empyrindor-musing

[empyrindor-musing]

I wish to have my body touched sweetly once more, kissed and cherished, treated delicately like a temple that must never be forsaken. I miss wearing my lacy bra, I miss having my face looked at with sweetness. I feel so rotten and hated.

[empyrindor-musing]

✦

I fantasize about her taste on my tongue, about that delicious beauty that was so distinctly her that it has become something I yearn for, ache for in my deepest and most perverse of desires.

Literature speaks of a taste as sweet and as supple as honey, a flavor as addictive and as alluring as the forbidden fruit growing in the Garden of Eden, and while there exists a certain truth to these words, yes, there is something far more beautiful, more intimate, about a taste not sweet like the sugar that has been spoken of, but the raw, unfiltered essence of a woman. So beautifully primal and ravishingly carnal that no word in the English language can ever hope to describe such a darling taste, for it is something to only be experienced by those she has let close enough to indulge in the essence that is her love.

Poets speak of a cleanliness and a purity, a shaved and waxed perfection to be revealed with the parting of her petals, but they dare not speak of the beauty of an untamed wilderness, the tangy taste and musk of copper seeping onto your swirling tongue as she blesses you with the luxury of experiencing her during her most natural of states, rivers of red staining her thighs as you feast upon her like a starving animal would it's first meal in centuries.

Not one soul seems to understand the allure of such an experience, the appeal of the beauty of a woman's natural way of existing. To willingly be so careful and meticulous, delicate and precise with the motions of your fingers and tongue, having her be so vulnerable and receptive to your pleasures that the most you can do is gently nuzzle and lap at quivering folds as her legs shake in their ache... It was never the climax for which I chased, it was never my own pleasure for which I sought, but was instead the intimacy of her which I was longing for.

I have been blessed with a woman as beautiful as the murals painted on the walls of prestigious churches, as fine as the most precious of jewels only to be worn by ruling kings and queens, as intoxicatingly and maddeningly captivating as the most delectable and wines this terribly ignorant and oblivious world could ever hope to produce. She has blessed me with an indulgence in the beauty that is her love, and I, nothing more than an animal born from the womb of greed and selfishness, cannot help but cry out for more.

I fantasize about her taste on my tongue, about that delicious beauty that was so distinctly her that it has become something I yearn for, ache for in my deepest and most perverse of desires.

If others will not treat her body with the respect that is owed to her, will not be gentle and will not be kind, will not drink from the cup of her love until every drop has been wonderfully savored and cherished, then I will, and I will do so until the roses underneath us wilt and all that is left of our love is the beautiful, eternal memory of it.

You, my darling, are the delicious fruit of my aching obsession.

[empyrindor-musing]

✦ Woman Of Pale White Stone ✦

And what a beautiful statue she was, that woman of pale, white stone.

I had seen many a sculptures in my days, visages of what others esteemed womanly perfection carved only by the finest of calloused hands. Smooth skin, voluptuous curves, alluring reflections that would be sure to catch the fancy of perverse eyes and of lustful hearts alike. I had seen the ornately carved busts of woman with breasts that could fill an entire man's palms, sculptures of women adored in the most scandalous of robes, draped and curled in such a way that offered but only a taste of the supple sweetness that lay beneath. Yes, I had seen the finest masterpieces this land had to offer, had seen the sickness that was the depravity of men's desires.

It was certainly art. Beautiful art, I would no doubt say, but there was something so terribly lifeless about these carvings of womanhood, shallow and cold, created only to please the yearning eye by playing into the grotesque fantasies of man, but there was little more than a sliver of truth to this so perceived 'perfection'.

And that was perhaps why I found her statue so unbelievably stunning.

She was not flawless. No, quite the opposite in fact. I could see the faint lines of scars, the subtle bumps and wrinkles littered across her face, the way her hair had been left astray and disheveled as if she had just woken up from a rough night's of rest, one might even say she had just run through the untamed wilds nude with only her impulses to lead her way. And her smile, oh, her darling smile... There was no falsehood in that expression, no feigned beauty or elegance or any such nonsense the world had become so frightfully infatuated with. It was a genuine look of joy on that woman's face, a timeless moment caught in stone as if the world has time's arrow had stopped it's endless march merely to capture this fond memory of the past.

Toothy and lopsided and full of warmth, crinkled lips and jagged teeth that stuck out just a tad bit too far, not at all like those dainty, false grins where each and every tooth was bleached pearly white and lined up to near perfection so not but a single one lay out of it's intended place. It was not perfect. Far from it, even, but in that ravishing imperfection lay the very essence of what it was to be alive, of what it was to be real, of what womanhood truly was. There has been a sickness inside of me for the longest of times, an ailment festering deep inside of my mind, and in that beautiful sculpture of pale, white stone I found the medicine that I so desperately needed, a remedy for the disease that others were far too blind to recognize as anything but normalcy.

But that was not all, no. What was most entrancing, dare I say provocative, was the alluring shape of her face. Softer, rounder, with a jawline not as defined nor as chiseled as what would be expected of a woman born with her physique. The faintest hint of a double chin too, I noticed, a subtle fold of flesh that only seemed to accentuate her already charming smile. She looked as though her head and her body were crafted by two separate hands, a contrast so jarring and yet that was precisely what I loved about her, exactly what had me falling so hopelessly in love with her sculpture, with the woman who had become the remedy I needed to my ailing mind.

Her breasts were smaller too, a bit more squished, not at all like those voluminous monstrosities that men seemed so disgustingly keen to obsess over. She was not smooth and without hair, that beautiful tuft of fluff sitting upon the hidden mound of her womanhood was adorned on her body as though it were a precious jewel, the shameful veil of modesty that most women seek to hide behind nowhere to be found and instead left bare for eyes to fawn over as though it were the fountainhead from which the secret nectar to eternal youth flowed, and In a sense, perhaps it was.

