#goth
Dim light
outside the hospital,
a misty dawn,
the smell of linoleum and disinfectant,
stretchers carrying
frail bodies toward the ICU.
Wait…
Wait…
Wait…
Eight in the morning,
the chapel open since 1886,
and I
inside the building,
a spectator
among uniforms,
among sickness,
among spotless walls
and the anxiety
of being left behind.
6d ago
May 28, 2026 at 4:38 PM UTC
I keep my sickness polished.
Comb my hair back with ***** hands.
Stand straight in church-basement light
trying not to grin like an animal.
There’s something wrong in me.
Something humid.
Something that opens its mouth
whenever the room goes quiet.
I like the smell of ruined things.
Basements. Wet fabric.
Perfumme mixed with hospital air.
The sweet copper warmth underneath apologies.
It is deranged.
Vile little habits stitched behind the teeth.
The kind you hide like bruises under black sleeves.
My shame is never clean.
It sweats.
It lingers in the throat.
I watch myself rot in reflections.
Eyes too bright.
Mouth twitching at all the wrong moments.
Half disgusted. Half starving.
There’s excitement in corruption.
The body leaning closer
while the mind recoils like burnt skin.
Every craving arrives dresed as punishment.
Every punishment comes back wanting more.
I’ve touched loneliness so long
it feels intimate now.
Like a fevered thing sleeping beside me
with its ribs showing through pale skin.
People sense it now.
That damaged appetite.
That faint cemetery smell beneath conversation.
They step back slowly.
Like they’ve seen blood in my mouth.
Still, I keep speaking softly.
Keep smiling politely.
Keep all the perverted little hungers
buttoned inside the suit.
Like insects in a reliquary.
Like maggots sealed in silver.
Alive.
Still moving.
May 22
May 22, 2026 at 2:17 PM UTC
My poetry is like a cemetery of a silenced void.
Never heard, never seen, never found by choice.
Lost beyond the trees,
lies my little cemetery of broken dreams
where withered desires still are running free.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 1:35 PM UTC
Keen are the eyes
Of the blind holy man
Sensing a distinction
Between the good & the evil one
I was indoctrinated
By the side of the mortuary
Into the church of light
From the moment I first saw the sun...
Alas! I was alive at first light. . .
Alas! Alive tonight with newfound sight!
Curious predeliction of the ones
Who are unseen and unheard
Reign of dissention is in your television
Your political love has poltergeist origins
Horrific, the demon shrieks now as it is unearthened
The wicked eat the children
While taxpayers watch in inflation
Reverence has blown out the glass Windows impose a lack of decency
Newfound boundaries break me down
Do not voice your opinion outloud yet
Boy you better keep your mouth shut
Bombs desciccate the already barren land
Body parts are strewn about a ****** desert
Our news now displays a red herring
All things vile & racist sabotage us American sins rest under the carpet
Bombardment of psychological warefare
Solidiers of misfortune, in the name of "God"
We are frigid out among the chilling air
White knuckles call for redemption
A forecast of peace but a war remains
Upheaval of misunity prevails
As summer heat recharges
The Constitution has been shredded
With barefoot seizures upon our own soil
A toddler with his weak hands upon the keys of ****** & capitalism
Sorrid buttons of war await at the desk
Like a planchelette brandished in the candle light glow
A country playing games with the Devil
Tunnel vision of the spectres & theives
Another spell, maybe another time...
Mar 26
Mar 26, 2026 at 5:05 AM UTC
I loved you in the dark
while you were an open wound.
I gave you light,
you gave me only cold.
You hurt me, yes—
but pain also teaches how to wake.
I hold no anger.
I learned to love.
You’re still learning not to run.
Now I bloom far from your ruins,
stronger,
softer,
finally mine.
@newgirldark
Feb 11
Feb 11, 2026 at 12:09 PM UTC
hand in hand,
whispers of love,
shared music
and spit.
all behind
the safety of
your bedroom door.
people ask,
they wonder
if you are mine.
I ignore their questions,
none of their business.
making out to
my chemical romance
doesn’t concern
anyone but us.
hidden feelings,
denied labels,
my secret.
Feb 11
Feb 11, 2026 at 5:04 AM UTC
The Tell-Tale Heart: "Write about a time you felt immense guilt, but imagine that guilt as a physical sound or object that everyone else could hear or see".
🐦⬛
I looked out into the deep ocean, a place that is a frozen cold graveyard for many. It's the only place I felt at peace after his death. I didn't live anywhere near it, but, when I was near it. That was the only time I felt at peace with myself, or somewhat cold.
