growled and turned her over.   He nearly ripped her pants down before pushing her onto her hands and knees.  He hesitated long enough to look at her sex, dripping wet and pleading for him to fuck her.  When he entered her, the boyfriend quietly reached into the opening of the tent and picked up her panties.  He stroked himself through his pants as he watched her being taken,.  They all thought of him like a father, and they both groaned when she howled like a bitch in heat.  Her boyfriend freed his cock and wrapped her panties around his shaft.  The wetness on his tip mixed with the dampness of the cloth.  He stroked himself in time to the bucking of their hips.  
My own fingers were playing with my nipples, pulling on them gently while I watched the professor fall to his inner demons.  The little god didn’t notice, though.  He was watching the cook talk to the medic.  The two women reach the peak of a heated argument.  The cook pointed toward the mapmaker‘s tent, and the medic shook her head.  She moved to walk away, but the cook grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back.  They grappled for a moment, but the cook's skill quickly overpowered her.  The cook shifted her feet and circled around behind the medic, pinning her arm behind her back.
They walked to mouth of the tent, and the cook shoved the medic  inside.  I saw the shadows collide, and before they could pick themselves up from the ground, the cook followed in after them.  I saw her slap the medic across the face, knocking her down as she tried to stand.  The mapmaker leaned over to help her, but the cook slapped him down, too.
My little god moved closer and pulled back the tent flap so he could see them clearly.  When the light spilled out, we saw that the cook had the cartographer's head in her hands and was kissing him savagely.  The medic whimpered with tears in her eyes, pleading, but the cook seized her by the wrist and pressed her hand against the mapmaker's crotch and held it in place.   Shock register on the medic's face, a sudden realization that the mapmaker was intensely aroused.  When she looked down at his pants, she saw the outline of his cock under her fingertips.  The cook grunted and pulled the medic’s mouth to hers.  At first the medic resisted but softened as the cartographer’s cock throbbed under her hand.

The cook pulled at her shirt, ripping it open to expose one of her breasts, and she broke away from the medic long enough to suck on her breast.  The woman resisted again, but the medic’s nipple rose to meet her mouth.  She only stopped long enough to bark orders to the mapmaker.  He cowered, and then started to undress the medic, mewling helplessly under the assault.
With the medic stripped bare, the cook ordered the same done to her, and both of them were ready to obey.  I smiled.  It was even better than I hoped.  I slipped out of the shadows and stepped lightly so that my little god wouldn't sense my approach.  When I touched him, his skin felt like it was on fire.  I slipped my hands down over his chest and pressed my breasts into his back.  He tried to turn to face me, but I turned his head back to watch the cook who had her foot pressed against the man's clothed cock.  The medic was lapping at the cook's labia while her fists curled against her blonde locks.
My other hand reached around to the front of him and pressed against his throbbing cock.  He'd already started to soak through his pants with precum, and I breathed softly against his neck, taking my power back.  I soaked his influence back from everyone in the camp and let them run on their own volition even as I opened my little god's zipper and pulled his cock into the open.
The medic was sitting on the cartographer's face now, moaning into the cook's pussy while the moans from the other tent reached a crescendo.  The little god spun around and looked at me, at my heavy breasts, and the sheen of moisture between my legs.  His cock bobbed in time to his heartbeat as he dropped to his knees and began to run his tongue up the insides of my thighs.  He savored my essence, slowly reaching up to my core where I opened for him like a flower at dawn.

He was easily the most skilled lover I'd had in a hundred years, and I came almost instantly.  I gripped the back of his head to hold myself upright and let him draw me to the ground where he could keep licking at my center.  His tongue kept moving from my clit to my ass, circling both at each pass, then thickening like a tiny cock to press into me.  I let him devour me, and I came for him again.  
I could still see the silhouettes of the cook and the medic, each riding the mapmakers face and cock, kissing above him where he couldn't see, pinching each other's nipples.  When my little god lifted himself up, I reached down to wrap my hands around his cock, and pulled him into me.  I felt him spread me open, filling me slowly before he retreated again. 

I felt so full, so ready for another orgasm that I simply lost myself to the sensations.  I let him take every ounce of pleasure from me he could.  Before long, he began thrusting harder and harder, the groans from the other tents became muffled distractions in the farthest edges of my existence.  I held onto the moment of his orgasm, I clenched and took everything from him, milking his cock for every ounce.

He collapsed on top of me, and I rolled him onto his back.  His eyes were closed, and his chest heaved.  I lifted off of him and slid down his body until I could take his cock into my mouth.  I licked us from him, savoring it, leaving nothing.  I did it slowly, and his body twitched before settling into my rhythm.  His gently undulations slowed, and finally, he fell asleep.  The boyfriend watching the assistant and the professor had slipped inside the tent, and she was stroking his cock while riding the older man.  She kept repeating some phrase between mouthfuls of his cock.
The cook was equally distracted by the mapmaker and the medic who were alternating between the cook's labia and ass.  I smiled again as I stood and blew out the campfire like a birthday candle.  
By tomorrow, they would all be so confused by their desires, their quest of discovery would be forgotten.  They might even stay for another night in awkward silence while they tried to sort out what happened, or they might not.  I would watch them, of course, and I could always kill them if I had to.  It wouldn't be the first time...

