The Day my Stepdad Destroyed my Beautiful Pussy

Hi

I can't stop writing at the moment. Sometimes the mind is so fertile, and usually, unsurprisingly, when it's been churned, ploughed, manured, and scattered with seeds. Seeds of doubt, of excitement, of pain, love, indecision, certainty... every multicoloured variety of every emotional species. And they have sprouted in abundance.

My latest - and it springs forth from several sources - concerns friendship, platonic love, unrequited sexual yearning, quantum mechanics, the multiverse, and a cat neither dead nor alive. As an experiment (though it was akin to dropping a stone in a pond to see if it creates ripples), I gave it an ambiguous and 'emotive' title, one likely to attract the wrong sort of people altogether, if truth be told, yet I couldn't resist it. I wanted to see what it would do to my readership figures, and now I know. Within a couple of hours it had received as many views as my last story did in a week. Bloody perverts! Don't you just love 'em?

On a serious note: I have always considered incest - both the actual act of shagging a blood relative and the fantasising about shagging a blood relative -  to be the province of the half-witted through to the criminally insane, and I now add to that the act of shagging - or fantasising about shagging - a relative by marriage. Aren't there enough people in the world that you have to do it with someone in your own household? What kind of fucking moron are you? Incest always contains an element of abuse. Sometimes that abuse is as bad as abuse can possibly be. As a society, we deny that at our peril.

Sermon over. My latest story is here. If you are one of the 'shag a relative brigade' and you got so far, you might as well read it now. You probably won't understand it, but hey-ho, there you go... :)

The Day my Stepdad Destroyed my Beautiful Pussy

Pit. Pat.

More tears fell, splashed against the cardboard between my feet like dirt onto a coffin. In many ways, it was a coffin. As I reached down to open it, Ian grabbed my hand, his pretty face ashen, his wide blue eyes glistening with tears.

'No, don't...' I shook my head and tried to pull my hand away, but his grip was insistent. 'If you don't look then it might still...'

I shook my head in exasperation.

'Jesus Christ, not fucking Schrödinger's cat again! What a fucking heartless time to bring that up!'

Though my voice was hushed, somehow the expletives were amplified and rang around the hard-walled waiting area. As one creature, the room shuffled its feet, shifted in chairs, averted its eyes. Ian was instantly apologetic.

'Sorry, Alex. I didn't mean...'

I ignored him, hissed a cutting repost.

'So if I'd never asked if you were gay, you still might not be?'

Ian, along with the rest of the room, cringed at that, but unlike the rest of the room, he instantly forgave me, spoke quietly yet clearly, as though we were the only ones present.

'No, I'd still be gay. That will never change,' he smiled, 'much like Schrödinger's cat will always be a cat.'

The silence was punctuated by a fluttering of feathers from the covered cage that sat in the chair to my right. 

'Why will it?'

My beautiful young friend clasped his long fingers about his knees, and turned his searching face towards me.

'Because that's not the thing in question. Listen: in his thought experiment, Schrödinger had a cat in a box. That's the one thing he was sure of. The uncertainty lay in whether the cat were alive...' After glancing around and seeing that all eyes were on him, he coloured slightly, leaned closer and lowered his voice, 'whether the cat were alive or dead. Till he opened the box he couldn't be sure, so the cat was effectively in both states simultaneously. Alex, I've explained all this before...'

Again I was dismissive.

'Yeah, I know. Too many fucking times.' He again looked hurt, but what did he expect? I was upset, about to be distraught, and his unfortunate scientific metaphor was too close to the bone. 'But what's the relevance of the fucking cat?'

He breathed deeply, clearly losing patience with my inappropriately colourful vocabulary.

'The relevance, my darling Alex, is that in the quantum world, in the province of the unimaginably small, a particle's properties - it's spin, say, or its position - can be many different values at once. It's only when a measurement is taken that we get a single reading.'

'So?'

'So the cat in Schrödinger's box is both dead and alive until someone opens it to check.'

From the ether, I somehow spontaneously formulated a bawdy scientific joke.

'Well then, I'm Schödinger's cake - you can have me and eat me at the same time.'

Ian didn't laugh at that, but nodded and smiled broadly, a look of curious admiration shading his face, the like of which I had never seen. He growled.

'I fucking love you, Alex.'

He leaned back in his rickety chair, rested his head against the sickly green wall and slid down in his seat. His ripped blue jeans rode up, making his bulging crotch even more impressive than usual. The tight white T-shirt also rode up, exposing a tanned crescent of his taut abs. Females old and young were staring. Men were staring too. And it was no secret as to why: from the top of his spiky platinum head to the tips of his turquoise toenails, he was gorgeous. Not only that, but he was a fucking genius too. Maths, physics, English, drama, music, football, nothing seemed too difficult for him, no skill was beyond him. I loved him, and it was plain to all that he loved me too. But not like that. Not in a boy-loves-girl way. He fucked men. He sucked men. He was regularly fucked and sucked by men, and habitually told me all about it in lurid graphic detail. And though I giggled and rolled my eyes, gasped extravagantly and punched his arm playfully, it broke my heart.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

An extraordinarily illuminating and extremely candid diary entry

Hi

On Saturday and Sunday, while my future co-adulterator was otherwise engaged (what could be more important to him than me? And no, we have not yet progressed beyond intensely sordid mutually masturbatory camming sessions), I found time to do some reading. While researching into the Industrial Revolution, I happened upon a cunningly cyphered diary entry from 1784, a period in which great engineering advancements were being made. The remarkable thing is, it is written by a woman, and a woman hitherto unknown to us. Of course, as history is written by men, it records only the men who invented, experimented, and created, while the women - and there surely were women - have slowly been erased from the collective consciousness. The entry - entitled 'Parallel lives' by the original author - is incredibly personal, intensely touching, and extremely candid. I attach it below for your perusal, along with a helpful explanatory diagram and brief introductory note. However, before you proceed, please bear in mind the adult nature of much of the text; as I hinted above, it is remarkably candid for its time.