A raven soars by in the autumn breeze, I run through the jungle of corn mazes. The golden rows are like golden braids of hair forming a crown.
I heard the crows and ravens squawk in harmony, in the autumn sun, I felt the guilt wash over me as if it was somewhat my fault. I didn't know him well, but we ran together.
A teammate, a possible future friend. Now I'm left with the memories and what was the end. I spent that summer trying to catch up with you, only to run out of air and realize no one could catch up with you.
You were gone too soon, you ran away, to the kingdom in the sky. I'm still hung up, as the world tries to move on.
Feb 2
Feb 2, 2026 at 2:17 PM UTC
She powders her face to funeral white,
Blackenned mouth set hard for night.
Spider-veins bloom beneath her eyes,
A patient map of soft despise.
Steel rings bite her lower lip,
Blood kept clean with a steady grip.
She breathes out smoke and rottwn clove,
I kneel inside the ash of love.
Let me serve you, stripped and still,
Tend the bones you wear by will.
Your voice unthreads my careful will,
Each word a wound I beg to fill.
May I light your cigarette,
May I bleed where your fingers set.
Take me walking where angels rot,
Between the graves the church forgot.
You frighten me, I beg for more,
My heart a bruise you press and sore.
I think of you a hundred times,
Boiled down to broth, to salt, to brine.
Drink me thin. Reduce me whole.
Let me steep inside your soul.
Love me living. Love me dead.
Plant me where your shadows fed.
Bury me close. No cross. No sound.
Let my ribs learn burried in ground.
To dance with you is final breath,
A perfect ache. A kissed-off death.
Jan 25
Jan 25, 2026 at 10:28 AM UTC
I. The Spark
The night hums low through the speakers,
and my Muse lights the flame with a grin that could wake the moon.
Sleep Token drifts through the car —
soft confession disguised as worship.
The smoke swirls to the tempo,
and for a moment, it feels like we’re praying
to something that only understands reverb.
II. The Lift
We pass the joint between us,
and Bad Omens spin some strange joy into the static.
Her laugh hits harder than the bass ever could.
The city outside dissolves into watercolor;
everything blurs except her face in the glow.
Her eyes say stay here,
and for once, I listen.
III. The Drift
The mood shifts — Issues slides in,
the rhythm thick with heartbeat and heat.
Her fingers trace invisible lyrics across my arm.
The words don’t matter anymore.
Only the sound of her pulse syncing with the drums,
only the ache of wanting time to slow its verse.
IV. The Break
The world darkens,
and Motionless in White howls through the quiet like gospel for the godless.
She closes her eyes — not in fear, but faith.
The guitars crash like thunder in her lungs,
and when she exhales, I swear the stars flicker in tune.
V. The Fade
The playlist ends,
but the night doesn’t.
She leans her head back, haloed in smoke,
and I feel the song still playing inside her somewhere.
Outside, the world keeps turning in silence.
Inside, we stay suspended —
two bodies, one rhythm,
our lungs conducting the last note of forever.
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 12:49 AM UTC
I took my girl out after dark,
Where graveyard iron gnaws the park.
The moon was pale, the soil awake,
The crows came by for manners’ sake.
The dead sat up to tip their hats,
Polite as clerks or churchyrad cats.
We danced between the broken stones,
While worms applauded from their homes.
We drank red wine from chipped-out skulls,
Discussed the weather, death, and gulls.
A femur loaned, a kneecap traded,
Good manners strictly observed and dated.
She laughed and said the night was young,
The bells still mute, the hymns unsung.
She led me down where echoes brood,
Past saints with mouths of chewed-up wood.
She tied my hands with chapel thread,
Quoted psallms the living never read.
She cut my throat, precise and old,
The devil, she said, likes gifts in gold.
The floor drank deep. The candles purred.
I died, as promised, like a word.
She hauled me home before the dawn,
Set roses where my blood had gone.
At home she kissed my cooling face,
Set roses in an old vase.
I rose again, a cleaner frame,
All grin and bone and much the same.
We walk now, dead and doing fine,
My hand in hers, her teeth in mine.
For love outlasts what flesh can keep,
It laughs, it clacks, it does not sleep.
Jan 20
Jan 20, 2026 at 2:05 PM UTC
They come sent in holy dress,
With rancid milk upon their breath.
They grind the bones of nameless dead
To bake as bread the crowd is fed.
Their fingers thin as altar knives,
Skin steeped black with borrowed lives.
