#i desire him carnally (derogatory)

[umgeorge]

"Best impression of a @.Formula 1 car 🎤😂 George and the mini mic return 🙏" - july 15, 2024 📷 @.mercedesamgf1 / tiktok

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Would Blanche let me give him head?

Tw: Well, blowjob, seggs, description of bullying, cum eating, violence

Short answer, Yes. Long answer:

You would have to win him over, though. He's ridiculously shy when it comes to anything outside platonic love and attraction. As charming as he is, Blanche actually never had anyone express genuine desire to bed him. He was by no means ugly, but his whimsy and quaintness made others label him as this unromancable, unfuckable weirdo.

Blanche is almost as if he has a built in magnet for bullies, the closest to a love confession that he got was when the people around him dared each other to ask him out, as a joke. It's funny to them because Blanche is not at all an eligible candidate as a bachelor. The idea of sleeping with him is humorous, hilarious, even. They weren't laughing anymore when all of them experienced the metallic taste of his brass knuckles driven deep into their skulls.

He experienced this treatment for the majority of his life, following him all the way to adulthood and even during his time living as a hermit in his cottage. They just can't fuck the old man and they kept tormenting him because of it.

He yearns to be the romantic gentleman he would see in love films, he yearns to be treated like someone valuable like a protagonist of a steamy romance novel. Alas, he was hurt and used for so long, that he blocked that longing out entirely from his mind, to save him from the unavoidable heartbreak. Unfortunately, even when he is expecting nothing, he still gets let down.

It's not a surprise that he's wary with the notion of romance and erotic attraction. It's already drilled into his being that he isn't desirable carnally. It's an automatic no to anyone who thinks it's a great idea to 'prank' him again.

But you... you're different. You're so special and so lovely to him. Bringing up the idea of sucking him off made Blanche freeze in place momentarily, letting all those horrible, horrible memories flood back in. However, he reminded himself that you wouldn't hurt him, you're his beloved friend. His only, one true friend. It should be okay, right?

He's apprehensive at first, but with enough patience and convincing, you could make him sit down at least. Blanche would drape his hair over the back of his chair, letting it pool on the floor. He would nervously bite on his thumb as you slowly unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers.

Blanche felt like his heart is about to beat out of his chest, how could it not? The only person he loves is on their knees at his crotch level, offering to do something so dirty, something unthinkable. Yet so... intimate.

You would stop when you saw him crying, eyes red and wet. His eyebrows would be knitted together and his lower lip trembles in anticipation. Upon asking what's wrong, he would break out into a sob, covering his shameful face with his hands. He would grow hot and his ears would resemble hot embers, he is so, so ashamed.

"I-I'm sorry, my darling. I'm just- I'm Just... embarrassed." And it was too overwhelming for him to see a growing bulge on his crotch, he had never felt this vulnerable before. Not even after being called all kinds of derogatory slurs by hundreds of people in real life and online. This is a different type of humiliation that somewhat felt nice, because it was with you.

He would draw in the sharpest gasp and widen his beautiful, deep blue eyes when you took him in your mouth. Swirl your tongue around his length, let it touch the back of your soft and slimy throat and enjoy the delicious whines, whimpers and mewls that would escape his mouth.

His moans would be like music to your ears, it's so pathetic and needy. Blanche would have his fingers tangled within your hair, not to force you against his length, but to try and slow you. You would bob your head up and down, occasionally catching a glimpse of his messy, teary face. It almost seems like he's in excruciating pain, but whenever you stopped to ask him if he's hurting,

"No! N-no, not at all. It felt so good, I-I can't describe it. It felt so good..." Drool would drip down from the corner as he watched you with a daze. He would let out a cry when you went back to mouthing his throbbing cock, leaked with excess amounts of precum.

Blanche would convulse as if you passed electricity through him, his eyes would roll back into his skull as he's overcome by immense bouts of forbidden pleasure. His fingers would grow weaker and weaker, at one point even slipping off your head and dangling limply on his sides. More tears, mucus and drool would streak down his once clean and dignified face.

At his climax, his entire body would contract and Blanche would let the loudest, most lewd, most improper moan rip out from his vocals. His copious amounts of cum would take you by surprise as it fills you up to the brim, it's so powerful that some would come out of your nose if you didn't open your throat properly before blowing him.

It will take him half a minute to unload everything, making a mess all over your neck, chest and floor. It would almost look like the bedroom is flooding with semen, some even got soaked up by his curly hair nearby.

It will take another few seconds to recuperate, slowly snapping out of this euphoric bliss that he experienced for the first time in his lonely, lonely life. You would be wiping your eyes to remove the cum that temporarily blinded you.

"O-oh! I'm truly sorry, darling..." He would lean forward, cupping your cheeks and helping you clean your face up from decades of pent up frustration and desperate yearning. "I'm so sorry... oh, look at you. I'm terribly sorry for this..." He would frown, now being brought to tears due to guilt. He would be flicking as much of his semen away from your face. Blanche noticed that you're still holding quite a substantial amount between your tongue and teeth, he would bring a cupped hand next to your chin, expecting you to spit it out.

"My dear, don't-" He would be wide eyed when you decided the remaining load in your mouth, grinning happily and even showing that there is nothing in your mouth. Blanche could only dream to have the tomatoes growing in his garden to be as scarlet as his face right now.

Because of his clean diet, his jizz actually tasted... nice? It's mildly sweet and has a very mild smell to it. It's smooth, creamy and generally pleasant to eat.

"You..." He would be at a loss of words as he processed what you did. Upon realizing what the implications are, that you have a part of him inside you willingly, and in unimaginable amounts too... His cock would find a new burst of energy to spurt one last load of cum, soiling his trousers, chair and your face again.

He would then cry out apologies before hastily wiping away more spunk away from your already painted countenance.

You had to assure him that you're okay, you enjoyed it too, only then he will let out a shaky sigh of relief before looking you with eyes filled with so much love and adoration. He quickly tucks his member back into his underwear and zipped it out of sight, before it could do further damage,

"Thank you, my love. Thank you..." He leans forward to press numerous kisses onto your face, initially not caring that he's also coating his lips with his spunk. Only when it seeped into his mouth did he cringe and shudder.

"Ah, icky." Blanche would laugh, and so would you. He nuzzles his nose against yours and continued giving you kisses while you kneel in front of him.

His eyes would land on the disaster that he created while ejaculating, darting from your drenched form to the floor, and to his soiled hair too. Blanche would nervously chuckle while trying his best to wipe your face using the napkin he tucks into his other breast pocket. "Yucky, yucky." He would mumble lightheartedly to himself while he stares at you with the brightest twinkle in his downturned eyes.

"You're such a blessing to me, I love you." He whispered, urging you to come and sit on his lap, despite knowing that he would get his cum onto his waistcoat too. He tries his best to clean you up, but it's already staining everything. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

He would love you up in his arms, showering you with praises and kisses for hours if you let him. You would be as giggly as him, as his fluttering lips would be ticklish. In the end, he would bury his face in your shoulder while he holds you close.

"I'm sorry I made such a mess. I got a bit too excited, y-you made me feel things I never felt before. It was... It was so good. I-I don't know what to say except thank you." He would murmur softly before you felt a certain dampness on your clothes, he's crying again.

"You're so good to me, my rose. You're my one and only, I love you." Blanche then presses a long, tender kiss on your lips. You close your eyes and he closes his teary ones, both of you melting into each other and enjoying the warmth.

