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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.
This vignette presents the first usage of the new term "amoromasochist" to describe a person who gives or receives rough ***, not for the purpose of inflicting pain, but out of a deep loving adoration for their partner and sincere intent  to fulfill their ****** desires.
I woke up this autumn Sunday morning
with papier-mâché clouds performing
like a ticker-tape parade from left to right
a strong breeze doodling fall leaves to flight
The birds are just gliding, no flapping in sight.

Today’s a free day, a don’t mess with me day.
I’ve no homework, or assignments
it’s like I’ve escaped from confinement
even my coffee tasted like creamy freedom.

What do you do when you don’t have to do
anything? Why, I could write a play, like Mozart,
or an opera, like Shakespeare - if I were THAT smart -
but don’t those sound like academic effort to you?

I want to hold hands in the park and promenade,
Peter loves strolling the flower markets by the Seine,  
a gelato at Amorino after lunch at the Saint James cafe,
and the rain or shine street art at Rue Saint-Rustique.

Isn’t boyfriend-time the best way to spend a Sunday?
.
.
Songs for this:
Waterguns (feat. Tom Bailey) by Caravan Palace
Backyard Boy by Claire Rosinkranz
Dreamin' by G. Love & Special Sauce
When glance met glance, and light embraced the flame,
The world stood still — no moment was the same.

Her lashes fell, yet her heart dared to rise,
He came so near, even time lost its ties.
No secret lingered, no veil left to hide,
Love's winding path now lit from side to side.

His name was whispered by wind and by stone,
Even the silence called out with its own.
Whoever she was when he met her that day,
Was rewritten in glances he gave her that way.

O’ what a gaze — what fates it rewrote!
One look from him — and her heart set afloat.
Gaze Carved in Time 12/10/2025 © All Rights Reserved by Jamil Hussain
A perspicacity elegantly  elegiac
suppositions encroaching penultimate
exacerbated metaphorical heliocentrism.
The embodiment of
"HER"
to me. She is more than my world; she is my star,
and I orbit
her
ablaze,  needing oxygen.
Obfuscated, I am all but blinded.
Duration too  long for classical  infatuation.

The endless daze of paramorphic tautology.
I watch them come and go
shamelessly.
These theogonic vestiges of eidetic suppliance ,
longingly deliquesced into a shameful, sanctimonious, idiosyncratic, aphasic largesse.
My now ouroboric palimpsest.
Acceptance, reckoning, and reasoning digested.
Hallow, hollowed, and not contested.
Beaten and never bested.
They rested.

In a languorous, perturbated nullibiety
: their consanguineous abecedarium,
paralogical and vast,
inexorable umbrage
shared Jungian past,
germinating within the syntagmatic.
Ever relaxed or ecstatic,
coalesced to pragmatic,
deleteriously, synoptically emphatic.

A subluminal parataxis.
Recondite deixis of pristine elegiac zeugma.
Manufactured proclivity, evocative perambulations
of stochastic perspicacity.
Somnambular excoriations, altogether inexorable, enigmatically presupposed flippancy, lachrymose.

Elegiac suppositions  penultimate metaphorical heliocentrism.
The  subsistence off of
"HER"
to me. She is more than  A   world; she is my event horizon,
and I don't even want to escape
her
precessional satellite.
Stuttering, sweet suffering,
effulgent,
tautological.
Normalcy?
Synesthetic redundancy…
She said, “O Jamil, my soul’s repose,
Thy touch is the flame by which my spirit knows.

Thy hands—so gentle, like petals in spring—
Their warmth is the hush that makes my heart sing.

Thy lips, O’ ruby vessels of desire,
Do burn with thirst, yet breathe with tender fire.

They press to mine in silence deep and blessed—
A storm divine, by sacred calm caressed.

Thine eyes—twin stars in midnight’s velvet dome
In every glance, they call my spirit home.

No word thou speak’st, yet all my soul they stir;
Thy silence sweeter than a minstrel’s lyre.

Thy company unveils life’s radiant grace,
And paints each moment with a softer face.

If thou wouldst let me cherish thy soul, O’ Jamil,
What joy would bloom—what bliss I would feel!

Thou art a grace no mortal hand could weave—
A gift of heaven I scarce believe.

A breath of peace, a love no fate can bend,
A flame, a shrine, my start and solemn end.