They stink of brine, of clot and vein,
their vestments stiff with dried-up pain.
Their eyes are filmed with inward rot,
No light survives where faith was bought.
They mouth out grace through swollen meat,
each vow half-chewed, each prayer deceit.
These saints grow fat on kneeling doubt,
They rot the root, then preach the sprout.
Their mouths recite salvation’s word,
Their hands enact the silent sword.
Sin slides off them, slick and warm,
like waste poured down a churchyard form.
They call us foul, they name us stained,
their sickness dressed as heaven’s rain.
O saints declared by crowd and creed,
you feed on faith the way worms feed.
You preach of growth from poisoned grain
and ****** souls to make it plain.
Jan 14
Jan 14, 2026 at 4:38 PM UTC
To become whole is to gnaw at your own ribs,
to sip the iron bloom that midnigth gives.
Hunger coils in me, serpent of heat,
circling liver and sternum in its steady beat.
Manipura whispers: consume, scorch, devour,
let flesh and marrow fade by the hour,
blood to ember, ember to flame,
my stomach an altar, my hands without shame.
I carve my devotion in shuddering lines,
each cut a hymn where my pulse resigns.
Each swallow a vow, a whispered creed,
the taste of myself the only I heed.
Every fold becomes a sacred rite,
heart and liver trembling bright,
a holy feast that bleeds within,
a wounded prayer dressed in skin.
I bite through the mirror of my own face,
salt on my tongue like a lover’s trace,
I press my teeth to the curve of my arm,
to throat, to thigh, a altar of harm.
Bones crack open under desire,
vertebrae clicking like bones in pyre,
I drink the blood of my fervwnt claim,
wear my bones as pearls of flame.
Marrow crumbles soft in my hands,
sinew coils as crimson bands
and in the hush of a starless lull,
I cradle the ghost of my mortal skull.
Teeth and tongue, a priesthood old,
chanting psalms of hunger bold.
Love is a feast, a glutton’s decree,
rotting sweetness laid bare for me,
fear decays, obedience dies,
yet holiness flickers where ruin lies.
To eat oneself is to remain,
to sip the fire beneath the vein,
to swallow the tender, pulsing ache
until devotion is all I make.
Until hunger, burning from above,
collapses inward and becomes my love.
Jan 14
Jan 14, 2026 at 6:57 AM UTC
She carries her longing in the cage of her ribs,
a quiet gnawing thinning bone as it lives.
In the dark she mouths the name she dares not say,
letting it rot sweetly on her tongue, soft decay.
Her devotion bruises her deep inside,
a hunger that climbs where her shadows hides,
vertebrae singng in trembling chain
until her whole back hums with aches remain.
She moves through the night with a grace,
bearing witness to love’s ruin etched into her face.
She imagines her beloved near,
and something feral coils sharp with fear.
She would press her heart into her lover’s hands,
let the muscle bleed in ruby strands,
let the chambers open, torn apart,
to pour out the meat of her heart.
She dreams of closeness as marrow to bone,
a slipping into the hollow, wholy known,
The thought alone fractures her breath.
she kneels to absence, courting death.
She longs to be eaten, body and name,
bitten through softly, set wholly aflame,
to be swallowed by arms that burn without rest,
to dissolve in a mouth that knows her best.
And she would devoure in turn, in kind,
taste the heat beneath a beloved spine,
grind longing on longing until, undone,
both hungers collapse and rot into one.
She whispers her worship on trembling breaths,
hoping her lover can hear what is left.
And into the darkness she steps,
where she waits,
ready to love her to death.
Jan 7
Jan 7, 2026 at 9:49 AM UTC
I keep a ghost who shares my rooms,
she nests in cracks, in dust, in fumes.
She dims the lamps, she chill the floor,
and waits for me by every door.
Her breath is rot and faded rose,
a sour scnet the night bestows.
I feel her near the silvered glass,
her touch arrives as shadows pass.
She dines with me on borowed heat,
her hunger spare, her mouth descreet.
She tastes the pulse beneath my skin,
and waits to see if I give in.
At night she draws me from my rest,
lies heavy where no flesh is pressed.
The bed recalls the weight it knew,
the sheets remember what we do.
She dances close, then thins from sight,
returns when rooms forgets the light.
I sleep half-held, half-given rot,
a lover claimed by what is not.