Parallel lives

History records that a certain celebrated eighteenth century inventor and engineer was an only child. However, recent cataloging of previously unseen family documents has unearthed a hitherto unknown diary of one who appears to be his younger sister. Though written in a complex secret cypher, I have successfully de-coded several tracts, the most illuminating of which appears below.

January 14th, 1784

After turning down the oil lamps, I trod carefully across my makeshift workshop, eager anticipation beating in my breast, brass turnings skitterIng across the bare blackened boards. The wait had been torturous, yet the moment fast approached. Though my attic room is sufficiently distant from the house's busy centre, I had postponed the trial till now, held back testing my apparatus till I could be certain I had total solitude. The coldness, dankness, and darkness of a midwinter's Sunday evening should form no deterrent for a devout household such as this, and so it transpired: without exception, and as usual, the entire household - family and servants alike - were attending the kirk. Unexceptionally, and as usual, I was left alone.

By the flickering light, the mechanism gleamed a pale ghostly yellow. Though simple enough in its construction and design, each part was painstakingly wrought, accurate beyond measure, an apposite reflection of my family's scientific and engineering renown. If only my brother could have seen it! I fancied I could hear the excitement fizzing, bubbling in his throat, threatening to burst through his famous hushed brogue even as he gazed in wonder. 'Oh, Jane! What a marvel you have created!' Yet he would surely never utter those words and thus must never see it. Never even know of it. The shame would be more than I could stand, more than he could possibly bear, outstripping even the shame I already bring to our lineage. 

James is a genius. His work with steam engines has brought him great fame and even greater fortune. Taking an inefficient, barely serviceable contraption as a starting point, he has revolutionised the mining industry, created a pumping engine of greater efficiency than anyone would have believed. They are instruments of incredible beauty, of almost God-like power. Meanwhile, he has reinvented himself, become refined and upright, a man who can step into the loftiest social circles and be amongst equals. The love I feel for him is barely believable; a passion almost beyond decency.

I, on the other hand, though blessed with a mind as quick, insightful and malleable as his, am disfigured, twisted, a creature unfit to be seen. Though shown a degree of kindness and patience by my God-fearing parents, I have been locked away from humanity, hidden in this cold corner of their otherwise welcoming home, an oddity, an embarrassment. Invisible. Unwanted. Unloved. To keep me quiet, unobtrusively occupied, they allow me books, tools, materials, indeed almost all I desire, though the thing I desire the most they would never allow me. A man. I want a man. A man to love me, care for me, to come to me in the night and bare me, enter me, and make me his. Make me whole. My heart aches for it. My broken body yearns for it.

Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.

I might be having an affair...

Hi

Yes, I know the title in tantalising. 'How can you not know?' you may well be asking. Yes, it's a tough one. I really ought to, didn't I? It should be obvious. Another person's flesh should occasionally come into intimate contact with mine, perhaps even ravish my internal organs, and things like that don't happen without nerves somewhere shouting out in either delight or discomfort. 

I am confused. I'm confused at what point an affair actually starts. It's not likely to take the form of a race, with a gunshot (though many affairs have ended with one). Nor is the shaking of a six an obligatory opener. Is it with the first penile penetration? The first finger insertion, or fumbling crotch-shake? Is it a kiss? And does the kiss have to be accompanied by a groped tit, a squeezed arse, a gently titillated inner thigh? If any of the above are mandatory, then my affair is not yet underway. And yet I am almost sure it has begun.

My affair is akin to a train journey and, more exactly, a journey from the great age of steam. The track is already precisely laid. The panting train sits upon it, its meticulously machined components either oiled, greased or perfectly painted. A fire is burning in its belly, steam is hissing from its shining valves, and yet - although movement is now almost inevitable - it is not yet moving. However, the horizon beckons. Pressure is building. The steam box is full to bursting. Coal is being shovelled into the raging firebox and all it takes is a signal - perhaps a nod of a head - and a lever's gentle release for the beast to ease into action.

It's a wonderful feeling. The anticipation. The longing. Though the timetable is painfully vague, the knowledge of the train's ultimate destination leaves me in a constant state of arousal, feeling my own heat, my own pressure building, and the longing of the starting lever's lascivious activation.

And so, I wrote a poem about it (Yes, another bloody poem! I'm in love! So fucking sue me!). I heard a song recently. Indeed my future lover - the one who will, by the time we get to Paddington Station, have fucked my brains into mush - played me this song, probably in an attempt to explain his own precarious domestic position. Can you believe he wants to stick his cock into me while still shagging his wife? Not actually at the same time, you understand, but in the spaces between? Well I don't give a fuck. Bring it on, I say. The sooner the better. Now! Do it fucking now! And if you too had seen those emailed photos of his beautiful organ, I'm sure you would agree. Anyway. The song he played me is called 'Borrowed', is written from the mistress's point of view, and is very beautifully poignant. So I shamelessly nicked the title (to parallel the way I am stealing him from his wife) and wrote a reply, from the male viewpoint, of where this relationship might go and what it all means. There is no sex in it and no explicit language. And that, for me, makes it all the better. It's here, in all its naked, cock-straining, pussy pulsing glory: I do hope you enjoy xxx

(Please excuse much of the above: I find myself in a state of constant arousal and thus the command of my emotions - and hence my vocabulary - is really not what it ought to be xxx)

A scratchy old 78 pithily portends the poignant resolution of a passionate affair

Borrowed

You say I'm merely borrowed

Like in some old cliché

Of a song recording sorrow

In some other place, on some other day

Well let me tell you, Miss

I have no more time, no more love than this

Please take the half I have to give

Though sad, this is the life I live

*

I'm not a book off some old shelf

Pen, sweater or a coat

I'm a person, something like yourself

Just trying to stay afloat

So listen to me, Dear

Though selfish sometimes I appear

Embrace, enjoy our fantasy

While it still thrives, for I can see

*

A day when you will turn around

Like in some old cliché

Of a song recalling happiness

Where girl meets boy in the well-worn way

For the last time you will take my hand

See that all my words were true

At that moment understand

You were borrowed too...