Thursday, August 22, 2013

Chaos Reigns Supreme

Many thanks to Kara.

There are moments in life that alter you.  Sometimes those singular instances have such a profound effect that it calls into question everything you've ever known.  The first time I took a picture of a semi-nude woman, I won't lie to you: I felt time stop.  The first time I took a good picture of a woman, I never wanted time to start again.

Over the years, I've watched the explosion of amateur photographers pour their creations into the internet.  This has had two diametric effects on me; the first was a constant source of inspiration, and the other was one of utter disbelief.

You see, some things you just can't un-see.

A while back, I rattled off a post about how erotic photography is like a biological switch in my head.  Something inexplicable happens when I get behind the lens. It's like the rest of the world just ceases to exist.  These many years after that first photograph, that myopia still happens-- but last week I had an incredible breakthrough: I may have even expanded my horizons a little...

First a little context: The OctavianUnderground has quite a few tendrils reaching into the farthest corners of the internet.  Among them is the website Fetlife where I have a profile under the clever little title Octavian Earth, the same title as my Twitter handle.  An online friend, (who will remain safely anonymous) heard about my new found sense of adventure since I moved from Pennsylvania and offered to put me in touch with a few people who could teach me a few things.  If I was willing...

At first, I was floored by the suggestion.  There was a throat-squeezing moment as I thought it over.  I wanted to do it, but there was no way I was going to be able to.  I asked my wife who didn't seem to have the same reservations I did.  I knew I needed to do it, and ultimately, I did.

So last week I attended an erotic photography workshop where I knew I was going to be the most inept photographer to ever grace their doorstep.  Despite that, I was resolute.  I had a mind like a sponge, and a genuine desire to hone my photography for the better.  This was a golden chance to actually do something instead of just thinking about it.

In the end, I only got to stay a short while because of family obligations and my own time constraints, but the time I did spend wasn't wasted, not by a long shot.  From the moment I walked through the door, I was welcomed.  There was nothing but warm smiles, friendly handshakes, and general good cheer.  

Two models were getting ready in another part of the house, but the real apprehension I felt wasn't in the adornments of skin and lingerie, it was in the camera case in my hands.  Of the half-dozen photographers in the room, I had the most entry-level camera, the least experience, and the most to learn.

And I did learn.  I learned that taking a good picture wasn't all about style and pose; it's about aperture and f-stops, light boxes and triggers, backdrops and light meters.  By the time the models were ready, my camera was too.  My head was full of numbers and ratios, but I was also almost out of time.  

Then the one thing I dreaded most, happened.  They asked me to photograph first. 

All the ideas I'd had, all the preconceptions I held, every damned one was shattered in that instant.  Before I knew it, the overhead lights dimmed so there was only the glow of the light boxes.  Six photographers, two hosts, and two models-- all staring at me like I should know what the hell I was doing...

I floundered, I fumbled, and I felt my knees shake.  Then I looked through the lens, that beautiful glass menagerie.  Instantly, the world changed.  The people around me were still there and I still had no idea what to say, but at least I wasn't lost behind the lens. Every snap, every turn, every twitch of muscle was like it was meant to be.

Like I said, I didn't stay long, but that didn't matter.  I came to learn, and I did.  I came to break out of the shell I'd hardened around myself, and I did.  I didn't just tap at it like a chick in an egg--I hit it with a nine pound sledge.  

I came to shoot pictures of a beautiful young woman, and I did... 

And I'm all the better for it.

Kara wasn't only a magnificent sport for posing for us, she has also graciously given me permission to post both of these photographs for you to enjoy.


Saturday, August 17, 2013

Conspirators of the Underground!

Everyone who dwells within the realm of erotica meets other like-minded people.  We come from everywhere, and we seldom reveal ourselves to the public, reserving that honor for select individuals.

And where once I was alone, I now have conspirators who have joined the Underground.  We're not legion yet, and may never be, but we are undoubtedly in this journey together.  This post is the debut of one such pair of Conspirators, who will take us on a journey of how they came to be where they are today, and they've decided to choose a medium I find absolutely stunning:  through the letters they wrote to each other.

This somewhat fictionalized re-creation is their journey, as close as they can remember it, and it reveals more than a host of us would ever dare expose to a global audience.

So without further ado, on behalf of the Octavian Underground, I present 'Letters.'

