what this blog is about

The following is a work of fiction set in a very far future. Nothing in it should be taken too seriously…

Saturday, February 16, 2013

and so to bed...

He could never remember, afterwards, exactly what happened on that night…that sweetest, most intense, richest night of his life so far.

It was only a series of vivid images…of power, of Eros, of her…


He remembered being before her…

Her hands on him. His clothing stripped away, falling to the floor, like the petals of a flower.

Standing before her. Her hands on him. Touching him. Roaming over his body. His passive, willing accepting body.


Kissing him…

Her kissing him! Tightly. Tightly. And her kiss! A kiss of fire and firmness. A kiss that was almost brutal. Almost cruel! Crushing him into her. Lifting his face with her hands. Bending down to him. Her lips against his. Taking him.

A kiss …a kiss that told him that he was her property. That he was dear to her. But her property. That he had no choice in what was coming.

And he did not care.

He rejoiced in it. In his willing slavery. His erotic, delighted, slavery.

Friday, February 8, 2013

He gasped...


They got lost only once or twice on their way back to his room. Arlanda didn't know the route and Bobbi paid absolutely no attention to it. Instead, he was aware of nothing…but her. Her! Her! The Sirana. Her touch, her size, her scent, the color of her eyes, the way she walked…

She seemed equally dazed. Every time he dared to look up at her, he saw her eyes on his face. They were huge and bright, and now then she'd blink rapidly, as if not quite able to believe what she saw.

And she touched him. Her hand was on his, and now and then she'd "accidentally" bump into him, or she would lean into him, also "by accident."

After stopped to ask Basics for directions a couple of times, they finally arrived at his door. "I…" she said, as they stood before it.

"Yes," he looked at the floor. Still staring at the tiles, he swallowed, felt his cheeks glowing with a blush, and said, "Would you care to…come in?"

"I would love to."

The door swung open. Somehow they were inside. He was standing directly in front of her, his hand still in hers. "I had a wonderful time," he said, hesitantly.

"Me too. Maybe we could meet again?"

"That would be lovely,"

"I…I guess I should say good-night."

"Good night," he replied. Neither moved.

Then she was on him. They were in each other's arms. Her face was bending down to kiss him. He was arching up to meet her. One of her hands was around his waste. The other was on the back on his head. She tilted his face back, back, and her eyes were before him. They lips touched.

His mind was gone. It vanished into a great warm, organic mist of flame and desire. He shivered, but not with cold.

She straightened for an instant and looked down at him. "May I?" she said, softly.

"Yes," he said, "yes," he whispered back.

Then her hand was between his legs, opening the romper, and pulling it away from his trembling body.

And he gasped…

Friday, February 1, 2013

Pretty Spooky


Arlanda stood and very tenderly took Bobbi by the hand. He stood, tentatively, and then, trembling slightly, let her lead him away.

Once they were gone from the table, Désiré spoke, half to his companions, and half to himself. "And so, to bed."

 The Captain smiled at him. "You are an expert at this, aren't you?"

"But of course. I was quite good in my first life. And I am better now."

They laughed. "You are terrifying sometimes," the Doctor said. "I wonder who is really in control of our world."

Désiré didn't answer that. He changed the subject. "Speaking of terrifying, you will want to explore our new friend's intellect a bit more. He has some spooky talents."

"Really? Such as?"

Désiré recounted the story of Bobbi's analysis of Alona.

The Doctor looked startled. "He got all of that? Just from the verbs?"

"Them, and from the grammar. He said it was too regular."

"Interesting." Elena thought about it. This was odd. Such freakish abilities usually didn't make the transition through Revival. The personality and memory went through, but not outré talents. The man who could work word jumble problems in his sleep, or who knew the scores of every sports event for fifty years, emerged from the process with his soul intact, but not his obsessions.

"Probably not a problem, but still… I'll run some tests."