He would slowly pull away and tenderly massage your jaw, it must have been straining when you did that for him. He isn't one to brag about his size, but he could clearly see that he was too big for you.

"I can't express enough how grateful I am. You're such a wonderful angel in my sad, sad life... How could I ever repay you, my love?" He caressed the side of your face, occasionally picking out hair that clung to your skin. "Would you like me to..." He trailed off, looking away embarrassed.

You got what he meant, you said yes. But only if he's comfortable with it.

"Of course, I am, my dear." He pressed his cheek against yours, hugging you as if you're his beloved stuffed toy. "But... I'm not, I don't- I don't have much experience doing such things."

He held your face and looked into your eyes, you could see uncertainty and nervousness swirling in those ocean blues.

"Will you teach me, darling? I would love to please you too. You have shown me a world that I couldn't even dream of experiencing. I am forever indebted to you and I-I'm having a hard time coming up with methods to show you my unyielding gratitude."

[hekateinhell]

The seven deadly sins! Please assign one to Lestat, Louis, Armand, Daniel 🤓

These are not concrete by any means, I just went with my first superficial thought but I'm pretty sure every sin could be applied to each of them in different contexts.

Lestat — Pride

A large part of what keeps him from being vulnerable with those he loves is his pride.

Lestat, on the distance he feels from Gabrielle after they left France:

She must have known what was happening, that we were growing ever farther apart, that my heart was breaking and I had too much pride to say it to her. (TVL)

Lestat, on never being able to listen to other people:

Why didn't I learn from any of them-Gabrielle, Armand, Marius? But then, I never have listened to anyone, really. Somehow or other, I never can. (TVL)

Lestat, on love:

[...] the sheer excitement was excruciating, and the love I felt for him [Louis] was positively humiliating. (TVL)

Lestat, on expressing his love out loud:

And I wanted to call to him [Armand], to tell him that it was a lie I'd spoken to him, that I did love him. I did. But it was my time to be at peace with all things. (TVL)

I took a deep breath and looked away from him [Louis], wishing I could say what I really wanted to say. That I loved him. But I couldn't do that. The feeling was too strong. (TVL)

I wanted to say we all love one another. We all have to love one another. If you [Armand] and I and Louis don’t love one another after all we’ve been through, well, then all our powers mean nothing, and our dreams mean nothing, and so we have to love one another. And maybe I did say this silently and he heard it, but I doubted it. (RoA)

That's enough of Lestat, I'm getting cranky. He could've also been Lust.

Louis — Sloth

Just thinking about him makes me lazy so I'm not going to dig up quotes to justify this. But I don't think Louis has accepted a lot of agency in his life and he doesn't seem to take accountability for his part in the things that happen to him. It has always been Lestat, Claudia, and Armand who have called the shots, more or less. Left his own devices, he sits in a rotting shack with disintegrating clothes.

Sloth.

And also mood, honestly.

Armand — Lust

I feel like Lust is too easy for Armand but the other sins of desire like Gluttony and Greed don't fit as well to me. I'm not necessarily thinking of lust in the carnal sense though it does apply to mortal Amadeo, Armand's relationship with a human Daniel, and the way he drinks from Lestat in TVA.

But rather an intense and covetous longing for love, passion, and connection that takes on many forms (some of them possessive and violent) and stops at nothing.

Lestat did famously call him "the embodiment of thirst itself" (derogatory) in TVL. But because Armand is blorbo, I also have to point out that Lestat later said in PL, "Armand's not without compassion, not without a heart."

Daniel — Lust

Like Armand, he could've also been another sin of desire, I was tempted to give him Greed for variation here but Greed is more for material possessions.

Just thinking about how desperately he wanted to be a vampire, that lust for eternal life before he ever met Armand that was then amplified tenfold and combined with a desire for Armand and his blood.

No, he had never been revolted by Armand, he [Daniel] had to admit it. What he had always felt was ravening and hopeless desire. (QotD)

[cashmere-caveman]

These translations both are so thoughtful and impressive, that i really wanted to see if i could manage something fun in a translation of my own, too! This is not a very scientific approach and it mostly included me sitting on the ground and thinking about rhythm but what i came up with for a translation into german is this:

"Sein Weib verstopft das Haus mit Kram. Ich halt' ihn auf dem Boden, durchgefickt."

to keep to the verse structure i've had to sacrifice some nuance of the original, but my thought process was as follows:

for "wife" i chose the rather old-fashioned word "Weib", bc i am p sure it comes from the same root (sounds pretty similar??) and i just think it is a nice nod to the original.

weib can mean both "woman" and "wife", but is nowadays mostly used in the second sense, albeit in a "wife (derogatory)" way. According to the Duden (biggest dictionary for the german language) it can not only be seen as a misogynistic way of referring to annoying/unpleasant women but also be seen as a crass way of referring to a woman the speaker desires carnally, so there are lots of fun jealousy/bigotry/power struggle dynamics to be found within the connotations of this word!

next, i chose to translate "fill up" with "verstopfen", which is a slightly more negatively weighted word choice (again) bc it basically means "to clog up" but it fit the meter and i thought weib was already a slightly antagonistic translation so: in for a penny, in for a pound! we are sticking w the hot and bothered vibes re: the wife

the word i chose for "chintz" is "Kram", which (unlike in swedish where it means hug, and wouldnt that change the vibes of the poem lol) means stuff as in "odds and ends" but again, can be used in a "stuff (derogatory)" way. chintz apparently exists a a word in german too but i have never seen it used before and it seems to refer exclusively to the fabric.

(my first choice of words was actually "Kruscht/Gruscht" bc it just sounds more satifying with the hard K sound combined w a SHT sound but it is sadly only southern dialect, not standard german, so even tho it means the exact same thing it is out of the race due to the need to have this translation be understandable for every run-of-the-mill german speaker regardless of their geographical location) :(

the issues of "keeping it real" as laid out by op led me to choose "auf dem Boden bleiben/jdn. auf dem Boden halten" (lit. to stay/keep s.o. on the ground aka staying grounded) as a translation bc it is basically a two-in-one solution for both the keeping it real part and implies that the fucking takes place on the floor! hurray!

"durchgefickt" just means "fucked through" and was the only way of getting the syllable count right so the last line just means "i keep him grounded/hold him down, (keep him) fucked good" lol

i had a lot of fun coming up w this and thinking about the nuances and double meanings of words, i would love to hear other ppls approaches and opinions!! :)

Translation thoughts on the greatest poem of our time, “His wife has filled his house with chintz. To keep it real I fuck him on the floor”

It’s actually quite tricky to translate. Because it’s so short, each word and grammatical construction is carrying a lot of weight. It also, as people have noted, plays with registers. “Chintz” is a word with its own set of associations. Chintz is a type of fabric with its origins in India. The disparaging connotation is from chintz’s eventual commonality. Chintz was actually banned from England and France because the local textile mills couldn’t compete.

Keep it real” is tremendously difficult to translate – it’s a bit difficult to even define. It means to be authentic and genuine, but it also has connotations of staying true to one’s roots. Like many English slang words, it comes first from AAVE. From this article on the phrase:

“[K]eeping it real meant performing an individual’s experience of being Black in the United States. As such, it became a form of resistance. Insisting on a different reality, one that wasn’t recognized by the dominant culture, empowered Black people to ‘forge a parallel system of meaning,’ according to cultural critic Mich Nyawalo…The phrase’s roots in racialized resistance, however, were erased when it was adopted by the mostly-White film world of the 1970s and ’80s….Keeping it real in this context indicated a performance done so well that audiences could forget it was a performance.This version of keeping it real wasn’t about testifying to personal experience; it was about inventing it.”