November 2, 2003
Dear Joe,                                                                         
First, I wanted to say I have never before seen a grown man rock a pumpkin costume like you did at Alex’s Halloween Party.  Now a grape costume, well, that was simply genius!  We made quite the pair.  I’m sure my lovely friends will have lots of blackmail pictures of us acting like a bowl of fruit.  Oi! 
Anyway, the main reason I’m writing is to say thank you for all your help with Stephanie the other night.   Leave it to one of my friends to ruin a perfectly wonderful Halloween party by busting her leg on Dracula’s coffin.  I don’t know what was scarier; Dracula, or the sound of her knee hitting the cement floor.  OUCH!  I’m surprised she only split the bone in half instead of it shattering into a million pieces.  So, thank you so much for administering “Pumpkin First Aid”, and for helping me haul her ass out to your car.  Not sure how we would have gotten her home with out you. 
Chivalry aside, my only regret from that night was not finishing our “chat” in the hallway.  Maybe we can meet up again sometime, sans scary monsters.  Unless you’re in to that sort of thing...  Let me know if you’re free. 
Thanks again,
A.K.A.  “Lady of the Vine”  

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

The Churning Black, Part 3

The Churning Black, Part 3

The ashes by my feet were little more than a pile of crimson dust.  It was a foot high and ringed with shredded remains of blackened lace.  The hotel room was under a penthouse suite, and the upper floors were still just starting to get up to a full burn.  Sirens wailed in the streets below, and I could just hear the screams of people trapped in the stairwells.  It was unnecessary, really.
Tracking Damnia wasn’t a task for the faint of heart, or a weak constitution.  Burn wards across half the star-system were filled with her victims.  The sprinklers burst open overhead and started spewing out foul brown sludge that instantly ruined the silk wallpaper and the chalk-white carpets.  The water soaked me to the skin as I watched the powdered ashes turn to mud by my toes. 

It was ten-thirty when the bellhop’s watch stopped.  The ashes started to steam.  The water spewing from the pipes finally cleared as the rivulets forming in the carpet boiled.  The liquid turned darker, blood-black before threads of sinew formed, and the faintest traces of hollow bones took shape.  It was like watching a plastic toy melt in reverse.

Fingertips, muscle, tendons, and gore mingled beneath a hidden depth on the hotel room floor, it congealed, formed, birthed, and ascended as if lifted by a pedestal was beneath her feet.  As she cleared the surface of the pool, Damnia was sheathed in a covering of crimson hair, long and full, clinging wetly to the palest white skin.  Her white-less eyes glowed emerald green, like gemstones, beneath her eyelids.  Her heavy breasts were capped with pale areolas as big across as the bellhop’s finger.  Her skin was so perfectly smooth, so clean, like only a thousandth-born virgin could be.

The water from the sprinklers steamed against her, hissing as it dripped against her skin.  I felt it radiate like a furnace.  It was Hell’s warm.  The smell of her skin, and the sight of her mons, wet, succulent, untouched…  It mingled with the intoxicating sensation of the heat, and it made my flesh harden.  I felt the busboy’s cock throb against his thigh just as part of the roof collapsed behind me.  I heard the squeal of a gas line rupturing and smelled the acrid stench as it mingled with the sweetness of Damnia’s sex.  The gas ignited against her skin.  The blast hit like a bomb, but I held my ground out of sheer will even as the finery of the suite was ripped away around us.

It took a few breaths before she opened her eyes, and her lips curled into a razor-thin smile.  The sprinklers were torn away, and water poured in gurgling beats like an arterial flow until the heart slowed to a stop.  The sounds of distant trapped voices were gone, and the city traffic was crisp between the gasps of raining glass.  The inferno that wrapped itself around the hotel’s upper floors warmed the dry winds darting through the gaping holes in the walls.
“Don’t look at me like that, Amdusias-- it gives me chills,” she said and flashed me a wicked grin.  Her form suddenly flowed like lava.  When she rose from the ashes, she was a statue, ridged and impervious, but now—now, her body was languid and supple.  She looked around her in mild curiosity, like she was seeing it for the first time.

I forced myself to blink and cleared my throat.  It wasn’t easy with the char and smoke drifting past us in waves.  “My apologies, Damnia, but I simply cannot look upon you any other way.”  I closed my eyes, but it only shut out the mortal world.  Every other sense I had screamed at me mercilessly. The smell, the heat, and her presence -- I was back among my realm.  I was home again, and it hurt like Hell. 

I wrenched my eyes open as I stood and found Damnia was already close enough to lay a hand against my face.  She only grazed the bellhop’s cheek with the back of her fingers, but I felt his soul scream in pain.  My knees buckled beneath me.

“You say the sweetest things, Lord,” she breathed “But then, you always did.”  Her lips pursed, and there was another burst of heat.  “Isn’t that why she cast you out?”  She moved away, and the pooling water turned to steam under her footsteps.
I blinked again and glanced away from the globes of her ass.  Heat waves rose from it and made her skin shimmer.  “Our Queen is not without her reasons.”  Memories rolled over me like waves.  “And yes, my skilled tongue is among them.”

Damnia glanced back at me, “Hmm, I bet.  But you are also a conspiring, selfish egotist.  This begs me to wonder, Lord, why have you come to me?”
The reflections in the other glass towers showed just how hot the fires burned above us, and it was hard to clear my thoughts.  Damnia’s breasts hung perfectly from her chest, and the smooth juncture between her thighs was entirely too delicate to ignore.  “Because you walk in both worlds, Damnia.  You see everything from both sides.”