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 2:19 PM UTC
especially on black and blue twilight nights like this,
graced with december wind and rain droplets
caressing gently as it weeps down winter stone and bouquets of anemone
there’s a sweetly scathing chill that reminds me
of the times where going out shopping with her was what i looked forward to most of all
before the months of having to hear how they were going to split me in two
even now, i still sometimes wish it happened
maybe things would be better that way
me and my father
or maybe just me and my mother
i always got told i looked just like her,
since then i’ve tried everything possible
to exhume the traces of her from my bones
either way, it’s just me now
and on this black and blue twilight night
where the sky is so empty
i feel like even the stars are embarrassed of me
bare tree branches splitting and fracturing
like a deadly disease coursing it’s way through a victim’s brain
or a shatter streaked along an old church window
showing me the multitudes of possibilities and scenarios
you could've done more than just kept my hunger at bay
or let me stay home for one more night
show me the grace that you drop down to your knees for
tell me again, how i should i be grateful
you are the one part of me that isn’t gentle
and yes, on some nights like this
at this point, every night feels like this
it’s almost as though i’ve been forsaken by god
i even try to fix my gaze around the stars to see if i can look him right in the eyes
i would curse him and say things i wouldn’t say to my worst enemy
let alone my own father and mother
but now, i just look up with eyes longing for very abrupt shutting and sigh a pitiful
“please”
strewn about the corner of my rusted mind where a single flickering halogen bulb shines
now, i just wish he would rip me from where i stand
and clasp me in freezing space
where the only warmth is from the stars far away and the sins right behind me
my body limp, head and arms tilted back as if to say
“just do it already”
as he gnaws into my soul held together by a thread
with his pitch-black all-encompassing eye of nothingness
because that's all he's ever wanted me to see
this tomb is my tomb
damp with blood and tears
both cold and merciless
like my creator’s hammer that breaks me into pieces
and there’s not a person alive
that can take that away from me
i know now that i need to hold it in the arms of a mother
a mother who could hold without prerequisite
hold it in the arms of something closer to holiness than blood could ever be
tousle it’s hair gently and kiss it goodnight
look it in the eyes directly and tell it that it has a right to be
S. Azrael
Dec 14, 2025
Dec 14, 2025 at 3:55 PM UTC
A soft, muted and mournful snow fell placidly upon the carved headstones and iron-gated crypts of the Burying Ground at Westminster Church, where the Countess Cynthia Ann and I had come to pay our solemn respects at the tomb of Mr. Edgar Allen Poe. The anniversary of the publication of “Ulalume” was approaching, and the Countess and I felt moved to take the occasion to sojourn to his resting place and offer our admirations and reverent remembrances of our dear friend Eddy, whose preponderance still reverberated through our hearts and minds with a resounding echo.
It was nearly half past ten on a bleak December morning by the time we had arrived in Baltimore by train, and made our way to the stately, brick-walled cemetery on West Fayette Street. Rolling pockets of mist and fog arising from the harbor slowly drifted through the deserted streets as we approached Old Westminster Hall. Stepping through the ornate, wrought iron arch at the entrance to the churchyard, we were engulfed with an overwhelming and bittersweet melancholy, where the profound despair of loss scintillates with a wistful, even intoxicating sense of nostalgia.
As we meandered slowly down the western pathway I ran my fingers over a few of the cold stone slabs and lent my appreciation to the names and dates which had been carefully and lovingly carved into their silent, dreary faces. Patriots, generals, benefactors, and families of high esteem were all interred here, the beloved children of Baltimore who had, in days of yore, gifted strategic victory or humanistic enlightenment to their community and the nation writ large. It was no mistake then, that upon turning left around the rear of the church, we were greeted by the most profoundly inspired monument of them all - that of Poe himself, flanked by the headstones of Virginia and Maria Clemm.
Although my breathing became nearly seized at the sight of Poe’s marble memorial, I rendered a delicate and heartfelt “Hello again Edgar” and in a low hushed voice, the Countess offered “We’ve missed you, old friend”. There we stood, at length as we marvelled at the passage of time, and the events that had unfolded in the years since Poe’s death. We mused with a friendly humor at whether the dastardly events of late would have spurned him towards a deeper madness, a more isolated melancholy, or more likely, both.
After we had fully satisfied our hearts with reminiscences of Poe’s legacy and the personal anecdotes with which we were entwined, we proceeded to accomplish that which was the purpose of our visitation. From the inside pocket of my black overcoat, I produced a bottle of Martell XO cognac and uncorked it. Raising the bottle up against the light wisps of falling snow, I said “We still haven’t forgotten you”. The Countess and I each took several swills from the bottle as we passed it back and forth, enjoying the warmth it provoked in the face and hands.