*

As you walk away you'll realise

That all my words were true

It was always in your sad, brown eyes

So I guessed you always knew -

That you were borrowed too

*

#free #erotica #poetica The stunning, 'Once concealed, now revealed'. A sample from this major work.

Hi

I went to the doctors the other day. He said, 'Hi, Alexandra! I haven't seen you in a while,' to which I replied, 'No, Doctor - I've been ill'. And there is truth in that mind-bending medicinary moment. I'm not yet at an age - and perhaps I have been extremely fortunate - where an ache, a sneeze, a repugnant rash, requires expert intervention. I simply heal. Eat well, exercise well, sleep well, neither drink nor smoke, take a couple of ibuprofen, apply a little Canestan, and at my time of life, most things spontaneously clear up (but please, if after seven days they have not then definitely do seek medical attention! I don't want you dying on me, now, do I?)

The point of this? Well, this week - as you may have guessed by my increased literary output - I have been ill (why every time I type ill the computer insists on I'll, ill never know). I wrote a story, composed a few poems, spent several hours fondly gazing at stuff I shouldn't really have gazed at (I will go blind one day, I definitely will). And, I decided to give away a book of my poetry.

I don't write poetry much, prefer instead the relative weight and depth of a short story. However, it's surprising how much weight and depth you can fit into 186 words (or fewer, if you are extremely clever). Every word has to be at its very best. There are no passengers in a poem. One meaning is simply not enough! There has to be layers, surface metaphors, shallow metaphors, buried metaphors. And a punchline. Yes, a bloody punchline. Like a joke. It's no good rambling on about roses, or wandering around a bunch of daffodils, if there isn't a hidden thorn or a concealed stinging insect amongst its beautificent petals.

I like a joke. The one at the top of this post is, I believe, of the late, great, and very much-missed, Tommy Cooper. The poem below is mine. It's taken from an illustrated collection of similar verse entitled, 'Once concealed, now revealed' which is free on Amazon until tomorrow night. Yes! Free! What are you waiting for? What have you to lose, but the most valuable commodity of all, time itself! That's why I didn't go into marketing.

This fiendishly-clever and intriguingly-illustrated little book can be downloaded here:

'Once concealed, now revealed' on Amazon

I'm going to be blunt now. While shagging or being shagged, have you ever closed your eyes and imagined you were with someone else? In a frantic effort to stay lubricated or to keep it up, have you thought about an occasion when you were shagging someone else? Quickly flicked through all the salacious memories, searching for the most dirty, the most inspiring, the most apposite, till sudden necessary chemicals are injected into the bloodstream and you are once again wholly turned on? Feel your heart quicken, the blood pulse, the juice flow! Oh, yes, remember when Gordon slipped it up my arse for the first time, just as I was dying for him to do it... fuck, it hurt, but god it was good! Or that time Mary simply whipped it out in the lift between floors and took my whole load before we got to women's lingerie? Well, those two just worked for me. Blood pounded. Juices flowed.

I stitched together a few similar examples in 'Frankenstein's lover' and paced the bloody floor waiting for that promised storm to strike. Ah! Distant rumbles. Heavy drops spattering the smeary glass. Here it comes! Egor! Get me my rubber gloves!

Artwork for the poem, Frankenstein's Lover © Alexandra Amalova

Frankenstein's lover

Break the sod and shovel through the wormy loam

Crack the casket lid and take my lover home

Cut away the flesh and sinew, hack the bone

Slap the slab and pierce the jigsaw till it's sewn

Search the hallowed ground, a stone, a memory

Then dig for death, a corpse of one once dear to me 

Fill the barrow, wheel away by raven night 

Hobble down the cobbled road towards the light

Vaulted dank laboratory, black with bloody

Stains and pale remains of loved ones I shall study

Piece by bitter piece. Regret I hose away

Then labour long to resurrect a bygone day

Jane's green orbs once danced upon my firm young skin

Silvia's tongue and flashing teeth I stitch within

Amanda's sweet lips - fit to raise the dead; Anne's hair

Completes the pillowed head; I leave it sleeping there

Such alabaster breasts were May's; whose suckled teats

Were these? And here, so taut, the belly of my teacher

Reaching for me, Judith's skilful teasing hands

Dear Lorna's lissome legs await my harsh demands

Wait! This bungled bag of bones entails the beat

Of organs... Becky's brain and Martha's heart replete

With lights and larynx; Stella's stomach for affairs,

Eschewing spleen and brewing bile oft biding there

A spark! A flash! Beneath the sheet the monster wakes

'Alive! God, It's alive!' I cry. The body shakes

And rises, bares its perfect torso. Scars are healed!

In heaven's name! I made an angel, now revealed

In all her naked glory; now she bids me lie

And taste her perfect flesh. Such wonders I espy!

My loves, compounded into one immortal creature

Each donating but a single perfect feature

Break the silence, chase the shade across the wastes

Crack my eyes and see the icy truth and taste

Her lips squeezed dry by tired familiarity

Thank God, tonight my lovers lived inside of me

*

When first I saw you - an erotic poem

Hi

Here's a quickie about just that. A quickie. We all suffer temptation. Well, no, that's not true. I actually enjoy temptation. I love being pulled off the narrow path and into the deep dark forest. So. Here's the tale of one such deliciously circuitous episode, set within the verbally soaring and liberated yet iambically pentametered and grounded format of a 3 stanza 24 line poem. It will take you less time to read than his words and actions did to make me... come to think of it, much less :) I hope you enjoy the reading as much as I enjoyed the kneading.

Alexandra :) xxx

When first I saw you

When first I saw you, saw you raw but saw

you not, I gaped in awe; the flawless flesh

a blurry fist failed to eclipse. Enlisting

spit an index finger painted purple

prose upon its bloody nose and glistening

oozing juices snoozing sluices in my

loins awoke, provoking evocations,

shock incursions of my hungry meat.

*

And now I see you, see you whole and hold

the organ in my palm, inverted tree and

dangling camphor nuts; I bow in reverence,

suck the oozing juice; the noose about my

nodding neck is loosened; fashion passion

lacerates, bares blinking tits and winking 

weeping eye. Round peg: round hole, our goal

approaches train-like; ride it to the line's end.