She laughed, and it was sweeter than birdsong—light and musical.  It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to force myself upon her where she stood.  “Oh, come now, Lord.  You have legions at your command.  You have stalked battlefields greater than the Queen’s plantations like a phantom, and you expect me to believe you are without voices to keep you informed?”

I swallowed hard.  “I need to hear a clear voice, Damnia, from someone who can see things without the taint of politics from our Queen’s court.  Something is churning in the depths that no one within is willing to see.”

Damnia ran her fingertips along the countertop of the ruined kitchen and watched small flames erupt under her skin.  “Such a voice does not exist, Amdusias.  And it’s possible it never really did.  She loathes you to no end, but still, she does not raise arms against you.  And you, you took her judgment without question.  I’m not alone in wondering why.  So answer me that one question, Lord, and if your tongue really is as gifted as they say, I will bend my wings to its will.”  I watched her place her palms on the countertop through a shard of glass, and it smoldered.  “Why?”

I felt her eyes on me, even when she turned away. She watched me study the line of her back from her shoulders to her hips and linger at the crack of her ass.  She shifted her hips and turned to face me again.  Her hair framed her face and her nipples, and I sighed heavily.  “I bed her daughter.”

Damnia almost laughed, thinking I was taunting her, but she caught herself.  A grain of recognition and memory collided in her mind and swam before her eyes.  Minutes passed while the weight of my revelation leveled itself against her.  When it settled into her depths, Damnia licked her lips softly, and I watched her nipples harden.

She crossed the room quickly and took the bellhop roughly by the back of his head.  Our mouths were mashed together for just a moment before she released us rather than let the heat melt his flesh.  I groaned at the sensation flooding my loins.  I may have even growled, but I can’t remember.  She stared at me with undisguised longing, “I’ll say this much, she has good taste.”

I wiped the corners of my mouth and tried to steady the bellhop’s racing heart.  I could feel the last minutes ticking by fast.  The bells were going to start ripping me from the human any second.  “I must know, quickly, who is stoking the depths.  Armies are shifting, alliances are forming.  I can feel it.  Somewhere a line has been drawn, and I need to know where the tides break.”

Damnia looked deep into my eyes and nodded; then reached for me again, this time pressing herself against me in a frenzy of boiling kisses.  I felt my skin blister the moment the bells started to chime.  She stripped my clothes away from my chest, and I grabbed at her, pawing at her breasts and dragging my fingertips down to her cleft.  I touched her labia and felt the hot molten core of her sex before the second chime hit.  Agony ripped through me, but the bellhop didn’t suffer; his soul fled the moment it could, as if expecting what was to come.

Damnia groaned as my fingers probed her, grazing her reborn virginity.  She howled when I turned her around and bent her over.  She reached back to guide me into her.  I felt her hand struggle to hold my throbbing shaft.  Damnia moaned softly as I nuzzled her lips, and then gasped when I edged forward and plunged my cock into her.  I continued to swell inside her as my body convulsed.
At the third and fourth tolling of the bells, I started to fully transform again, but Damnia held herself in place and allowed me to shift atop her.  She thrust back at me, bucking against me hard enough to take every inch of me until she simply couldn’t anymore.  By the time the last bell tolled, Damnia was shuddering, dripping from our junction in drops that burned the floor between her spread legs.  She held onto my front legs as if her life depended on it.  I felt her flesh clamping down on me, milking against the head of my cock.  I fought the urge to rear up, but I knew it would only rip her apart.  I shunted forward, barely moving, and she grunted at first, then screamed for me to fill her.  She begged me to take her, to claim her as my own and make her erupt.  She cooed softly about how close she was, about how badly she needed to burn.  She held my front legs even tighter than before, and I had no choice but to obey.

When I reared up, Damnia screamed.  It was a sound that burned the air in a fiery chorus, like a flock of eagles dying.  She burst into flames as she climaxed.  I held myself up on my hind legs as long as I could, walking in short, agonized steps like a circus horse in a ring.  My head jerked from side to side as the flames licked at my neck.  I’d never felt anything like it before, or since.  I felt myself release into her burning depths, and she managed to turn around on my cock just as her wings erupted from her back.  She clasped her hands around the thick length of my neck and pressed her head against me.  I felt her grunt with every step I took. 

She screamed again, and as another orgasm overtook her, she burned even hotter.  Embers were ripped away from her in the wind as she started turning to ash.  I held myself aloft until she burned down to something I couldn’t recognize and dropped to the floor.  My hooves sparked against the concrete, and I could feel her wetness on my cock as the breeze licked my skin.  Her embers and ashes were scattered around the room, but I knew they wouldn’t stay idle for long.  Soon, Damnia would be reborn, beautiful, clean, and ready to burn again.

Monday, July 22, 2013


Some stories are a labor, they have to be pulled into the light dragging their half-formed ideas after them like fingernails on a hardwood floor.  They scream and kick, whining like a spoiled child.  This wasn't one of those stories.  This was something that flowed.  It started with an idea, and the compulsion I had to write a story for a close internet friend.  