One has to imagine that jjbang8 did not have the origins of these phrases in mind when composing the poem, but even if by coincidence, the etymological and cultural journeys of these two central lexemes perfectly reflect the themes of the poem. The two words have themselves traveled away from the authenticity they once represented, and, in a new context, have taken on new meanings – the hero of our poem, the unnamed “him”, is, presumably, in quite a similar situation.

Setting aside the question of register, of the phonology, prosody, and meter of the original, of the information that is transmitted through bits of grammar that don’t necessarily exist in other languages – a gifted translator might be able to account for all of these – how do you translate the journey of the words themselves?

In my translations, I decided to go for the most evocative words, even if they don’t evoke the exact same things as in the original. The strength of these two lines is that they imply that there’s more than just what you see, whether that’s the details of the story – what’s happening in the marriage? how do the narrator and the husband know each other? – or the cultural background of the very words themselves. I wanted to try and replicate this effect.

Yiddish first:

זייַן ווייַב האָט אָנגעפֿילט זייַן הויז מיט הבלים

צו בלייַבן וויטיש, איך שטוף אים אופֿן דיל. zayn vayb hot ongefilt zayn hoyz mit havolim.

tsu blaybn vitish, ikh shtup im afn dil

This translation is pretty direct. There is a word for chintz in Yiddish – tsits – but, as far as I can tell, it refers only to the fabric; it doesn’t have the same derogatory connotation as in English. I chose, instead, havolim, a loshn-koydesh word that means “vanity, nothingness, nonsense, trifles”. In Hebrew, it can also mean breath or vapor. I chose this over the other competitors because it, too, is a word with a journey and with a secondary meaning. Rather than imagining the bright prints of chintz, we might imagine a more olfactory implication – his wife has filled his house with perfumes or cleaning fluids. It can carry the implication that something is being masked as well as the associations with vanity and gaudiness.

Vitish – Okay, this is a good one. Keep in mind, of course, that I’ve never heard or seen it used before today, so my understanding of its nuances is very limited, but I’ll explain to you exactly how I am sourcing its meaning. The Comprehensive Yiddish-English Dictionary (CYED) gives this as “gone astray (esp. woman); slang correct, honest”. I used the Yiddish Book Center’s optical character recognition software, which allows you to search for strings in their corpus, to confirm that both usages are, in fact, attested. It’s a pretty rare word in text, though, as the CYED implies, it might have been more common in spoken speech. It appears in a glossary in “Bay unds yuden” (Among Us Jews) as a thieves cant word, where it’s definted as נאַריש, שרעקעוודיק, אונבעהאלפ. אויך נישט גנביש. אין דער דייַטשער גאַונער-שפראַך –  witsch – נאַריש, or “foolish, terrible, clumsy/pathetic. not of the thieves world. in the German thieves cant witsch means foolish”. A vitishe nekeyve (vitishe woman) is either a slacker or a prostitute. I can’t prove this for sure, but my sense is that it might come from the same root as vitz, joke (it’s used a couple of times in the corpus to mention laughing at a vitish remark – which makes it seem kind of similar to witty). I assume the German thieve’s cant that’s being referred to is Rotwelsch, which has its own fascinating history and, in fact, incorporates a lot of Yiddish. In fact, for this reason, some of the first Yiddish linguists were actually criminologists! What an excellent set of associations, no? It has the slangy sense of straightforward of honest; it has a sense of sexual non-normativity (we might use it to read into the relationship between the narrator and the husband) – and a feminized one at that; it was used by an underground subculture, and, again, the meaning there was quite different – like the “real” in “keeping it real” it was used to indicate whether or not someone was “in” on the life (tho “real” is used to mean that the person is in, while “vitish” is used to mean they’re not). It’s variety of meanings are more ambiguous than “keep it real”, which can pretty much only be read positively, and it also brings in a tinge of criminality. Though it doesn’t have the same exact connotations as “keep it real”, I think it’s about as ideal of a fit as we’ll get because it’s equally evocative of more below the surface. I also chose “tsu blaybn vitish”, which is “to stay vitish”, as opposed to something like “to make it vitish” to keep the slight ambiguity of time that “keep it real” has – keeping it real does< I think, imply that there is a pre-existing “real” to which one can adhere, so I wanted to imply the same.

The rest is straight-forward. “Shtup” is one of a few words the Comprehensive English-Yiddish Dictionary (CEYD) gives for “fuck”, and I think it has a nice sound.

Ok, now Russian

женой твой дом наполнен финтифлюшками

чтоб не блудить с пути, ебемся на полу

zhenoy tvoy dom napolnin fintiflyushkami.

shtob ne bludit’ s puti’, yebyomsya na polu

In order to preserve, more or less, the iambic meter, I made a few more changes here – since Russian, unlike Yiddish, is not a Germanic language, it’s harder to keep the same structure + word order while also maintaining the rhythm. I would translate this back to English as:

“Your house is filled with trifles by your wife. To not stray off the path, we’re fucking on the floor”

So a few notes before we get into the choice of words for “chintz” and “keep it real”. To preserve the iamb, I changed “his” to “your”. This changes the lines from a narration of events to some outside party to a conversation between the two men at the center. Russian also has both formal and informal you (formal you is also the plural form, as is the case in a number of other languages). I went with informal you because I wanted to preserve the fact that his wife has filled his house not their house, as someone pointed out in the original chain (though I don’t think that differentiation is nearly as striking in the 2nd person) and because it’s unlikely you’d be on formal you with someone you’re fucking (unless it’s, like, a kink thing). I honestly didn’t even consider making it formal, but that would actually raise a lot of interesting implications about the relationship between the speaker and the husband, as well as with what that means about the “realness” of the situation. Is, in fact, the narrator only creating a mirage of a more real, more meaningful encounter, while the actual truth – that there is a woman the husband has made promises to that he’s betraying – is obscured? that this intimacy is just a facade? Is there perhaps some sort of power differential that the narrator wishes to point out? Or perhaps is the way that the narrator is keeping it real by pointing out the distance between the two of them? there is no pretense of intimacy, the narrator is calling this what it is – an encounter without deeper significance?

Much to think about, but I actually think the two men do have history –  i think the narrator remembers the house back when it was actually only “his house” and was as yet unfilled with chintz. We also don’t know what they were calling each other prior to this moment. This could be the first time they switched to the informal you. 

Ok moving on, I originally translated it as “твой дом наполнен финтифлюшками жены”. Honestly, this sounds more elegant than what I have now, but I ultimately though removing the wife from either a subject or agent position (grammatically, I mean) was too big a betrayal of the original. The original judges the wife. She took an active role in filling the house. If she were made passive, that read is certainly a possible one – perhaps even the dominant one – but it could also read more like “we are doing this in a space filled with reminders of his wife and the life they share” – the action of filling is no longer what’s being focused on. Why do I say the current translation is inelegant? I feel you stumble over it a little, because it’s almost a garden path sentence. This is also an assset though. “Zhenoy tvoy dom napolnen” is a fully grammatical sentence on its own, and it means “Your house is filled by your wife” – as in English, the primary read is that the wife is what the house is full of. If the sentence makes you stumble, perhaps that’s even good – we focus, for good reason, on the relationship between the two men, but in a translation, the wife is able to draw more attention to herself.

Ok, chintz: I chose the word “финтифлюшки” (fintiflyushki), meaning trifle/bobble/tchotchke, because it, allegedly, comes from the german phrase finten und flausen, meaning illusions and vanity/nonsense. Once again, I like that the word has a journey, specifically a cross-linguistic one.