*

Slick, I clicked at random; tandem fates

collided on our grainy jerky jerking

night-shift; private-public demonstration

of your gorgeous cock stock-stilled my

finger-clicks; I gaped in awe at flawless

flesh, the peg, the pole, a perfect fit;

the hole, my whole now clasped around its wrinkling

discharged state. Thank god for fate, thank god!

*

New #erotic short story: The lift descending

Hi

I love classical music. The ones amongst you in the know, the switched on and observant may know where this is going. Vaughan Williams, I hear you ask? The mere mortals amongst you (and that would be me included had I not set the conundrum myself) are probably wondering what is going on. Let me explain.

I heard a piece of classical music (Classic FM, a wonderful 'pick of the classic pops' channel in the UK - and by pops, I mean all the popular classical stuff that almost everyone knows and loves) while simultaneously toying with a story idea and the two things melded into one. Coincidence is a wonderful thing. My idea was for a drama played out in a descending lift, something set in the future, and concerning an advanced robot-killer-turned-civilian (the possibility of which I had just read about in the other staple in my life, the weekly 'New Scientist' magazine). So, the idea of a lift descending, containing a trained killer was synchronous with 'The lark Ascending', Vaughan Williams' beautifully descriptive piece about a... well, a born killer, a natural predator. And there it was. A story was born. Though I was uncertain where it was going (except down...) till the final few lines were upon me, it was always going somewhere dark - my stories usually do. Anyway, before I spoil it all to-fucking-gether, here it is, for your delectation :)

The lift descending

'Have you a cock?'

The question that broke the mandatory silence was empty of emotion, as when one asks an automated teller for tens or twenties. My answer was equally flaccid.

'No. I have no need of one.'

'Really? No cock?'

I was surprised by how easily the obscenity crossed her cultured lips, even though our propaganda averred that myriad such appendages had passed the other way. The irony amused me and a chuckle accompanied my reply.

'Yes. Sexual intercourse plays no part in my purpose.'

She twisted then bit her lower lip. Hyperbolic disappointment distorted her regal features.

'But that is so unfair.'

Unfairness was a concept I understood, though was not programmed to pay much heed. Such moral questions were not my concern. However, her statement pricked my curiosity and grew more pointed by the moment, causing a hesitance, a minor irritation, somewhere deep within my emotional processors. I tracked it down. Plucked it out.

'In what way unfair?'

After rising from the purple leather couch, she stepped forwards and circled me like a predator. Her white translucent shift clung to her subtle, girlish curves, while its hem swished against the plush white carpet; in contrast, her slender naked feet barely made a sound. Perfumed breath warmed the air around me. With such proximity, I could hear her heart, feel her heat. A touch. Physical contact. I was told to be wary of it. Wary of her. But what had I to fear, a battle-hardened killer in the presence of this petite and virtually naked female? Nevertheless, I knew she was inordinately clever, deliciously deceitful, and so I remained ever vigilant. Her tensed spread palm slipped inside my black jacket and tested my thoracic musculature.

'Because physically you are very pleasingly constructed, and as we are necessarily going to be spending a lot of time together...'

A wry ellipsical smile punctuated her words and, somehow, the unfinished sentence completed itself. Though I was left with no doubt as to its conclusion, I necessarily had to feign otherwise. So much, at least, was obvious.

'Not so, Ma'am. Once I have delivered you to Surface Containment and verified their security arrangements, I am to return to the platform.'

Reluctantly nodding her elfin head, she wafted her long lashes then feigned a petulant pout. I turned my gaze once more to the brilliant blue that surrounded us, watched a distant vapour trail form, spread and distort in the planet's turbulent upper atmosphere.

We had descended a further thousand feet before she spoke again.

'So what are you?' The question lacked specificity. I merely raised an eyebrow. She quickly dispelled my uncertainty. 'Are you a man, or what?'

As president, her image had been everywhere, her broadcasts viewed by billions, but, despite her unmistakable appearance, I could barely believe I was in the presence of the very woman who had wielded such power. Though undoubtedly spirited, she was surely too slight in stature, too vulnerable, to have commanded such loyalty and adoration. I buttoned up my black jacket before shrugging my shoulders.

'A man. I am a man.'

'Mmm.' She carefully looked me up and down and nodded. 'It is said by some that a man without a cock is like a gun without a trigger, a thing by name only, with neither use nor purpose.'

Her akimbo pose candidly accentuated her point; backlit by the morning sun, her shift became almost transparent and, as she absently transferred her weight from foot to foot, the silhouette of her distended cunt lips issued their own silent words of contempt. If she were trying to provoke me, either emotionally or physically, she failed; my delivery remained matter of fact.

'And it is said by some that aphorisms are for people who can't think for themselves. Personally, I doubt either statement is wholly true.' A nod accompanied her wry smile. I pressed home my blunt point. 'I am built for a specific purpose and, as such, am supremely fit for that purpose, have been tested to destruction countless times.'

She sniffed, deflated, and her eyes lost focus, peered into another place and time.

'So am I, dear boy. And so have I.'

There was silence. The lift continued its descent, its repetitive mechanical machinations filtered out by my flawlessly efficient sensory circuits. Constancy is a friend to me. Change alone is a potential enemy. Smalltalk invited the enemy on board.

'How much longer?'

I stood at ease, as she, a tease, sashayed around me.

'Not long now, Ma'am.'

'Good. I hate travelling in these things. They are so...' the sweeping glance across my body was almost disdainful, 'unnatural.'

'The alternative is much more unpleasant, I assure you.'

Fed-back images suddenly scorched my retinae. Battle-cries rattled my baffled memory banks. Bodies exploded. Ships disintegrated. Fire. Death. Destruction. The shock momentarily immobilised me. Though buried beneath the psychedelic clamour, her voice, thin and disembodied, brought me back to the moment. Sensors quickly re-established space and time, confirmed both my physical condition and orientation. Quickly scanning every system, I found nothing remiss, noted nothing but normality. I focussed on her face, and recognised an equal mix of fear and concern within its unsettled symmetry. Warm fingers stroked my steely bicep.