I also treat every story as learning experience, and 'Hindsight' was no exception.  I learned I love writing stories for other people.  Specific people.  Some awesome authors online write stories for commission, but in all honesty I'm not ready for that.  If I take your money, I should be responsible for giving you your money's worth. I think I'm more suited for the gratis level, at least for now.  If it's free, I can give you what inspires me with every intent to delight you with no strings attached.  

If this intrigues you personally, or you would like a story written for you to give to someone, send me an e-mail and we'll begin with a few details. I don't ask for much, just a little glimpse into your world, and in return, I'll take you on a journey through mine.


It started in the cardiac chamber.  I was running uphill on the grav simulator and just hit my stride when Keith stepped onto the orbital shell next to me.  I was in full gear, almost up to two g’s when he started fawning over some new website.  Usually, it was pretty easy to ignore him.  His list of fetishes grew by a factor of ten since we transferred out to Easton.  I was almost to my mark when something he said crawled into the back of my brain and short-circuited my whole rhythm.
“--man, that’s when I started looking back at her other posts.  This chick is so smoking hot.  Did you check the link I sent you?  I’ve been sending her messages for, like, the last week, but she’s playing coy.  That’s why I sent her my money-shot!”
It happened so damn fast—I blinked, my foot slipped, and the truckload of gravity I was pushing uphill fell right on top of me.  The static field of the grav dome shattered as I hit the floor.  My hearing went thin, my eyes blurred, and the next thing I knew, Keith was standing over me with one of the medi-bots.  The flashlight shining between my pupils was like a disco strobe.
My head cleared up pretty quick, and the bot was apparently satisfied that I wasn’t going to die because it floated off to harass a super-lifter at the back of the gym.  Keith, to his credit, waited until I had a clear prognosis before he laughed his ass off.  It didn’t exactly help my mood.  “What the hell’s wrong with you, Keith?”
The way my face turned red only made him laugh harder.  “Me?  You’re the one who just got flattened.” He reached down to help me stand.  “The look on your face was fucking priceless!”
“I meant-“ I looked around to make sure we weren’t being overheard and then proceeded, “I meant you sending pics of your shit out to some chick on the net-- are you fucking high or something?”
“Relax, man, it’s totally cool.  She’s got this thing completely dialed in.  I told you she’s hot, right?  Dude, I must have given her some tribute about a dozen times already, and she just keeps posting more and more to keep me going.”
I felt a sharp pain race through my forehead and settle behind my right ear.  “I can’t fucking believe you-- it’s like I’m talking to a god-damned fourteen year old!”
“Look, Mace, I’m not doing anything that’ll get us dropped from Peyton.  I’m not using my real name, and nothing’s going out on the company servers.  Hell, this chick’s even more paranoid about it than you are.  Never seen her face, hell, I don’t even know her real name.  No one does.”
I stared at him, but Keith’s lopsided grin wasn’t going anywhere.  He was easily the stupidest smart person I’d ever met, let alone been assigned to work with.  I gathered up the pieces of my broken pride and limped back to my hotel room.
Before I even set foot in my borrowed office at Peyton’s Donovan campus the next morning, I was pulled under a wave of edit requests from the oversight committee.  It was hard enough trying to keep a single regional office in line, but throw in half the Delta Quadrant, and well, things tended to get a bit sloppy.  I ran out of wall space three days ago and had to start posting memos on the windows.  The new list went up over the light switch. 
Three conference calls later, Keith stalked through the maze of cubicles carrying an oily paper bag.  “You never made it down to lunch so I took the liberty of bringing you a little something.”
He’d lost his suit jacket somewhere, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up.  If I didn’t know him better, I would have sworn he’d actually been working all morning.  “I sent you about fifty revisions from Peyton, but take your time, half of them contradict themselves.  I got them to realize that this morning, and they’ll need to put their heads together this afternoon to figure out which changes they actually want finalized.”  I glared at the bag hanging from Keith’s fist and watched it drip onto the carpet.  “What’s in that?”
“An hour ago, it was a meatball sub with all the trimmings.  Now?  It’s probably a bag of meat and soggy bread.”
“Gee, you’re all heart.”  I held out the trash can and waited for him to drop it in.
“I would have dropped it off to you sooner, but I saw Bromley down at the records office, and we go to talking.”
I reached behind him and closed the door, “Christ, you’re not still going on about that, are you?”
Keith glanced around at the notes I plastered to the walls and shook his head. “I told you to relax, it’s cool.”  He pointed to the far corner. “Hey, the last two over there are out of order, Cardinal, then Arch-Bishop.”
I glared at him, but he just shrugged.  I waited for an ounce of sanity to fall out of the sky and hit Keith over the head, but it didn’t.  “Look, it’s bad enough you’re pulling this kind of shit on your own time, but now you’re spreading it around here?”
“I get it, you’re hung up on this.” He glanced through the blinds and stared over the tops of the cubicles.  “But let’s face it, I’m not doing anything illegal, alright?  A few emails, some JPEG’s, a few video files, and no one’s getting hurt.  Hell, I’m not even paying for it like I did out on Raxus.”  He gave me a lopsided sideways grin. “Look, I got some work to do so I’ll catch up with you later, all right?”  