Keep it real: this one, frankly, fails to capture the impact of the original, in my opinion, but allow me to explain the reasoning. “Stray off the path” implies, again, that there is some sort of path that both the narrator and the husband were on before the wife and the chintz – and one they intend to continue taking, one that this act is a maintenance of. It brings in a little irony, since the husband very much is straying from the path of his marriage. “Bludit’“ can also mean to be unfaithful in a marriage (as, in fact, can “stray”). The proto-slavic word it comes from can mean to delude or debauch – they want to do the latter but not the former.

As for register – “shtob” is a bit informal. I would write the full version (shto by) in an email, for example. The word for fuck, yebyomsa, is from one of the “mat” words, the extra special top tier of russian swears, definitely not to be said in polite company (and, if you are a man of a certain generation or background, not in front of women; it’s not that the use of mat automatically invokes a male-only environment, but if we’re already thinking that deeply about it. But while we’re on the topic, i will say that in my circles in the US, women use mat much more actively than men (at least in front of me, who was, up until recently, a woman and also a child).)

Ok i think that’s all the comments i have!

[brooklynislandgirl]

@mynameisanakin {before}

Everything goes still.

The sensation of that is disorienting when everything around Beth is often so loud that it blends and blurs like so much spilled paint that ruins the canvas beneath. Where words often just alight, singular brush strokes, that sometimes undergo a certain metamorphosis and comes across as something far different then when it began to take form. There’s shades of breath and birdsong that die out. She can see the smooth rise and fall of his chest but his heart is not the usual drumbeat that ticks away fractions of seconds of his life. She can almost feel the fluttering twitch of his fingers from spasms of nerve or twitch of anxiety but cannot for the life of her seem to connect to the often half hidden display. 

The backs of her eyes prickle with what is often the salt of a rush of emotional tears, but they don’t come. They only threaten in the same way clouds do when they are too stubborn to impart rain on a particularly desperate piece of land.

But it isn’t horror that slowly gathers across her features. It isn’t reprimand or rebuttal. Rather with a single word ~her name~ he’s brought forth some softer cousin of surprise. Not quite mature enough to be awe. Or maybe it’s a little bit of both of those stirred into a well of more than healthy humility.

If the ocean is Beth’s mother as she claims each time someone ~anyone~ brings up her parentage and the tides sing in her blood, then nature is her closest maiden auntie. Every aspect of her life revolves around it in some way. The changing of the seasons are her religion. Each made manifest in the names of old gods. Some that have been forgotten and others who still live through music and media and people like her. The earth is treated with respect and responsibility. She uses words like kuleana ~respect~ and aloha’aina ~love and care of the land~ but she also means them. Acts in every way that is in harmony where she can. She does her best to be a good steward, to follow the natural cycles of life and death as they come, all with cherished dignity. That he would think so highly of her, it touches a part of her that she has no word for. There is an enormity there, and it steals her away for those few seconds, before colour starts screaming into her face. Until she lowers her eyes and gathers her bony shoulders inward. Makes herself small. As close to ephemeral as she can get while still existing. 

“Anakin...I...”

But doesn’t finish the thought. Likely never will.

They are so much alike in that way.

“Mahalo.”

But on the end of her thanks, there’s the tiny crinkling lines of a smile that seem to tug at the corners of her lips, not quite the mirror of it’s own, rarefied demureness in place of his curious belief.

Even that is painfully mayfly lived when she starts to think of other things, things she’s loathe to talk about. She knows better than to mention this only because she understands how powerfully self-destructive Anakin can be some times. And although she trusts him, although she wants to show him all that their world has to offer above and beyond being mere sleepers, this is the thing she is most terrified of. How hard would he fight against the power of the Kiss? He’d once asked her about self-pleasure and she’d spoken as candidly as she could though she had mentioned, in error as she now sees, that when the worst pangs came up, the yearning to be something wanted, something desperately desired and devoured...that she’d find herself a friendly leech. And that was uncharacteristically cruel of her. To call such a being by the second filthiest derogatory name that could be applied.

She doesn’t like the other words for it any better. Popular media has, likely by design from them, ruined the very idea of vampire until it is now a ridiculous thing. Wyrmspawn is the politest word her changing cousins call them and she’d be lucky if none of them ever found out her predilection. They call themselves kindred, and maybe they are. She doesn’t really know much beyond the fact that they exist. That Princes of New Orleans have been very amenable to keep the real population low.

But where as she has some buffer against being drained dry, Anakin is newly Awakened, still has sleep dusting the corners of his beautiful eyes. And in chasing his oblivion, he could end up sacrificing the most important gift the universe has ever given anyone.

So it’s a tight-rope walk, a very careful balancing act without a safety net or harness. Her lips twitch with a few false starts toward an answer before she scoots her chair back and goes over to the counter. She almost makes another pot of coffee...then thinks better of it. Her hands rise like gulls. She stretches to the tips of her toes, affording him her too-thin silhouette, and then she pulls out a bottle of very, very old scotch, and two tumblers. 

When she returns, she puts one in front of each of them and begins to slowly unscrew the cap.

“Answer is... Blood-doll. Technically two words, I know. So you win the game but...” The dark amber liquid fills the air with both it’s bouquet and a sense of foreboding. “Is time t’ explain t’ ya... we are not alone in da night. An’ t’ explain dat...I firs’ need ya t’...” 

she clears her throat. Tosses back the three fingers she’s poured for herself with the ease of of a veteran barfly. She breathes in through her nose and her nostrils flare before she exhales out from her mouth. And then she’s moving again. Wedges herself behind him, between him and the wall and somehow slithers down until her lips are a spectral caress against his ear. Her voice becomes a kind of silky purr, the tempo measured in smoke and satin, immeasurably patient. Seductive. It’s the same voice she used the night she almost bit him as she slowly begins to stroke her fingers down his arm. Caresses his jugular with the pad of her thumb. And purposefully, with a little dusting of mana, calls out to specific parts of his psyche through just the right pheromones.

“Imagine with me, the most excruciatingly pinnacle of your carnal needs. The way pleasure howls through your body and you linger on the cusp of spent exhaustion between this world and the next, and whatever happens next...you’ve stopped caring about. Can you feel it? Singing in your blood? Pulsing through your member which itself is as hard as you’ve ever felt it to be. And just before it can be shattering agony, there’s soft. And wet. And every dark whim that’s ever played out in your most twisted fantasies, even the ones you’re afraid to admit to yourself is on offer, down to the last exquisite detail. All you have to do...is give in. Can you feel it? Do you want to? What would you be willing to offer me, if I would give it to you. That relentless release unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before.

“Do you want that, Anakin?”

[metaphorewhore25]

Beach Rats (2017) & Why We Need More Movies Like It

There is a general underlying paradigm in society that “men do the looking and women are to be looked at” and Beach Rats (2017) is a movie that challenges that from its very first shot. The movie opens with an 18-something teenager taking mirror selfies in a dirty basement mirror. The camera pans over his very masculine features – his biceps, armpit hair, nipples, and the rest of his torso.

I was sold to the movie right there. Hardly do I see movies with such a focus on the male form. I have watched Eliza Hittman’s ‘It Felt Like Love’ (2013) which does the same thing from a teenage girl’s point of view but Beach Rats simply does it more and does it better.