As a mild tipsiness enveloped her, the Countess let go of my arm and sauntered to a nearby mausoleum, where she reclined in the recess under an arched entryway and out of the falling snow. She quickly became absorbed in reading a copy of The Divine Comedy, which she had brought for entertainment during our travels. Her interests had recently been engulfed in the tales of deathly sojourns and extracorporeal experiences of grief and sorrow. This obsession was made all the more prescient on this day, with our commemoration of Ulalume. She was a voracious reader, a passionate devotee and a gifted practitioner of necromancy, divination and mediumship, and I was enamored by the depths of her dark passions.
The cognac was loosening my inhibitions as well, and I felt a strong surge of emotion welling up inside. As tears streamed down my cheeks, I blabbered out “You lucky ******* The fever called living is conquered at last! And these dear friends are left to suffer the malady in your absence”. After a few moments of indulging my sorrow to outpour unabated, I composed myself and wiped away the tears that had temporarily blurred my vision. I tilted my head upwards to feel the snowflakes fall gently on my face, and the cold winter air caress my skin.
It was here that I happened to glance over to the Countess, where she reposed at the alcove of the crypt. Her back was against the leftward column and her knees were bent, with both feet on the opposite column, off the ground, with the book in her lap. I traced the line of her form, from her thick-soled, tall black boots and the gartered thigh high fishnet stockings that rose high onto her long slender legs. To my extreme delight, I noticed that she wore nothing under the highwaisted, ruffled black mini skirt she wore, and the ruby fullness of her lips showed clearly that she was intensely aroused and in need of gratification.
“My love”, I said with a mischievous grin, as I extended my hand to her, helping her to her feet and guiding her to climb atop an elevated burial slab which was situated nearby. She extended her lace covered arms behind her, planted her hands down into the snow and arched her back to the limits of her satin corset bustier. I slowly guided her lingerie clad, porcelain legs open to reveal her world of pleasure as my mouth reflexively began to salivate.
A heavy blanket of lapping fog rolled through the cemetery as snowflakes delicately licked the silent headstones. Outside the brick wall that encircled the graveyard and in the empty street beyond, the Countesses’ rhythmic moaning crescendoed into an ecstatic ****** of carnal release.
Nov 18, 2025
Nov 18, 2025 at 8:20 PM UTC
My rended heart, through anguish shatters fore,
A stone, that sullen weighted spirits hold,
The scattered sands adrift on sorrow’s shore,
Where grieving angel’s mournful bells have tolled.
Uncaring winds have rendered lifeless now,
Whose tenderness imbued thy loving years,
Disjoined of radiance, the broken bough,
Conveyed to rest on waves of weeping tears.
Entombed, abiding silent kirkyard drear,
Whose eyes no longer shine with living flame,
Or consecrate my desperate ears to hear,
Whose voice, now muted memories reclaim.
Where cherished bonds of mortal presence fell,
In silent mourning, solemn sorrows dwell.
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 2:02 PM UTC
His First-Person Projection
I imagine she sees me.
Not just the lens,
but the man behind it—
the one who hesitates
each time she moves
like a question I’m too afraid to ask.
I tell myself
she notices the silence between us,
the way my words
circle her like smoke,
never quite touching.
She wears her darkness
like armor—lace and leather,
ritual and restraint.
Not to ******
but to protect.
And yet,
I hope she wonders.
I hope she feels the pull
beneath my coded words,
beneath the careful distance.
I imagine her asking:
What if I let him see me?
Not the gothic icon,
but the girl beneath—
the one who wants
to be wanted
without being claimed.
Nov 5, 2025
Nov 5, 2025 at 6:52 PM UTC
Her Imagined Perspective
He watches me like I’m myth—
not just beauty, but omen.
I feel it in the hush
between shutter clicks,
in the way his questions
circle my edges
but never land.
I notice him.
Of course I do.
His silence is louder
than the flash.
But I’ve worn this armor too long—
lace and leather,
dark lips and darker thoughts.
They keep me safe,
keep me distant,
keep me whole.
Still, when he speaks in riddles,
when his words brush my skin
without touching,
I wonder—
what if I let go?
What if I let him see
the girl beneath the gothic?
The one who wants
to be wanted
without being claimed.
Nov 5, 2025
Nov 5, 2025 at 6:48 PM UTC
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.
Oct 14, 2025
Oct 14, 2025 at 1:13 PM UTC