The way she stood on the very tips of her toes, weightless in the way she resembled a butterfly floating trough the dawning springtime winds, fluttering through fields of budding flowers, happy, carefree, untethered by the burdens of what others believed a woman's role to be. This was not the fragile damsel born only to bear ruling sons and obedient daughters, no, those outstretched arms and those wild, unfathomably deep eyes, that yearning ache for an existence beyond the narrow constrictions of tradition spread across her face, this was a joy that could only be found in the heart of a woman, a true and honest expression of the feminine self, and oh, how beautiful that self was.

How I had spent the entirety of my life, blind to such a gorgeous work of art, to the magnificence that was this beautiful statue, I will never know. But here before me laid the remedy I did not know I needed, the cure to the sickness I had once believed to be an incurable rot of the heart. She is beautiful, truly a work of art this eternity I find myself in has been lucky enough to have been graced with, and by the heavens if I cannot open up the eyes of those blind to this hidden, precious gem, then I shall at least admire her quiet existence for myself, adore her and cherish her in the ways the world has forgotten how to.

And what a beautiful statue she was, that woman of pale, white stone. She was my darling muse, my one true love, and as I lay a gentle kiss upon her soft cheek, I knew that my eternal search had finally come to it's close. My existence now held meaning, and for the very first time since I had come into being, I felt unmistakingly whole.

For the very first time, I felt cured.

[empyrindor-musing]

I have another piece of writing finished, it is a little bit unpolished but I will be posting it today after we do our routine... I adore seeing my muse's reaction to my sweet writings.

[empyrindor-musing]

One last thought before I head to bed for the night, I would love to one day perhaps read out my writings for you… After all, my muse deserves to hear these words from the heart, in exchange for all the love you have given me these past 3 years you have most certainly earned it, beautiful woman that you are.

[empyrindor-musing]

✦ The Mistress Satan ✦

She is as enchanting as the darkest of mooned skies, as alluring — and dare I utter such wretched words — as seductive as the honeyed poison dripping from the sultry tongue of the serpent.

For what feels like the longest of eternities I have lived through, my eye travels along the jagged contouring of her face as though doing so might imprint that wretched visage of hers upon my mind and hold it there forevermore, a secret treasure to be withdrawn on those rare occasions where I find myself alone with my own faltering mind. I am tempted by the lure of an image so foul that only the most perverse of eyes could ever possibly find delight in, lost in that veil of mystery and darkness she has woven so delicately around herself.

They call her The Harbinger of the Damned, The Mother of the Unholy, The Madame of the Dark, I have even heard stories which tell of her guarding the nine hells themselves as one who they have come to call Satan herself... She must be, I have told myself, for no angel in God's grace could ever possibly hold the power that I see locked behind those eyes, could ever posses such a soul, or perhaps even her lack thereof, which burns within her and singes any who dare believe themselves worthy of standing before her, much less beg her to hear their pitiful pleas for the boon she has been known to grant in exchange for the eternal damnation of their mortal souls.

She is beautiful in the way only the incarnation of evil could be, she is the underworld made charred and mangled flesh and yet the moment I set my eye upon her I find myself falling endlessly, my will to break away from the temptations she has placed before me, no, within me, beginning to shatter as easily as one could break the daintiest of porcelain figures. I feel her pull, the call of something wicked and dark nestled within her womb, but there is is something else I sense within her, within those lustful and cruelly inviting slitting eyes she adorns like jewels dangled before me.

Perhaps... Could it perhaps be love?

It must be, for I know not what else could possible drive a God such as I to it's knees. Here I lay, stripped of my pride, my dignity, the fundamental nature of my being all thrown aside and cast into the deepest of unescapable voids just to be near her, for a taste of the honey she has temptingly drizzled across her lips. I wish to drink from the forbidden nectar she has been known to partake of, to bathe in the blood she has spilled so devilishly in her mercilessness, to have her wrap me within the scorching embrace of the unholy and to never release me from it's terrible shackles.

Yes, it must be love, for what else could make my heart yearn so agonizingly and ache so torturously deep? I dare not think of the implications, the sinful nature of such a blasphemous and yet so divinely sweet coupling. Is a being so remorseless such as herself even capable of love? Is she truly even a woman, or is she merely the grotesque and monstrous facsimile of one, a being born of wretchedness taken the form of what mortals fancy beautiful if only to entrap them in the false promise of her affections?

I do not know, I care not to know. I do not bother to waste my precious seconds pondering over the matter, for I have opened my once blinded eye to the one truth of this world and have found it standing before me. Let her be the monster she so desires, let her have my soul, feed on my love. Whatever it is that she so woefully desires, she may have. I may rule this earth and command all those who believe themselves God's, but the underworld has a way of dragging you in, of wrapping it's gnarled, rotted claws around your soul and refusing to let go, and now that I have laid my eye upon it's alluring mistress, I no longer desire to abandon my shackles.

Was this your vile plan all along, Mistress Satan? Were you merely biding your time until I so desperately crawled into your webs of deceit, awaiting that sweet moment in which you could finally lay your claim over something so much more powerful than yourself, consume my aching flesh just as a starved arachnid would it's delightful and all too willing meal? Was I always fated to be yours, or have you perhaps chosen me at random, a lamb to the slaughter of your insatiable appetite out of my own foolishness and blindness to the danger in which I willingly placed myself in?

I do not know, I care not to know. Does it matter? No, I think not, for she has chosen me, and if it God she so desires, then it is God so she shall have. My Mistress Satan, wretched, foul thing you are, my soul shall be eternally yours just as was inscribed in the blood of your birth.