'Where were you? What did you see?'

I produced an apposite smile.

'Nowhere. Here... Out... there.' I nodded to the thickening clouds beyond the transparent walls. 'The alternative is to fly, Ma'am. To fly between the platform and the Earth. Now war is over and the platform is in geostationary orbit, the cables provide a safer - shall we say - more predictable means of transport to the surface.'

She quickly changed the subject.

'May I have music?'

Her request surprised me. Lift music was notoriously banal. I nodded.

'Of course. Anything... in particular?'

'Yes. I had a piece uploaded yesterday, a special piece for my final journey. It should be ready to play.'

The remote about my wrist served many purposes: alarm; emergency stop; door opening, to name but three. Music was an oft underused facility. I pressed play. It began. Her enthusiasm was contagious.

'Can you see it? Soaring, gliding, dipping, diving.'

I closed my eyes. The music seeped into my ears, filled my head and overwhelmed me.

'Yes, I do. I see it. What is it?'

She laughed.

'A bird, you philistine!'

I laughed in return.

'I know! I can tell that - I'm not completely stupid! But what bird?'

'A lark. Do you not recognise its song?'

I replied honestly.

'No. I have never heard one.'

I considered adding how birdsong recognition is not high on the list of a killer's requisite skills, but wisely considered it inappropriate.

'Then listen! And close your eyes and watch it fly.'

I saw it all. Set against a cloud-bank of shifting parallel chords, the violin imitated the creature's warbling cry as it hovered then dived and snatched up a scurrying vole in its savage clutching claws. Again it soared, its song a concentrate, a condensate, of the natural bucolic beauty that had once covered the now wasted Earth. Fighting to hold back tears, I wished the piece would end while simultaneously praying it would never end. 

The dying strains faded. I opened my eyes. Though it was obvious she had been crying, she had recovered her composure and was perched perkily on the arm of the couch. She turned to me.

'Thank you.'

'No, thank you. The pleasure was mine. What is it called? The piece you chose?'

'The lark ascending.'

The irony was not lost on me. 

'"The lift descending" might have been more suitable...'

She twisted her lovely mouth and looked me dead in the eye.

'Well, yes... but surely one has to fall to rise again.'

More silence. Normally I enjoyed its mirror-like perfection; today it unsettled me. I searched for a reason and found none. Another blank whose unwanted presence further nibbled away at my incumbent certainty. Her words brought more teeth to the burgeoning feast.

'So you prefer predictable?'

I was momentarily confused.

'Sorry?'

'You said the lifts are more predictable. Tell me, soldier, who but a killer prefers fucking predictability?'

Another uncharacteristic profanity. Unexpectedly, slender arms encircled my neck and she pressed her body into mine. She gasped and her blue eyes widened, though the source of her astonishment escaped me. Moist and warm, her breath entered my mouth, its chemical composition instantly available for my appraisal. In immediate response to the unexpected incursion and precisely as programmed, I dehumanised my voice as much as was inhumanly possible.

'Ma'am, I am immune to such substances. Did you imagine my creators to be unaware of your hollowed teeth and the mind-altering drugs you secrete there? Your attempts to subvert me disappoint me - in every way.'

Though barely a single shade short of sincere, her submissive tone was still undoubtedly counterfeit.

'Okay. I'm sorry. You win.'

I trod carefully.

'No more tricks?'

'No, soldier. I'll come quietly.'

A hissed intimate whisper, the word 'come' was imbued with an incredible intensity. It swirled within me, drew important resources from my centre and out to an unknown periphery. I struggled to maintain an impassive demeanour.

'Ma'am, the war is over and I am no longer a soldier.'

Her brief laugh carried easily quantifiable humectants into my respiratory tract along with traces of complex organic chains that were harder to analyse. Standing on tiptoes, cheek pressed to my chest, and still clinging tightly to my unyielding body, she softly and sweetly sang a stanza from a once-popular protest song.

'A soldier in a suit is just a soldier with no boots,

He's still a soldier when he shoots your sorry ass.'

I rolled my eyes, held out my hands and shook my head.

'I have no gun, Ma'am.' 

She retorted immediately and with blatant incredulity.

'You sure?'

Outside, the clouds had grown thicker. The scorched surface was surely no more than twenty minutes beneath us. A quick glance at the altimeter confirmed my observations. I again shook my head. 

'I assure you, I was a soldier long enough to know a gun when I see one. And besides, this cabin was searched. You and I were both meticulously searched.' She winced at the memory and, inexplicably, I found myself enjoying her discomfort. 'Ma'am, there are no guns for a hundred miles.'

'There are guns, and there are guns...' A finger jabbed my chest. 'You are packing, soldier, I know it. I can... feel it.' Her brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, and she gazed up into my face. 'Yet you try to deceive me'

She was mocking me, yet I could not grasp the core of her jest. I countered, best I could.

'There is an element of deceit in everything. Nothing is at face value. To acknowledge this fact is an essential of survival.'

Again, her retort was immediate.

'Well, you would know. You survived. You survived everything.'

More unwanted images flashed before my open eyes.

'Yes, I did.'

'How many did you kill?'

'Ma'am, the numbers are not..'

'How many?'

The power of her delivery fired a fine spray of saliva into my face. I resisted the unconscious urge to wipe my eyes.

'Six hundred...'

Though I had barely started, she was already incredulous.

'Six hundred?'

'And fifty-three thousand, seven hundred and...'

Her eyes flared with momentary hatred. The fire was quickly quenched by what appeared to be a wave of morbid curiosity. She released her grip on me and stepped away, the loss of her weight and heat leaving a gaping void in my senses. Her pained voice tore another hole.

'You have killed... over half a million?'

My shoulders shrugged. I remained matter of fact.

'Yes. But I had some help. I wasn't working entirely alone.'

My ex-president rested her rear on the arm of the couch, closed her eyes and bowed her head. Her raven hair now hid her perfect features, became a shield for her emotions. With fascination, I noticed how its blue sheen reflected the swiftly passing clouds. Her sigh, though almost silent, filled our tiny space to bursting with anguish. After countless strained moments, she turned to face me, her cheeks now wet with tears.