I know that Beach Rats is a gay movie and hence the camera captures the perspective of a boy, not a girl, and hence may not exactly be called ‘The Female Gaze’ but it is written and directed by a cishet woman and frankly, I believe even that is a start when it comes to subverting the male gaze, flipping the camera and putting men at the centre, making them subjects of visual pleasure.

What Beach Rats does extremely well is this: It makes the audience uncomfortable.

And that is precisely why I loved it. In mainstream movies when the lead actresses are introduced by butt-to-lips-to-head shots, it doesn’t really make us uncomfortable anymore because it has become the norm. We’ve just accepted girls being captured in this way. We may even accept young, underage girls portrayed in a sexualized manner but focusing on men’s butts and forearms is sure to make us rethink what we are seeing on screen. Long idle shots of Frankie, the protagonist and his friends shirtless by the beach playing handball or just swimming, their chiselled dude-bro bodies taking up the majority of the screen is something we are quite unused to.

Even the scenes where Frankie is in his room and browsing a gay cam site on the internet makes us feel uncomfortable because we are simply more exposed to women doing these things like posing and pouting. It was quite fresh to see the white man become the one being looked at. It almost felt like revenge to me, like “You see this is how it feels to be constantly scrutinized or unnecessarily sexualized!”

I feel that we need to get more comfortable with the idea of male bodies presented on screen just as we are with female bodies.

However, I am aware that “Revenge” is not what women in the industry are going for, or should go for. Unlike the Male Gaze, the Female Gaze is much trickier to define. Simply objectifying men back will not do. We don’t want to revert the power structure, but rather deconstruct it.

Alina Gufran from The Swaddle says “While the act of objectifying a man through the eyes of a woman remains revolutionary, it ultimately lends itself to a very “male” idea of what the female gaze should be.” When women are handed over the cameras and the pens and the main roles, the product is often not just an objectification of men but rather a humane and emotional portrayal of both men and women as people.

Although, I would personally say that after years of having seen myself and the media around me through men’s perspectives, it is fun sometimes to objectify men and get back at the system.

I believe Beach Rats takes that extra step, by not only sexualizing men like some feminist revenge fantasy but also showing the audience vulnerability, emotions and honest intimacy. The camera zooms in on Frankie’s face a lot. He is often dreamy, confused or just melancholic. In the course of the movie his father, suffering from cancer passes away, he witnesses his younger sister getting intimate with a boy her age and his friends, although given hardly any dialogues are a key influence in his life as he often forced to fit in with them and arrange drugs for them which he steals from his father’s medicine cabinet. His friends are toxic and not at all empathetic as he often proclaims “These are not my friends” as a joke with an element of truth. All this while he is navigating personal conflict regarding his sexuality and suppressing his true self with his friends and family because he cannot fathom how they would understand.

During daylight hours, Frankie has to keep up appearances by maintaining a girlfriend but during the nighttime, he often goes on a website for gay men in Brooklyn and meets up with older men for one-night stands that are often fulfilling, but often also leave him confused.

The film is definitely voyeuristic but it also has its non-sexual intimate moments. There’s a scene where Frankie has to go masturbate before joining his girlfriend in bed because he can’t maintain erections in her presence. In moments like this, we can see his vulnerability as he tries to laugh it off or gets frustrated at his body quite often telling him something else.

My favourite scene I would say is when he decides for the first time to meet up with an older, more experienced man from the website and the camera shoots him preparing for the rendezvous in a very vulnerable and intimate way. Frankie is shown lifting weights to perhaps tone his muscles, trimming his pubic hair with a scissor and taking a shower and giving himself a thorough wash. I believe shots like this, give the character a very human feel and helps the audience relate to his insecurities and struggles that lie behind the muscular façade.

Admittedly, Frankie’s friends are only two-dimensional characters and used as props for plot development and often fall into the cliché dude-bro stereotypes. They are perhaps used only to flex their shapely bodies and contribute to Frankie’s inner conflict. They are not people, they are just cishet men in the movie. They are the ones we may call purely “objectified”.

The sexual politics are at one point even explicitly stated in the film’s dialogue when Frankie asks Simone (his girlfriend) if two men making out is hot. Simone says that two girls making out is no big deal and is obviously hot but two men making out is just gay. Reading into the subtext, the word “gay” here is used in the derogatory sense.

Of course, neither should be seen as “hot”. Homosexuality is supposed to exist in its own place, having an identity of its own and shouldn’t be co-opted by and for heterosexuals for their pleasure or entertainment.

But, due to the infiltration of the male gaze in popular media and a society that entitles men and suppresses female voices; women bear the burden of being unfairly sexualized. This same patriarchy socializes young boys and girls to view themselves a certain way, boys are taught not to be emotional and affectionate and are thus also disadvantaged by the patriarchy. I’m talking about things like “boys don’t cry” or “two guys don’t hold hands”.  The movie shows the reflections of these through Frankie’s toxic masculine friends and sometimes even Simone.

Frankie feels like he’d never be accepted into the mainstream of society because of the same sexual politics that exist in the world and that Hittman is trying to deconstruct. It is perhaps due to the fact that Frankie cannot come out that the film is shot mostly in the dark and in dingy places.

Beach Rats is a fine example of a movie that shows us a strong, conspicuous alternative to the male gaze. It does one thing very well and it is depicting male bodies in a casual, real, vulnerable, sexy and overt way and we need more of that. We need more male body presence on the screen because we as a culture of people are so oblivious to it. It’s always “Ass or Tits?”, “Pear-shaped or Hourglass-shaped” and “Skinny or Thick” and all these labels that apply only to women’s bodies to an extent where we perhaps don’t even feel like male bodies are something to be gazed at in the first place.

“Men look for looks and women look for personality”. How often have you heard this? I am not trying to defy the evolutionary explanations which may explain things to some extent. But we as this highly intelligent species cannot be completely bound by merely evolutionary instincts. While The Female Gaze does incorporate emotions and intimacy, I liked how Beach Rats balanced out the emotional and the purely carnal.  I am not saying we need more male bodies on screen in simply a sexual way. I want to see male bodies even in very mundane non-sexual ways just because I feel it needs to be normalized. Normalize focusing on the man’s body too in heterosexual romance films perhaps. Beach Rats was quite a refreshing watch despite its dark colour pallet because I was quite frankly amused to see what happens when the camera is reversed and allowed to linger on manly features. Perhaps through this, we may reach the ultimate goal of both men and women moving fluidly between the subject and object of mutual desire.

Posted originally on: https://rishikapandit.com/2021/06/08/beach-rats-why-we-need-more-movies-like-it/ 

[azure-steel]

@hyperionalmasy​ said: ❛did you touch yourself ?❜ (here we go again... :'D) NSFW sentence starters - NO LONGER ACCEPTING

Continued from here [X]

The cycle was repeating itself. 

A miserable replay of an event burned into muscle memory. Cloud wanted to believe that this was all it was; habit. A means to an end for a fix of substance he couldn’t gain anywhere else. But it wasn’t that simple was it?

Nothing in Cloud Strife’s meagre existence was ever so pure to be either black nor white, always a convoluted sludgy mixture of the two; a filthy viscous deep grey. This wasn’t the same as mere habit, not even similar to pulling on that first cigarette in the morning if only to distract the mouth from the insufferable workings of the mind. A process without thought, without feeling, as already stated, a means to an end. 

This was different.

There was something exhilarating about it all, about every volatile step he takes with this intolerable man; the solid impacts of every strike, the sharp torrid puncture of teeth against soft supple lips, the way his cock twitched each time Almasy grasped him violently by the jaw. This was no mere habit; Cloud chose to return, hopelessly dependant on the savagery of this loathsome bad romance. 