Thy nearness binds my soul in soft control—
And leaves no part of me my own, but whole.”
If I May Cherish Thee 11/10/2025 © All Rights Reserved by Jamil Hussain
Presly 4d
I can feel your heart
Beating on my lips as they
Rest upon your skin
Our hands
Fit perfectly
Your lips
Felt so right
But our hearts
Just didn't match
The terminal, scintillating amber-golden rays of the western setting sun and their long, heavy, sullen shadows elongated across the soft undulating fields below the imposing, snow-capped southern Carpathian mountains, as our coach meandered along the punctated, uneven path. And in the northeasterly sky, rising with a steady but intoxicated indifference, the scarleted shine of the full blood moon signaled the impending ascendance of twilight and a comforting decrescendo from the exuberance of the day’s revelries.
     The day’s festivities had been consumed with the most spectacular and ostentatious indulgences within the citadel at Poenari Castle, where the Voivode of Wallachia, Vlad Tepes himself orchestrated the various features of the bacchanalia. The nature of the celebration was two-fold. The primary focus of adulation was in regards to the upcoming sabbat of Samhain, and the commencement of a three week period of celebratory events to honor the thinning of the veil between the worlds of the living, and that of the dead. The secondary aspect of the merrymaking was much more personally gratifying - a celebration of the recent bestowal of myself and the lady Cynthia Ann with the entitlement of Count and Countess, upon the acquisition of a southward facing hillside parcel of land near Praid, in Hargita County, Transylvania. On this occasion, Tepes demonstrated a particularly affable disposition, having recently expelled the Ottomans from Wallachia, and he was enthusiastically supportive of our acquisition, and of adopting this mysterious and bewitching land as our own. And we were certainly eager to ingratiate ourselves to him, with great hopes of avoiding the same fate as the thousands of enemy soldiers, whose bodies, at the base of the mountain, were impaled onto wooden stakes, in horrifying, grotesque and ungodly configurations, and left to rot and putrify under the harsh elements of the Carpathians.
     As we traversed the sublime countryside, the monotone clopping rhythm of the horses pulling from the front lent a hypnotising dissonance to our endeavor, where inside the coach, I sat in contented silence, pondering the myriad events which had recently transpired. My physical body was exhausted from the uproariousness of the day, but my mind was still racing with excitement, reeling from the myriad conversations and exclamatory interactions at the soiree, and of contemplating the exhilarating possibilities which were presenting themselves to the Countess and I in our newfound life and land. With this thrilling cacophony of thoughts and visions reverberating through my mind, I was again, as always, compelled into the more lustful preoccupation upon the beautiful creature I beheld before me.
     The Countess Cynthia Ann was by far more taken by the day’s jubilation and was thoroughly consumed by a deep-set tiredness. She rested peacefully, with her body half reclined to her left side in the rear seat of the coach, her head cradled within the folds of the crimson pillowed, velveted lining of the carriage walls. I gazed upon her with a carnal passion, an electric, magnetic and covetous desire, and the profound satisfaction that because she was mine, all of my various sensual appetites and ****** desires would be, one by one, fulfilled at length.
Her eyes remained softly closed as I indulged my ravenous vision to engorge myself with all the sensuousness that lay before me.
     The net stockings that gripped her legs, which were visible from above the top of the tall, black leather boots that reached almost unto her knees, stretched higher on her thighs, to where they were  encircled by a red lace band which itself disappeared under the rufflements of her gown, which was markedly shorter in the front than to behind. I stared with a desirous and hungry gaze, lusting over the contours of her legs, and filled with the titillating perception that each small, diamond shaped hole in her stockings was itself a window unto the soft, porcelain skin which laid beneath. Had it not been for sheer exhaustion, this sight alone would have been enough to pull me straight into eagerly satiating my rapacious urges.
     Lifting my gaze slightly, I regarded with great admiration and desire, the corset she wore above her hips. Each and every fine, silver embroidered tracery outlined the underlying whalebone structure within, and produced such an elegant and magnificent pedestal upon which her ******* were the crown. For many dozens of breaths, I watched with an animalistic desire to play ravenous physicality onto her forms, how her chest rose and fell with quiet rhythmicity of slumber, and how the totality of her feminine attributes filled me with an insatiable carnal passion for her intimacy.
     Similarly, my eyes journeyed along the lengths of the black lace and sheer gloves that she wore. The fingerless ends of her long and delicate gloves converged over her hands, which had both found a place of rest upon her left thigh. I followed the wider silver laces that zig-zagged up through each and every delicate, light-colored grommet, over and above her elbows and ending in a slightly thicker band of floral garter which supported them before reaching the shoulders.
Here, my eyes followed the lines of the two straps that crossed just below her collar bones as they found their attachment into a black velvet choker that encircled her neck. Naturally, I was then drawn to derive a burning adoration as I marveled at the long, straight strands of chestnut brown hair that flowed like a waterfall from the apex of her head into a curtain of soft filaments that draped delicately across her shoulders. Resting there, slightly above the top of her forehead, was a black wire tiara, dotted with amethyst, garnet and a thin silver line of embellishment along the frame. And, as if promulgated by the corona itself, filling the interior of the coach was the subtle but distinctive scent of thyme and artemisia that wafted from her hair and filled my soul with such a soothing, warm comfort, that even consumption of the finest absinthium spirits could not provide such profound solace. Her canine familiar, our robust and golden cocker spaniel, laid longways on the tufted seat to her right, and with a heavy drowsiness, rested his head upon her hip, as they both were gently jostled by the unremitting protuberances of the trail.
     In this glorious moment, I was thoroughly contented and satisfied to have been given the blessed opportunity to gaze longingly upon the Countess, my loving and beautiful bride, while my mind again drifted into the fancies and possibilities which lay before us, where of most urgency and gratification, was to embark upon developing the small protectorate which we had established, here in Transylvania. And as my eyes fell shut with a heavy sluggishness, I could nearly feel the cool, moist grit of the Transylvanian soil between my fingers, and the sweet, earthen smell of petrichor lulled me deeper into the entrancing spell of our newfound home.
Copyright ©2025 by D B Sullivan. All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
🇮🇹 Ti amo
Il mio amore per te è come un fiume in piena,
che scorre senza sosta,
senza fermarsi mai.

Ogni battito del cuore è una canzone,
un sussurro che ti chiama,
che ti vuole vicino.

Ti amo come la terra ama il cielo,
come le stelle amano la notte.

Ogni pensiero, ogni respiro,
è una preghiera per te,
unica e silenziosa.

— Masi Roberto © 2025


---

🇬🇧 I Love You
My love for you is like a river in flood,
flowing endlessly,
never stopping.

Each heartbeat is a song,
a whisper calling for you,
wanting you near.

I love you as the earth loves the sky,
as the stars love the night.

Every thought, every breath,
is a prayer for you —
unique and silent.

— Masi Roberto © 2025
🇮🇹 Questa poesia fa parte della mia raccolta bilingue già pubblicata su Amazon.
🇬🇧 This poem is part of my bilingual collection already published on Amazon
Maha Oct 6
did the ones before too
slam their lead into the mahogany and leather
parchment and bristle sliding across the bureau
nary a soliloquy
nor a mural
not a language on this glacier
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