'Did you ever ask why you were killing?'

'No. I follow orders. Such questions slow reactions, make me less effective.'

'But how did you know who to kill? How could you be sure?'

This was a question for which I was eminently prepared.

'Fighting machines have been able to differentiate between possible targets for generations. My algorithms are flawless. The human mind is hindered by ethical considerations, whereas mine is not. From visual contact through the decision process to elimination takes millionths of a second. The target is dead before he or she knows it. The slowest part of the process is the bullet.'

She fired back.

'And you have never made a mistake?'

'No. How could I?'

A weary sigh and further measured breathing were her only retorts. I waited in vain for a verbal response to my simply stated certainty: as a machine for discriminate killing, I had no peer.

Once again she paced around me, her voice now even and thoughtful.

'A man without a cock is tragic enough, but a man without doubt? Self-doubt is an ethical brake. Uncertainty makes for introspection and cautious forward steps...'

I interrupted.

'I am always cautious. My programming allows nothing else.'

Her reply was presto, perturbation seemingly sparked by a glance at the frantically spinning altimeter.

'Okay, so you have killed to certain rules and yes, perhaps you have not faltered in applying those rules. But soldier, have you never stopped to consider who made those rules, and if they themselves are not flawed?'

The training manual provided my answer.

'No. I am but one link in a long chain of command. To break it would invite chaos.'

Time ticked. The altimeter continued its inexorable fall. When she next spoke, her voice overflowed with despair.

'Can you not see that this is a terrible mistake? You are killing me... And yet I am on your side.'

I remained impassive

'Ma'am, I am delivering you. I am following orders. What happens afterwards is not my concern.'

'Not your concern? You bloody fool!'

She flung herself onto the couch, threw back her head and clawed at her scalp. For the first time, I noted the almost perfect sphericality of her tits. Dark nipples rose, chafed against her translucent shift and rose some more till they all but poked out my staring eyes. Her tiny voice broke my gaze. Its tone almost broke my heart.

'Forgive me, soldier. You are simply doing your duty.'

Impossibly, within our constantly corrected and unchanging pod, the gravity seemed to flux. I grew heavier. Certainty evaporated and a leaden doubt took its stead. At arm's length, yet within my emoto-sensorial field, it seemed this woman had somehow corrupted me, undermined my ineluctable certitude. I gazed at her as she, in turn, gazed out into the greying clouds that now surrounded us. Her tears fell freely, dripped from her dimpled chin and turned the shift to gossamer; her rigid left nipple suddenly appeared naked and ripe for suckling. She absently tweaked it, before wiping her tears away and clutching at her temples. Sudden resignation softened her features and, as her thoughts turned inwards, she closed her eyes and smiled. Her beauty was irrefutable; her innocence and integrity were palpable. Unexpected thoughts assailed me. I could fight for a woman such as she. I could die for her. For the first time in my short existence, I knew doubt and began to understand the enormity, the obscenity, of the things I had done. Somehow, she felt it too. She leapt up, took two steps and stood before me. Her presence was suddenly regal, domineering, and in unconscious response I bowed my head. She whispered.

'You... you have regrets.'

'No, no, I...'

Her voice rose.

'Yes! I can see them. See them in your eyes!'

I too raised my voice.

'Ridiculous! How can you?'

A reaching hand gently caressed my cheek. She spoke as a mother to a child.

'Everything you witness - kindness, cruelty, hatred, forgiveness - changes you, becomes you. It is etched, scribed on you... It scars you.' The pity in her initial tone gave way to sorrow then quickly morphed into anger. Her inner rage, the cause of which I had so recently personified, was now directed elsewhere and I was grateful to no longer be her target. 'Oh, soldier! The things they made you do! The fighting, the killing... My people! My people!'

As she spoke, I recognised a change, felt a sudden shift in my perspective. Whereas before, the fighting had been akin to cultivating and the dead had simply been the resultant harvest, I now saw the reality, felt the blood and gore of countless victims wash over me and submerge me. I felt suddenly nauseous, vertiginous. I staggered. Despite her slender frame, she caught me, steadied me, till the sickening sensations passed. 

And then she stood on tiptoe and kissed my mouth.

It was an attack for which I had no defence. I froze. Confusion raged through me. Options briefly offered themselves, were rejected and replaced, reconsidered and reinstated, in an endless inescapable loop. Based on ancient well-tested code, my combat algorithms were indeed flawless; I could kill effortlessly and unerringly, and yet this simple intimate gesture had disarmed me, completely immobilised me. In my head, an endlessly spinning coin flipped from one unequivocal extreme to its undeniable antithesis. With each passing millisecond I experienced a multiplex of indecision, a lifetime of ambivalence. As per my programming, I weighed and discarded each option then raced to the next, on and on, round and round, till my eyes cried, my body shook, and my poor heart threatened to explode.

She is deadly. I should kill her. She is lovely. I could love her. But I have no cock. And she mocks me. She is danger. I will kill her. But I want her. Want to take her. And she knows it. She is using me. But I don't care. She is perfect. Yet deceitful. She will kill me. But then so what? I could love her. Run away with her. I'll protect her. I'm a soldier. I am flawless. She's the enemy. She is danger. I must kill her. But I love her...

She was awestruck.

'Look at you! Look what a kiss can do! I can scarcely believe you have ever killed at all!'

The more I tried to clear my head, the more nebulous my thoughts became. I saw her through a swirling electron storm, heard her through the crackling static.

'Soldier! Soldier! Listen to me! You have a cock.' And then as if to herself, 'How could you not know you have a cock?'

In the tiniest corner of my mind, a lone spot where chaos had not yet taken hold, I considered the impossibility of her words and in that critical corner could sense its truth. Other hidden truths began to show themselves, till I doubted everything I knew about myself and everything I believed. At that moment, the periphery, the unknown part of me to where I had felt resources being drawn, was revealed to me. The general area, though no more than a hand's span, was indeed situated between my legs. I sensed her fingers trace its outline, heard an admiring outpouring of breath whistle through her pursed plush lips. Her touch heightened my discomfort, intensified the internal conflict that threatened to tear me apart. I uttered a syllable and then another, built a sentence from stumbling blocks of sound.