And even though Seifer had been the one to land that first blow tonight, the pain rocketing through his cheek still had Cloud gasping for more. It was sick, twisted, toxic and so addictively delicious because even Strife knows how it’ll end. The same way it always did; astride the taller blond on his worn hotel room sofa, grinding down to the very ends of carnal wanton greed, spilling that hot seed of desire only to bask in the shame therein after. And yet despite all of this, there was no love lost, no romantic poetry addled bullshit to complicate this matter further, no true yearning to be closer.

They were drawn to one another, not like moths to open flames, but like flies were to shit. 

That was the black and white of it all, the absolute simplicity of this entire disaster Cloud had tangled himself in. The very same web he was caught in now, straddling the man’s waist, Almasy’s hand wrapped painfully around his wrist and the derogatory comment that followed. To think that absence truly did make the heart grow fonder, or in this case, the abhorrent lust run rampant. 

Cloud snatches his hand away, removing himself from the naked heat of the other’s body to gather what he could find of his clothes and shield himself from those spiteful eyes. Fuck, he hated this guy... what was it about him that kept bringing him back here? He could feel them, those emerald hues boring into the back of his skull, sending a hot spike of revolting pleasure racing down his spine, just knowing that he was watching him was apparently enough to stoke his fire. He wasn’t about to cave in this time; he needed to leave, to get as far away from Seifer Almasy as he possibly could... at least until that craving came back twisting in his guts - like it always did, time, after time, after time. But it was as he’s wrenching his tank over his head, that Seifer just had to have the last word, Cloud’s eyes narrowing viciously at the question, thankfully out of sight of the man who was still attempting to taunt him. 

And succeeding. 

“Did you touch yourself?” 

The words reverberated against the shell of his brain, for a moment, perhaps two, before the revolutionary steps to the side, slowly turning to face the man still lying there, suave and cocksure on the sofa they’d soiled only the night previous. Crouching next to the couch, mouths uncomfortably close, Cloud fixes the man with an impassive glare.

“I touched myself as many times as you wished the next man through that bar door in the past week was me.” The bastard could take that anyway he wished, Cloud simply didn’t care. There’s a husky undertone to his voice, low and threatening but before Seifer could react to the statement either in admittance or defiance, it didn’t matter, Strife swiftly reached out, grasping Almasy by the throat and pinning him to the sofa, squeezing him there just enough to make breathing uncomfortable. Though not once does his expression change, not once. 

“Your sky is falling, Seifer. And when it all finally comes crashing down, heh ... you won’t even see it coming. Who knows...” a light curve of a sneer tugs at one corner of Cloud’s mouth, head lilting only slightly to one side, bright eyes roving downwards if only to appreciate the quality of this man’s temporary yet rather unfortunate disposition. After a moment he allows his gaze to flicker back to greet those dangerous green hues, before he finalises his point. “... maybe, it will be me, yeah?” 

With that said, Cloud releases him as he had done the night before, pushing the man away with a brisk shunt of his hand, before he stands and heads to the door. And once again he doesn’t bother to look back exiting as calmly as he had that very first night he’d laid eyes on him. He needed to shower, if only to wash the revolting stink of sex off his skin.

[codyfernaesthetic]

Unholy

A Millory One-shot

Inspired by @mvllorylvngdon “The Smoke that Swirls”

Summary: Mallory can’t get the handsome Father Langdon out of her mind.

Warnings: smut, public masturbation, derogatory terms, harsh language, nsfw, priest!Michael

Mallory was a faithful churchgoer. From her first breaths to now, her parents had instilled in her a sense of dutiful religion. The first thing she’d done after moving away from home was find a local church. She found a perfect one in The Cathedral of Our Lady of Purity; the congregation was warm and welcoming, she felt at home instantly. The church leaders were devoted men of God, upright and holy. She believed they were the perfect shepherds to her soul.

All except for one. A tall, young priest by the name of Father Michael Langdon.

Her trepidation had no basis in outward appearance. He was by all accounts a calm, disciplined man who took great care for the disenfranchised and delivered the most impassioned sermons she’d ever sat under. He was charismatic, helpful, walking in a regal dignity one expects of a representative of Christ. Perhaps it was his looks that so unnerved her. Often when looking upon him at the altar, she would compare him to the stone and stained glass angels encompassing the sanctuary. His golden hair would glow from the streaming sunlight, casting a halo around his head. His face was pure, sculpted marble, not one feature ill placed or imperfect. His eyes were blue as the heavens, and could hold you fast in your place like a command from God himself. His lips...

She shook her thoughts away. Father Langdon had plagued her mind for three months. She would scold herself, commanding her body to free itself from carnal desires; but the image of his mouth, his body, his manhood hidden under black trousers she wanted to see free and throbbing-

Oh God!

This was her reason for going to confession today. She’d been neglecting it, but now she knew she couldn’t give allowance to her sins any longer.

The Cathedral was as grand and opulent as any, white columns, golden holy imagery welcoming the searching soul. There were a smattering of people, elderly men and women praying, some deacons milling about. The left door confession booth opened and a middle aged man stepped out, tipping his hat as he passed her. She entered the booth, making the sign of the cross upon sitting down, and took a deep breath, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been 3 months since my last confession.”

Her blood chilled when a familiar dulcet voice came from the other side.

“I would have pegged you for more of a faithful confessor than that, Mallory,” the voice chuckled.

Her legs tensed as she instinctively fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, “Father Langdon...”

The lattice of the window separating them still allowed the general shape of his blond locks to peek through, “I’m sorry, I know that’s not an appropriate thing for a priest to say at confession. I just hate how formal this has to be. I consider us friends, Mallory,” his voice inexplicably dropped to just above a whisper, “Don’t you?”

She swallowed, her chest thumping, “Yes, but would a friendship at all impede this sacrament?”

His silence made her clarify, “I mean, for there to be bias on both sides.”

He hummed, a vibration that made her breath catch, “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another. There is no one better to confess to than a friend.”

The booth was suddenly cramped, musty. Her throat dry like a desert.

“The Lord has also given me a unique talent,” he continued, “an ability to discern the darkness of human souls. Those hidden sins, forbidden lusts that wake them late at night,” his tone was penetrative, “cause them to writhe upon their bed. I can unravel their mysteries and bring them to the light.”

She closed her legs even tighter, desperately ignoring the pulse between them, “I don’t have any dark places.”

“None?” He played with every word like a cat with its prey, “If we say we have not sin, we are a liar and the truth is not in us.”

She cleared her throat, the heat beneath her skirt begging for attention, “I meant, of course I have a sinful nature, but I simply don’t possess as deep a dark place as you speak of,” she dug her nails into her thigh, “I’ve never been one to contemplate on sinful things.”

A tense silence hung between them.

“I can sense that in you, Mallory,” he finally said, “A purity of heart. Yet surely you didn’t come to confession to brag about your own holiness.”

Her voice trembled, barely leaving her mouth, “Of course not.”

She could practically feel the smile dripping off his tone, “What is thy sin?”

She closed her eyes, imagining it were any other priest, pushing through with gritted teeth, “I have been assaulted by the Devil in more...potent ways than ever.”

“Are these the Devil’s sins, then?” He interrupted.

She paused, caught off guard, “No, Father, they are mine.”

“Then claim them, Mallory,” his voice was a whisper, cajoling, tender, “Tell me that you have committed sins...and have taken great pleasure in them.”

Her mind felt hazy, “I have allowed my mind to be filled with perverted fantasies against a fellow Christian.”