The rest of the day went past in a blur, and by the time I got back to the hotel, it was almost dawn.  I turned off my alarm and took a shower before crawling into bed.  I dreamt of naked lawyers chasing me down dark alleys waving cameras and subpoenas.
I woke up to the sound of my cell phone vibrating on the nightstand.  Keith sounded frazzled, but it served him right.  He almost started in on a rant about how much work I’d left for him, but he dialed it back right before I reached my limit.  I waited until I had a cup of coffee in me before I opened my laptop and patched into the network.  I was sifting through a ton of debris, going back and forth through emails and messengers that Peyton kept throwing around like hand grenades. I was only half-looking when I opened Keith’s link by mistake.  When the title screen appeared, it was like a truck slammed into me.
I choked on my coffee and scrambled to disconnect from the network before the Peyton servers could detect the violation.  The connection terminal blinked and shut down, but I still waited for the phone to ring with my heart thundering in my chest.  Of all the bullshit things—I wanted to scream, to blame Keith, myself for not deleting the email the moment I got home from the gym.  My hands started to sweat as ten seconds turned to twenty.  Twenty turned into forty, forty into a minute.  One turned into five, then ten, and then twenty.  The phone never rang. 
My lungs ached from holding my breath in distorted bursts, and I kept cursing the day Keith hit puberty as I started saving my documents and closing down my files.  I packed everything away neatly behind their firewalls, saving Keith’s link for last.  When I brought up the site again, the title screen blossomed in front of me.  The edges scrolled in a kind of filigree pattern that looped and twisted around the title, ‘Saris.’  I dragged the cursor up to the top corner and was about to close the site when the banner timed out, and an image appeared. 
The black screen lightened into a full-body portrait, edited heavily with a lot of emphasis on keeping the woman’s face bathed in shadows.  My eyes instantly traced the line of her neck down to the curve of her breasts and out to the gentle swell of her hips.  A tick of recognition bit at the back of my mind as I tapped the arrow key, scrolling down the page.  A list of albums appeared, sorted by keywords.  The cover of the Kitchen album showed a crisp black and white still with the lens focused intently on a pair of lace panties that barely covered her labia.
I stared at the blurred outline of her breasts and felt a lump form in my throat.  In the background, just past her hard nipples was a portrait hanging over her dining room table.  Even blurred, I recognized it.  It was an original Montenelli abstract painted in a studio on Dracma about five years ago. 
I scrolled down the page, my finger tapping the arrow key hard enough to rattle the coffee table.  The gallery opened to a page with hundreds of images.  My heart started drumming in my chest again as I watched Saris’ breasts, ass, and her hands morph and change like a chameleon before the lens.  I could barely take my eyes away from her fingers whenever they pressed between her legs.  Every time I clicked on an image, it filled the screen, recklessly open for scrutiny in finite detail.  Trailing after each image were legions of comments, each from a user who gushed about how stunning she looked, how delicious her nipples must be, how sweet her pussy would taste.  The more I looked, the more I realized just how much she’d changed since our divorce.  
When I stepped into my office later that day, I had a hard time concentrating.  I looked at every picture she posted, some more than once.  I felt light-headed, like I had a fever, but I also felt something else churning under all of that, something primal.
I wanted to call her.  My God, what the hell was she thinking?  More than a thousand images of her, naked, sexual, uninhibited, open for anyone to see them.  Anyone like Keith, or the investors at Peyton, or for fuck’s sake, our kids…
But I didn’t call her.  I wouldn’t, either.  Even then I knew it.  Her face wasn’t in any of those pictures, and the pages on top of pages of comments weren’t just from men, some were from women.  Was she bisexual now?  Was she always, and I never realized it?
Thankfully, work did pick up.  I lost myself in facts and figures, emails and conference calls, warp cells and vectors.  I didn’t even realize how late it was until Keith showed up with a takeout box under his arm.  “Okay, step away from the computer before someone gets hurt.”
I rubbed some feeling into my eyes and leaned back.  The food smelled amazing, a mix of ginger, soy sauce, and starvation.  As we ate our way through a quart of shrimp lo mein, I kept having visions of Keith as he recorded himself jacking his cock to my ex wife’s pictures.  He saw the glazed look on my face and kicked my foot.  “You okay?  You’re not going to hurl, are you?”  He backed his chair away and made a face.
“What? Oh, no, I’m not going to hurl, you asshole.  I’m just beat.”
“Oh, in that case, suck it up, buttercup.”
“Fuck you, Keith.”
“Nope, I’m into blondes lately.”
She was a brunette when we got married.  The blonde hair was an aftermarket accessory.  Keith dug in his pocket and came up with his phone.  He tapped the screen and turned it around to show me.  “Check out what I got last night; she sent it as a ‘thank you’ for my vids!”
I saw her sitting at her computer, the glare of the screen lit up her breasts, and I could see her nipples poking through her bra.  It was an awesome shot, and I almost didn’t recognize her.  I cleared my throat, “I don’t know, but uh, isn’t she a bit old?”
