With a near-reflexive, but altogether pleasurable quiver of ****** relaxation, I sank deeper into the soft, luxurious pillows of the ornately carved, four-post ebony wooden bed, in response to a particularly loud and reverberating crash of thunder. I have always felt an innate sense of comfort and tranquility, in both mind and body, in the midst of thunderstorms, and tonight, the perfect alignment of carnal passions, intense sensuality, and the cacophony of the tempest outside, rendered both myself, and the Countess Cynthia Ann, into a trancelike and intensely relaxed sense of contentment and satisfaction.
     I reclined there, amongst the tufted pillows and sateen, ox blood colored sheets, in a heavy and hypnotic sense of dreamlike tranquility, where it seemed that at any moment, my soul could leap straightaway, out from my pacified body, and up and into the storm’s raging tumult. With each passing moment, I found it ever more difficult to discern which sounds and sensations were true, and which were the phantasmic creations of a mind that was sinking ever deeper into an entrancing sleep. This wonderful, indulgent feeling - the intermixing of true manifestations and sensory delights within my present situation, that is, within the world of the senses, and the fleeting, ephemeral and illusory realm of the soporific mind.
     The penthouse suite that we occupied was situated on the fourth floor of 13 Waterloo Place, facing south towards Old Calton Cemetery in Edinburgh. The staff of the lodging had met our expectations most considerably in the few days for which we occupied the apartment, and the Countess and I were delighted with the experience we shared here, while on official business at the Transylvanian Embassy at Regent Terrace. Thankfully however, our stately duties had been successfully fulfilled well before the anticipated terminus, and the remainder of our occupancy had been spent engaged in wandering the foggy streets and winding, misty alleys of Holyrood and Old Town Edinburgh by day, and various academic and artistic endeavors, and all manner of transgressive erotica by night.
     The pursuits of this afternoon and evening were particularly well suited to our insatiable thirst for refined, humanistic interests, as we attended an exposition of “Horrible Imaginings” by John Hamilton Mortimer, centered around his “Death on a Pale Horse” and accompanying works, at the National Galleries of Scotland. Paintings, sculpture and artwork of metal, stone and clay are of particular interest to the Countess, and are generally well suited to ease the anxious nerves she tends to develop during extended periods of travel. The other unfailing remedy to ameliorate her fretful moods is to provide a series of intense and prolonged ****** *******.
     It was towards these ends that I engaged with the Countess this evening shortly before sunset. She had received, with great surprise and delight, a delivery of fine, french lingerie and instructions to be adorned in such, in anticipation of my return from a series of brief transactions with our contracted exporter in the vicinity. The contents of her parcel included a pair of red thigh high stockings which featured a pattern of rosette lace and a criss-crossed design of black threaded ribbon up the near-entirety of the leg, where around the mid-thigh, a thick trim of Alençon lace encircled the top. There was also a matching set of black and red lace ******* and brassiere, along with a sheer, black, mid-length robe with a silken band that could tie around the waist. The Countess is possessed with a most exquisite and radiantly dark feminine beauty, and I would be woefully remiss in my adoration of her, were I not to provide the most elegant and seductive apparel to compliment her desirability.    
     Indeed, upon returning from my excursion, she had donned her new attire and was eagerly anticipating what exhilarating pleasures would be released upon her, and in that role of directing the symphony of amoromasochistic gratification, I was more than happy to oblige. To accompany our extended travel itinerary, I had assembled a variety of accoutrements which the Countess would be particularly pleased to utilize - restraints, floggers, blindfolds, plugs and gags, most of which were employed during the course of this extended evening. I must admit that I derive a limitless exultation in my efforts to please the Countess and her insatiable libido, and in conjuring up ever more intensifying ******* convulsions of both mind and body.
     And here, with her head resting on my lap, and consumed by an intense and heavy contentedness, was my beautiful bride, basking in rapturous relaxation and exhaustive quietude. She laid on her left side, tightly up against me, with her right arm extended out and across my legs, and her hair splayed delicately over the dark red, silken cushions that cradled her upper body. Her right leg, long and sumptuous, was exposed, out from the comforter below, and by the soft flickering of candlelight that faintly illuminated the room, I gazed upon her, tracing every subtle line of her stocking and lace that was visible to me.
     My mind was singularly at ease and I made no attempts at breaking the intoxicating spell of the moment. As the storm raged overhead, I gently caressed her face and her hair, softly stroking with a touch that conveyed my tenderness and adoration. The fingerless, black meshnet sleeves upon my arms, and the sheer tunic I wore provided a suitable and sensuous protection from the cool dampness of the night. In regular intervals, and with ferocious, resounding thunderclaps, bolts of lightning illuminated both the interior of the apartment and the landscape below. I gazed out onto the cemetery across the street where each cross, headstone and statuary blazed forth in electric illumination with every brilliant, fiery flash, and cast their long shadows across the hazy green. And here, as my body, mind and spirit were being completely subsumed into this sensuous and stormy night, I surmised that if life and love were truly everlasting, that I would resolve to remain in this very moment for eternity.

Airborne  (Pt. III)
(The soaring heart of Jonathan Livingston Seagull)

Every ascent begins with exile.
To rise is to lose the flock,
yet find the wind waiting..
faithful, invisible,

  unafraid to hold you.

The breath that fills him is older than dust,
borne through  the reckoning
of one who first owned his own shadow..

Each atom refined,
each word made Light.

“To breathe is to bless,”
Jonathan whispers,

“for every breath must leave the world
cleaner than it arrived.”


His lungs remember Eden,
and the sky bends to his remembering.

Below, the drizzle hums its dull chorus..
the fat and the fed peck at comfort.
Jonathan breaks from the circle,
rising through their fog,
his wings burning clean in the cold.

“Fear not the thin air,”
he calls,
“for only those who hunger for height
will learn how mercy breathes.”


He learns the cost of air,
the ache of height..
and in that thin solitude
where only truth can breathe,
he knows at last
what it means to serve God
with the evil impulse:

   not by hiding it,
   but by turning it toward Light.

Before the Word becomes sound, it becomes breath.
And before breath becomes air, it remembers its Source.
This is the mystery of Jonathan..
the soul who learned that flight begins not in the sky,
but in the heart that has faced its own eclipse

  and has chosen to turn toward the Sun

My heart was seen today
It made smile and feel soft inside
I can't believe I am finally being me
Its taken so long and lost days and nights
I swore I was seen before but it was lies
Hearts that float by
Feeling whole makes my heart sing
Hearts that are seen are the flames in the dark
Light in a world that needs caring flames of hope
Hearts that feel the hurt and heal with hugs and action

You remind me of me,
Of my mother,
And our dark basement.

She was always angry at me,
For all that I did,
For all that I did not,
For all that she did,
And all that she did not.

She would catch me
And take out all her anger.
I was afraid of her,
A little child,
Frightened to death.

If I saw her furious
At anything, at anyone,
I would hide in that basement:
The place that haunted me,
Dark, where no one would go,
Where all the devils lived.
They still live there,
In my nightmares.

So yes, when you get angry,
Like my mother, you don’t strike me,
But you lash me with your words.

I don’t have that basement anymore.
But I escape.
I go silent. I leave.
I run into my unconscious,
A perfect replica of that basement,
Full of all the devils,
And their many new offspring
That the world cannot see
Except me.
I stay there
Until your storm has passed.

I am scared there. I am afraid.
I wish my mother had known it...
She never did.

And I wish you could help me
Break that basement.
But instead,
You are only narrowing it,
Pushing me deeper
Into its shadows.