“How often, my child, have you dwelt on these fantasies?”

If she isn’t know any better, she’d say his tone was...desperate.

“Months. I have welcomed sin into my heart and mind, and have let my imagination run wild.”

“Where does it run to, Mallory?”

“Lusts of the flesh,” she dodged coyly, “unbecoming to a young woman of faith.”

“Speak them,” he commanded.

She nearly jumped at the sudden change, “Father Langdon?”

“Tell me of your lusts,” he demanded again.

Her voice was so tiny, her heart leaped into her throat, “I don’t think-“

“Sin can only be absolved once it is fully confessed, Mallory,” she heard him moving, his form leaning closer to the window, “Tell me of your desires. This fellow Christian, as you call them, what do you think of them doing when your imagination takes hold? Are their lips upon yours? Delighting in the sweetness of your mouth with a chaste kiss? Or are they hungry? Ravenous as their tongue dances over yours? Do they bite your lips, drawing beads of blood before licking them clean?”

Her core throbbed at his words. Her mouth hung agape, shallow breaths escaping.

“Are you naked?” Even the way he spoke the word was sinful, “Have your clothes been discarded on the floor in a heap, leaving your sensitive, aching pussy exposed to their lustful eyes?”

Every inch of her flesh was hot and riddled with goosebumps. Not simply from what he said, but how it was as if he’d plucked her own thoughts from her mind and were reading them aloud.

“Are you against the wall?” He stifled a little moan, “On your knees? Spread out on silk sheets, a delicious morsel all for the taking, for devouring? Tell me, Mallory,” it was like his voice was right next to her ear, “tell me everything that’s in that slutty imagination of yours. Confess every sinful perversion you’ve dreamt about committing,” he chuckled darkly, “the ones you long to have committed against you.”

Her fingers slipped under her panties as if of their own will. She massaged her pulsing clit, her folds already wet with desire.

He continued in agonizing detail, his cadence falling into a steady rhythm to which she pumped two fingers in and out of herself, biting her lip to detain her ardent whimpers.

“Do you feel their teeth on your soft skin, greedy fingers toying with your hard nipples? Where is their tongue? Is it licking your wetness, spreading it over your lips, or teasing your needy slit? Are their lips gently wrapping around your clit and sucking? Can you hear,” he paused on each word, tasting them, “the slick...wet...sounds? The growling need as they gorge themselves on your perfect, sweet, delectable cunt?”

Hot shame flooded her, but she kept going...faster, harder. What would those poor congregants think if they knew she was making such a filthy scene for the priest?

And yet that made her desire grow.

“Can you feel them slide up your body, their hard cock pressing against your soaked thighs? Can you taste yourself on their lips? Do you taste good, Mallory?”

An obscene noise almost freed itself from her throat, but she placed her other hand over her mouth.

“Do you wrap your legs around their waist like an eager little slut? Are you begging, whining to have them slam their thick, throbbing cock into your pussy over and over again until you cum all over it, screaming?”

His voice was thick with need, “Do you feel yourself stretching around them, taking in every inch? Do you like being filled?” He paused, “Answer me, little lamb.”

Barely trusting her own voice, she whispered, “Yes, Father Langdon.”

She could hear the satisfied grin behind his words, “Do you want to be fucked aggressively? Do you want me to use you as my plaything, my own personal whore to pound my cock into? Do you want to please me?”

She felt herself climbing towards the edge, “Yes.

“Yes, what?”

She sounded so pathetic, “Father Langdon,”

He changed pace, as if sensing her closeness; gently guiding her towards her orgasm, “How about I take you slowly? Whisper blasphemies in your ear while I slip in and out of your yearning pussy? Tell you how you feel like Heaven around my dick. Worship you like an idol, sweet hymns escaping my throat in my moans because you feel so fucking good. My ultimate praise spilling out inside you, anointing you as mine.”

The word was like a signal, releasing her tension as she rode the high. As she came down, her breathing slowed, and her mind gained back enough sense to panic over whether or not anyone outside had heard.

“Does that sound like your fantasies, Mallory?”

He sounded so casual now, returned to his calm, disciplined self.

“Yes, Father Langdon,” she muttered breathlessly.

“Are they sated?”

She removed her fingers from her panties, quickly searching her bag for a tissue to wipe them on, her face painted red, “For the moment, yet they seem stronger than ever.”

He laughed, “Such is the nature of man. Perhaps we could discuss your sins in further detail at a later time.”

She froze at the implication, and scorned how it made a new wave of excitement crash over her.

“Find a way to...absolve them in a more tangible way.”

She sniffled, “Yes, Father Langdon.”

There was a knowing, excited lilt to his voice, “Peace be with you, Mallory.”

“And with you also,” she returned quickly, stepping outside the booth and trying to hurry outside in the most inconspicuous way possible. Perhaps it was her own anxiety, but she was sure a few squinting glares were thrown her way.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

The Argument: 307 extension.

What if their (Jamie and Claire’s) potential sex scene in 307 (at Lallybroch in the books) hadn’t been interrupted by Jenny?

His words rang in her ears as the grip of his hands against her wrists increased. She should have been incensed and she still did harbour some anger but the scent of sex in the air had extinguished enough of it to render it mute...just for the moment. At this point in time she’d channelled all of that energy into pure, undiluted carnal desire. Claire could feel his cock thrusting hard between her legs, a punishing rhythm that caused her thighs to clench around his arse.

Claire pushed, forcing Jamie onto his back as they clawed, tugging and pulling at one another in a desperate attempt to remove every article of clothing. Biting his lip as she kissed him, Claire tore at his shirt as Jamie shoved his hand into her socks and yanked them down her leg.

The fabric burned her flesh as the ties holding her stockings up stuck around her knees before Jamie’s harsh grip managed to tug them loose.

Sanity escaped her and in that moment all she could see, smell and taste was Jamie; his primal musk invading her senses as the fury blazed beneath her wanton skin. Agony simmered just beneath the surface as she tried to contain her tears, the very prominent image of Jamie with *Laoghaire* emerging through the mist, simultaneously pushing Claire over the edge.

One solitary sob fell from her lips, combined with a gasp as Jamie thrust himself inside her and her weeping began in earnest.

Jamie, lost to his own lascivious coated grief, could hardly open his eyes. Instead he simply felt the jarred motion Claire was creating over him as he met her hips with his own. They were still half dressed, half mauled by the other in their furious attempted to ravish and maim one another in the aftermath of his deceit and although he could feel her distress, he couldn’t move to stop himself for the moment to comfort her.

Nor did Claire want him to. She craved him, ached for him to bury himself over and over until he could hold on no longer. Claire wanted to feel him, the pulse of his pounding heart flowing into her own body as she rode him over and over. She was crying, cursing and taking him all in one go. She felt both weak and powerful all at the same time and it was intoxicating.

Her cheeks, wet with the moisture of her cheeks, burned red with passion and desire as she all but collapsed against his chest, pinning him to the floor with her knees still either side of the tops of his thighs as she ran the length of her chest against his. Her groin stayed parallel with his but instead of rising over him, now she - rather mercilessly - pummelled her crotch against his barely letting his cock slide from her, keeping him *deep* within her as her shaky hands buried themselves in his hair.

Jamie was a willing captive. Covered not only in the sweat and shame of his indiscretions, his face was now also coated in Claire’s shed tears. Salt water ran along his cheekbones and down onto his ears until they finally slid off his neck and onto the floor. She was sobbing more thoroughly now, the closer she came to her undoing, the more fraught her sorrow became and Jamie felt the horror as it swept through every inch of him, coming to rest in the marrow of his bones.