'Ma'am. Please. I am. Burning. Up.'

She whispered.

'So am I, dear boy. So am I.'

With searching eyes never leaving mine, she bared me. I heard the zip part its toothy maw. Sensed cool air on my smooth flesh. Felt her invading fingers. The dull ache in my groin masked the subtlety of her ministrations, but the ache was fading. I sensed an outline. Dimensions. Mass. Hitherto unknown nerves switched on. Her hand was cool. The fingers pliant. Insistent. Manipulative. Imaginative. Like an animal on heat, I could smell her. She was sweating, softly swearing. Fuck, fuck, fuck. And she was oozing, dribbling; I could taste her, knew her intimate flavour from the heady, energised molecules that escaped her.

'Soldier, please! The couch. Hurry! I have so little time.'

A tugging hand affixed to my groin encouraged me to follow her. With a momentous effort, I shuffled forwards, inch by inch, to the lift's only luxury. I tried to speak and found that, with difficulty, I could.

'Ma'am, we will reach the surface in five minutes.'

'That is time enough.'

She eased me onto my back, prised off my shoes then tore off my trousers. The broad curved shaft between my legs transfixed both of us, its presence a source of both confusion and fascination. I stammered.

'I had no idea!'

Her response was thoughtful.

'Why would such a wonder be hidden from you? What have they to gain from such deception?'

She peeled off her shift, peeled open her glistening nether lips and, with eager fingers, tested her readiness. Sudden insight moved me to speak.

'Because... because it makes me vulnerable. Vulnerable to...'

The fingers pressed to my lips. My heart pounded and my head swirled. She hissed.

'I have five minutes to live. Five fucking minutes. Let me ride you, soldier. Be my last. Make me cum. Surely...' she widened her sad eyes and pouted her shining lips, 'you will not deny a needy girl her last request?'

She ripped open my shirt. I vaguely recall her mounting me, though what followed is crystal clear. I was too big for her, but she was insistent. Impossibly, her nether lips wrapped around the shining bulbous head. My cock stretched wide her intimate flesh and, inch by inch, I invaded her. A frenzied series of grunts, squeals, and painful stabbing thrusts, and she somehow accommodated me. By the time her tight buttocks rested on my upper thighs, she was sobbing, shaking, her long finger nails clawing at my now naked chest. I clamped my hands around her tits and lifted her; slammed her down. Lifted. Slammed. The violence intensified. I rose to it. Met her halfway. The couch shifted. The descending lift shook and swayed. Two blurry fingers ploughed a shallow furrow through her neat pubic bush, pinched and tugged on her swollen clit, and I knew she was cumming. Rather enigmatically, though surely ironically, she cried out.

'Oh soldier! Soldier! Won't you marry me?'

Her voice echoed and her ecstatic sweating face smeared across my retinae. Somewhere in the distance, cables screeched as emergency brakes applied. As the lift juddered and slowed, downwards momentum forced her increasing weight upon me till my rigid cock flexed and my skin almost tore. Though the rest of my body was both incapable of movement and bereft of sensation, I began to pump, pump, pump my fluids inside her. She revelled in my reflex contractions.

'Oh, yes, you beauty! Come on, give it to me!'

Speech was all but impossible.

'What... what have you done to me?'

Lips pressed to my ear.

'I have poisoned you.'

'Wha...?'

'Don't worry, soldier, you'll survive.'

'But how...'

'Of course they knew about the hollow teeth! But, like all women, I have ploys, subtle internal ploys, that you men would never dream of.'

As in a dream, I watched her dismount then squat and squeeze out a thick stream of spunk onto the hitherto pristine carpet. She leapt back astride me, her flawless teeth displayed by the satisfied smile that split her face. A long slender index finger flexed before my dilated eyes, its painted nail honed and gleaming. With a squirm, she pressed its tip into the flesh below my sternum then scribed a deep cut down my belly. Tentatively, she slid her hand inside my abdomen and rummaged among my internal organs. It was painless and so dreamlike that I was certain I was hallucinating. Her eyes suddenly lit up. From the bloodless gash, she produced a rectangular black package, and from the package she drew a small though powerful-looking gun which she kissed and addressed with a great deal of emotion, much as she had previously kissed and spoken to me.

'You beauty! Thank you!' And she laughed. 'Ha, and it has a trigger! I knew I could trust you... Thank you!'

My mouth moved and slurred words formed.

'Is this real?'

'Yes, soldier, it is. Sorry to harm you so, but I was left with no choice.'

Our pod lurched and began to move once more. The altimeter counted down.

Twenty-seven, twenty-six... 

Still sitting astride me, she lovingly pinched my cheek, her eyes now full of grateful tears.

'However unwittingly, you are my salvation and hence the salvation of my people, of everyone who still believes in me. I will never forget you, soldier.'

Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen...

I said the first words that came to mind.

'Take me with you. I will help you.'

She shook her head.

'No. Your task is accomplished. I am delivered.'

'But there is no escape, Ma'am. You will be killed... please!'

'I'll be okay. As you can see,' she waved her stubby weapon before my eyes, 'I have friends in high places.'

I pleaded once more.

'Please, take me with you!'

It was as if I had not spoken.

'Now to seek out the resistance and continue the fight. Goodbye, soldier.'

One last kiss and she clambered off me, quickly pulled her shift back over her head and crouched in readiness, her gun pointing at the waiting double doors.

Three, two, one...

The doors opened. She dashed from view. Gunfire. Cries. Slumping bodies. Within my guts, I sensed another countdown nearing its end.

Four, three, two, one...

*

'Is this all the data you have been able to retrieve.'

'Yes, Sir. The explosion tore him to pieces, completely destroying the lift and killing everyone in the immediate vicinity. We were fortunate to find even these fragments.'

'And you have found no trace of her?'

'No, Sir. None. We must assume she escaped.'

'And do we know who helped her?'

'No, but the soldier definitely played no conscious part.'