Keith looked at the screen, then back at me.  “Did you even look at the screen?”  He pulled the phone away and started scrolling through his galleries.  He settled on a series of black and white shots and started rifling through the pictures.  “Now, does this look old to you?”
She was leaning forward over her dining room table, her knees up on two chairs, and her head was down between her arms.  She looked better than I ever remembered.  Her hair was in a tousled blonde heap that covered her face.  I felt my throat tighten. “She’s not a natural blonde-- it probably comes from a bottle.”
“It could come from T-38 for all I give a fuck.  Look at that ass!”
I saw it.  It was hard not to.  “Her legs look too thick,” I said, pointing to the way the shadows fell across the back of her calves.
“Okay, seriously, Mace-- are you fucking gay?  I know the ex fucked you up in the head, but did she cut off your balls and put ‘em in a little box on her mantle?  She nice enough to send you pictures of them with the Christmas email, at least?  Look.” He danced his thumb over a half dozen shots of my ex-wife all over her house, on the floor, in bed, in the bathroom.  Each shot was beautiful, crisp, and showed off a body I recognized from countless romantic nights—only I was seeing it in a wholly new way now. 
The divorce was brutal.  We tried to settle it ourselves, but she started dating before the papers were even filed.  I hired a lawyer the next morning, and by the afternoon, she hired one, too.  I started going out with one of my secretaries just to show her I could still turn a young woman’s head, and she started keeping the kids longer, secluding them away from me.
In the end, we both got what we thought we wanted.  At least, I thought so.  Looking at her pictures skipping across the surface of Keith’s phone made me wonder if I ever really knew her at all.  She looked so different with blonde hair, a body toned from exercise, and a raw passion for the attention she had cascading over her.  She reinvented herself in the years we were apart, and as I looked around the office, I realized I hadn’t.
We worked into the early hours, and when I finally got home, I found myself drawn to my computer.  I checked my emails and spent a few minutes catching up on some family business.  My brother was working one star system over and wondered if we could get together for coffee on the weekend.  I wondered what he would think if he knew the mother of his niece and nephew was parading around naked on the internet.
I left the computer running while I took a shower and made myself a drink.  I skipped the orange juice and poured a double measure of scotch on ice.  My fingers trembled when I reached for the keyboard, and I stared at them like mutinous sailors on a sinking ship.  I took another pull and let the ice knock against my teeth before I went to her website. 
The cover image had changed, and she’d done some photo editing to a black and white picture of her bent over the bed.  She was wearing a lace pair of panties, topless with her breasts pressed hard against the bare mattress.  She was reaching back, pulling at the panties until they tightened against her lips, her fingers tearing through the lace.  The caption read ‘Out With The Old.’
I knew that pair of panties.  It was a Valentines set I bought her years ago.  She always hated the bra; she said it made her look too old fashioned.  As far as I ever knew, she never wore the panties.  From the way her fingers tore through the cloth, she wasn’t ever going to wear them again.  I felt my mouth run dry, and I was glad I pulled the curtains once I walked through the door.
I skipped the photo gallery and moved to her diary entries.  There were dozens of entries, dating back as far as the week after our divorce.  I ignored the titles and started at the beginning.  ‘Saris’ introduced herself, and called herself a divorced mother of two.  She sounded bitter about the way her lawyer handled her case.  She shouldn’t have been; I was still bleeding from the wounds her legal team gouged into me.
Her entries went on like that for awhile, and her stream of comments started slowly.  There was an occasional word of support, the typical bash on me for being an insensitive prick, that kind of thing.  By her tenth, I read the change in her tone.  The entry was called ‘Last Night’.  She started out like so many of her other entries, complaining about the loneliness, the hardships she had as a single parent, and the difficulty she had dating.  I smiled when she mentioned how hard it was to date men, but I was floored when she said she went out with a co-worker of hers for drinks after work. 
They both worked in the accounting office, and they were both coming back from a rough divorce.  They went to a bar up the street, and one drink turned to two, and the conversation shifted from lousy husbands to their even worse sex lives.  Reading about how badly she viewed our sex life was like a gut shot I wasn’t prepared for.  I never knew she faked half of her orgasms, that I never initiated sex with her, or that she ever wanted anything but the love-making we shared.  ‘Saris’ went on and on about how unhappy she was, and worse, the comments that followed her post just poured salt in my wounds.  More than a dozen people wrote in about how lucky she was going to be to be rid of me.  They were cheering her on, begging her for more details, asking if I was impotent, was I gay, did I have a mistress on the side, did she have an affair?
She told them she was never unfaithful, and I breathed a sigh of relief.  It was short-lived, though.  The next entry was more than a month later, but from the beginning, it was clear she’d broken out of her shell.  She started off by saying she finally had an orgasm where she didn’t have to use her hands.  She and her friend from work went out again and had drinks.  Afterwards, they went back to her house because the kids were with me for the week.  They shared a bottle of wine and ended up making out on the couch until three in the morning.  She touched a woman for the first time, kissed someone other than me, and her friend fingered her to orgasm.