'It was we who destroyed him?'

'Yes, Sir. Self-destruct was triggered as soon as we realised there was a problem.'

Drumming fingers were punctuated by resigned sighs.

'Nuke them. Poison them. Kill everything down there. Everything. She must be terminated. Understood?'

'Yes, Sir.'

Their methods were random, indiscriminate, anathema to me. It pained me to know I was once the unstinting servant of a regime that would employ such inhuman methods. More disembodied voices floated in and out of my field of consciousness, though an absence of physical feedback told me it was I who had no body. I again focussed on their words, took succour from their negatives:

No trace.

None.

And their positives:

She escaped.

In broken fragments, I heard her music, saw again the fluttering bird soaring high above its verdant territory. I closed my virtual eyes and whispered a silent prayer for the woman who had inadvertently destroyed me, the woman who had, in truth, saved me.

*****

#free! Explore my rhyming (and non-rhyming) curvaceous juicy naughty bits

Hi

On Amazon, I have a book promotion running at the moment, to rid my virtual wardrobe of these darn books. It's a collection of some of my erotic - often humorous, often dark and dangerous - poetry, each artfully rendered verse beautifully adorned by an apposite self-penned illustration similar to the one below for 'Cybersex'.

Yes, it's true! Whoever would have thought it?

 I had a million printed though only sold thirty-seven so far and, as I'll be moving house soon, you'll all be doing me a favour. Simply pop over to:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Once-concealed-revealed-naughty-poetry-ebook/dp/B00IDRW4JW/ref=la_B00AE9NUAO_1_7?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1412716649&sr=1-7

and click 'Buy now' and it's yours, sitting there on your Kindle or Kindle app, for nothing. Nada. Bugger all. But hurry! Offers like this cannot last for ever! And neither can my groaning virtual wardrobe.

Enjoy the rest of your day. And read a poem or two before bedtime!

Love,

Alexandra :) xxx

The saga continues

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Is it a poem or is it not a poem?

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Oh, soldier, soldier

Hi

It's been a while, I know, and I'm sorry. I have been writing though, so I have a good excuse.

An idea has floated around my head for years, about the girl in the song, 'Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me?' and the lengths she could go to these days to snare a man - a few clothes from her grandfather's chest would surely not attract a guy these days. Over the last couple of days (and partially inspired by a line from my recent short story, 'The lift descending') the idea has finally condensed into a completed poem! Anyway, as usual, it turned into something dark, something with a jaunty meter but with some serious themes... Look, I'll just paste it below and you can take a read, maybe tell me what you think. Okay? Great. Here it is:

Oh, soldier, soldier

Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me, with your muscles tight as drums?

Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannot marry you, because your hair should be more fair.

So off she went to the apothecary

And bought some bleach that - nice 'n' easily -

Turned to straw her hair that once curled so beautifully

And it made the soldier cum.

*

Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me, with your muscles tight as drums?

Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannot marry you, cos your laughter causes wrinkles and your smile produces crinkles.

So off she went, for a Botox session -

The most 'acutely lethal toxin' known to the medical profession -

Though she could neither chew nor close her eyes, it started an obsession

And it made the soldier cum.

*

Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me, with your muscles tight as drums?

Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannot marry you, cos the features on your face look a little out of place.

So off she popped for some plastic surgery

And though she paid several times, it still looked a mess to me

Her nose was too big and her lips lacked symmetry

Still they made the soldier cum.

*

Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me, with your muscles tight as drums?

Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannot marry you, cos your tits are the size of orange pips.

So she flew to Belarus for more plastic surgery

And acquired some tits that looked very strange to me

Tight bloated tits full of sad asymmetry

Yet they made the soldier cum.

*

Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me, with your muscles tight as drums?

Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannot marry you, cos that unsightly cellulite won't keep me up all night.

So off she went for some lipo surgery

Though to tell you the truth, her bum and thighs looked great to me

And the results, though expensive, were much worse than most you'll see

Yet they made the soldier (who, after 5 years service overseas, had a noticeable and rather - if you ask me - unhealthy arse fetish) cum.

*

Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me, with your muscles tight as drums?

Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannot marry you, cos I'd prefer my fiancée to have, at most, the skin tone of Beyoncé. 

Apprehensively she paid for dodgy surgery

Where they gave her stuff - hydroquinone, steroids and mercury -

Fucking dangerous stuff, it was very clear to see

And, though she was quite ill when she got home, she still somehow managed, at his insistence, to make the soldier cum.

*

Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me, with your muscles tight as drums?

Oh, no, sweet maid, I cannot marry you, because (though I have been too polite to mention this before) your cunt is so loose I may as well stick my cock out of the window and fuck the world.

So, yes, you guessed it, the silly cow spent a small fortune putting herself once again under general anaesthetic and into the hands of an under-qualified Filipino butcher who completely fucked up her hitherto quite beautiful pussy.

And, after months of infection, antibiotics, and pain-relief, the soldier insisted instead on a blow job then the cunt rolled over and went to sleep without so much as a fucking thank you.

*

Oh, soldier, soldier, won't you marry me, with your muscles tight as drums?

Oh no sweet maid, I cannot marry you because, despite all your efforts, which I appreciate very much - and that, thinking about it, must have cost you a fucking fortune - your insecurity is such a turn-off for me that I have decided to go back to my ex who - though she is a complete psycho-bitch - is aesthetically an unlikely cross between Jennifer Aniston, Angelina Jolie and Halle Berry.

*

Oh, Alex, Alex! What am I to do? No one will want me now!

Oh, no, sweet girl, come to Alex, baby; he was a complete cunt and you're better off without him.

So I held her till she stopped sobbing, cuddled up and kissed her gently and repeatedly, and told her she had been beautiful all along, and then, as the dark night bleached into a bright and beautiful tomorrow, I slowly and lovingly made her cum.

And though it is impossible to establish a direct link between any of the procedures Charlie undertook and her untimely death last year, I am certain that, were it not for the greedy amoral media and the obscenely heedless and cynical pharmaceutical, surgical, and cosmetic industries that drive young girls to seek unattainable perfection, my love would still be with me today.

*