I finished my scotch and poured another.  Even then, I drank half of it before I sat down again.  My heart was racing, my palms were sweaty, and my mind was in orbit.  I never knew she was bisexual, and in all honesty, I never thought to ask her.
The next few entries were full of more experimentations.  She bought her first vibrator, then had her first one night stand with a guy she met in a bar.  She described how intense her feelings were when she sucked him off in his car in the parking lot.  She never fucked him, but she told everyone who read her post about how intense her masturbation session was that night.  She came three times in bed, once in the shower, and once more before she went to work the next day. 
About three months later, she discovered photography.  She was playing around with her girlfriend, and they snapped a few pictures to tease her friend’s boyfriend.  It only took a few shots to get themselves undressed, and after, that they went down on each other.  She included one of the pictures from their night together.  It was only their hands, but it was enough to make my cock start to throb.
The next entry described her first full home photo shoot.  It turned her on so much, knowing that her random thoughts were stirring up people’s thoughts, so she thought she’d repay them for their kindness.  She only included two pictures, one of her cleavage under a pink bra, and the other of her ass in a bikini bottom.  Even though they were rougher than the images she posted now, it was clear she had a good eye for modeling.  I couldn’t help touching myself a little bit through my underwear.
There was a page of posts that were dedicated to her fans.  There were men and women who sent her pictures and videos of themselves, masturbating, cumming, or fucking to her pictures.  People from every walk of life had her body under their fingertips, mouths open and faces tight in orgasm with Saris’ nipples, panties, or ass waiting for them.  It was all too much, and my balls never felt so empty until that night.
I must have read every entry she posted, some hot, some not, and I always read the comments.  I couldn’t believe how blatant some of the guys were about how hot they thought she was, or how hard their cocks were, how many times they came to her stories and pictures.  How they were typing with one hand so they could pump their fists while imagining her mouth wrapped around them. 
I don’t remember how many orgasms I had, but just as I finished what I thought was my last time for the night, a new post hit the list.  The title read, ‘First Video.’  My breath caught in my throat, and I clicked the link. I felt my cock twitch again as I watched the screen go black.  The image faded into a bathroom stall, and by the sounds in the background, I thought she might be in a mall, maybe an airport.  She set the camera on the toilet paper dispenser, and I watched her hike her grey skirt.  She wasn’t wearing panties, and her hands rubbed up and down her lips before disappearing out of the edge of the screen.  When they reappeared, she was holding a long silver vibrator that she slipped into herself until only the smallest edge was locked between her fingertips.  She moaned, and the sounds outside the stall quieted, then there was a muffled giggling.  ‘Saris’ plunged the toy in and out of herself for more than three or four minutes before she reached for the camera and moved it to show different angles.  She started whispering too, saying things like, “You all wanted this for so long… Well, here it is, my pussy being stuffed by a hard cock.”  She moaned a little louder, and a toilet flushed next to her.  “You’re going to be stroking your cocks for me, aren’t you.  You’ll be jacking off to me while you watch me…watch me…cum!”  She clenched her teeth and took a hissing breath as she groaned.  Her legs clamped together, and someone knocked on her stall door asking if she was all right.  The screen went black before she answered.
The front of my underwear had a wet spot around the head of my throbbing cock.  I watched the video again and pulled the leg band aside and stroked myself to her.  I did exactly what she said and stroked myself and timed my orgasm to hers.  It was the first mutual orgasm we ever had. 
My heart was beating so hard, and my cock didn’t even slow down.  I went back to her galleries and started to stroke myself softly as I scrolled through them.  I had a strange mix of lust, pride, and jealousy as I read the comments from the men and women who wanted to touch her, to taste her, to fuck her senseless.  I came again.  I still don’t know what to make of it all.
Since then, I’ve been a regular fan of her site.  I made up my own alias, but I’ve stopped short of recording myself like Keith did.  I write inane little comments about how hot she is, more in the first month than I ever did in the ten years we were married.  I don’t think I can ever let her know who I really am.  The woman I married, the same woman who gave birth to my children, isn’t Saris.  I know the woman I married is long gone now, and when I see her in the flesh at Christmas or on birthdays, I hold onto my little secret as tightly as she holds onto hers. 
It’s easy to imagine her sucking some stranger’s cock in the parking lot of a bar.  I get hard just thinking about the nameless woman she got tangled in a sheet with during a sixty-nine.  I can’t even remember how many times I watched her masturbate in the public toilet.  Whenever I hear her name around the locker rooms or in hushed conversations in the office, my mouth goes dry and my hands start to sweat. 
I want to tell her I miss her and hope she’s doing well, but I can see that she is doing well.  Better than I ever let her do.  The last thing she needs is me working my way back into her life.  She deserves that much, and looking back, maybe she always did.