Rolling her over, he lay his body against hers and slowed his movements, making sure not to lose her in the midst of their torrid sexual encounter. He should have stopped it, he *should* have plucked her from the floor and done some much needed damage control, And, although he knew very well how much she craved this as much as he, he should have been the one to bring back some semblance of rationality and comprehension rather than indulge himself in Claire. No matter what; she needed comfort and he had selfishly cast aside any reason just to feel the sweet rush of intimacy with Claire - for what, he thought blearily, might be the last time on this mortal coil.

But he hadn’t.

Aware of the impending rush, Claire thrust her tongue against Jamie’s mouth, coaxing from him the most desirous noise as she clenched her arse and pushed her hips upwards. Still angry, upset, devastated and lost, she urged her body on as that most delectable of sins began its final rush along her exposed thighs. Tightening the muscles in her shoulders, she let her legs flop against the hard, cold floor as the pulse of her orgasm began to build, the tingling sensation of it prickling at her belly with each maddening thrust.

They came together, the feel of her grasping his cock, pulling him deeper and deeper until the warm tightness of her throbbed around him. The roar in their ears was deafening as they both cried out in both pleasure and emotional pain, their joint howls mournfully echoing around them as the crackle of the fire, finally, bested their harrowed embrace.

Pushing him away from her, Claire wrapped her quaking arms around her midriff, curling up on her side as she allowed her heartache to pull her under. Her sobs were uncontainable now, the fresh flow of tears tracking new lines across her rosy face as she tucked her knees up, crossing her feet as she felt the warm essence of Jamie at the crease of her thighs. Wanting to keep that small part of him with her, she tipped her chin downwards against her chest and clenched the muscles of her groin as if that in itself might help curtail the grief.

Jamie panted loudly, his chest hurting with the pressure of his orgasm combined with his own self-loathing. His actions had been abhorrent and he - in part - was loathed to comfort Claire in her darkest moment because he knew it had been his actions that had caused her breakdown.

She’d been right.

Laoghaire *had* tried (and very nearly succeeded) to have her murdered burned at the stake for witchcraft and even in his lowest moments, even with the burn of fatherhood and the stench of loss clinging to his feeble flesh, he should have considered -carefully- his options. But he still couldn’t bring himself to regret wee Joany and Marsali.

Plucking himself from the floor, Jamie crawled on his hands and knees until he faced Claire. Her face was aglow, the light of the fire casting pleasant shadows over her ivory skin as he slid beside her, wrapping his bare arms around her waist and pulling her tepid body against his.

She tried to resist a little, but the force of her sobbing sapped her strength and she, rather begrudgingly, flopped beneath his biceps, her head burrowing against his chest as the last of her tears fell.

“I told you,” she whispered, her voice no louder than a sigh, “I spoke of how *hard* it was. How much I battled with your loss. You *knew* I was alive...somewhere, damn you, Jamie, you knew! And yet...you did it...with her.” Claire tried not to fall into the vast chasm that opened up before her, but the pull of its lure was just too much. The image of Jamie lying as husband and wife with Laoghaire Mackenzie was the straw that had broken the proverbial camel’s back and all of her fears rushed through her brain as they had when she’d castigated him for his derogatory comments aimed at Brianna.

Claire had thought she’d known then. Thought that his opinions were a mixture of his 18th century sensibilities as well as his anguish at not raising his daughter. But now she knew that it also came from a place of fear. His ‘secret’ marriage to Laoghaire had obviously been playing heavily on his mind at the time and had come to the fore dressed as outrage at Claire’s parenting decisions.

Her heart broke all over again as she pictured the daughter she had left behind, the dull ache of loss penetrating her every nerve.

“I wish things were different,” she said, her voice hardening as Jamie shook beside her. “I wish we could’ve had our family and a good many more things besides. But I can’t change it now, and nor can you.”

Jamie’s heart stopped as all warmth dissipated from his body. He heard the finality to her words and although sated, he felt the distinct empty hollow of her loss open up in his chest once more. Her words reverberated through his brain as he tried to search her tone for any hope. But there was none.

“Ye canna leave me, Claire,” he begged, not caring how desperate he sounded, “we’re bound...you and I…”

“Maybe we once were,” she replied quickly, having to bite her lip to stop the tears from starting once again. “But I just don’t know whether we’re meant for one another anymore. Not now.”

“No,” Jamie interjected without taking a breath. The word came out as a sort of high pitched keen as his fingers locked around her middle, preventing her from moving at all. “No, sassenach,” he said, the desperation clear in his tone. “P-please...to lose you, I’ll die, I will, wi’out you. No’ now I’ve touch you once more, held ye, heard you talk about our daughter and seen her bonnie face. I canna simply go on. It was hard enough the first time. To send ye away and no’ to die in battle. For me to ken you existed somewhere and not be able to bring you home to me. My heart, my l-love, my own…” he blethered, barely breaking as he rushed out his monologue, his dry mouth causing his tongue to stick to the roof of it on every other word.

Now it was Jamie’s turn to cry, his shoulders shaking as he scrunched his nose up and hid his face in the soft clouds of her curls. His Scots accent had gotten thicker and thicker through his diatribe and Claire felt the relaxing waves of his soft burr, his chest rising and falling jaggedly against hers as he spoke and she could not deny that his words rang true.

Claire had seen it before, death caused by loss. The decay of the tissues around the heart leading to failure of the organ and the death of the remaining lover creeping in and inextricably binding the pair, forever in eternal rest. No sooner had the memory faded than Claire began to feel a familiar deadening in her feet - it was as if her choice to leave had started the process in her own body, the muscle tissue failing from the soles of her right foot, the disease of loss decaying her from the inside out.

Twitching her fingers against his back, Claire flexed her toes, testing the dexterity of them as if to try and shake the feeling of death. Her heart beat solidly on as she swallowed audibly.

“You feel it too,” Jamie said, no malice in his tone, only soft acceptance. “I ken it, you ken it...aye?”

“F-fuck,” Claire cursed, her sore red nose itching as she began to cry silently. “Yes I feel it,” she admitted, unable to hide anything from him now. “No matter how dark it is for you to use such emotional *fucking* blackmail on me now, I feel it.”

“Stay, please. I’ll do anything, Claire. I will *give* anything. Just stay, and let me make it right. I’m yours, sassenach,” he implored, “yours until I am no more. Now and forever. Gi’ me a chance to show you, mo nighean donn.”

“No more lies, Jamie,” Claire said, the dark mark of her ending fragmenting as she allowed him to change her mind, the shelter of his body bringing some measure of relief at the decision. “You must promise me that.”

“Aye, no more lies,” he acquiesced, “you’re my soulmate, Claire,” he implored. “When we were made it was meant that we should be one. Tis the only reason I think I lived through Culloden, sassenach,” he whispered, his trembling subsiding now as the cold night wore on. “I lived and you found me. It’s fate, aye?”

Hiccuping back a sob, Claire smiled at his words, the first easy smile for a day or two. They had ridden through hell and back and she’d be damned if she was going to let that little...bitch….take from her the one shining beacon that had kept her afloat through a twenty year stalemate.

No, Claire *had* come back and Jamie had lived. She knew their path wasn’t an easy one but together they could weather the storm and battle the often brutal and boisterous demons that threatened to topple them overboard.

“I love you Claire, please let it be enough,” Jamie sighed, moving his head so that his lips could softly caress the top of her head as his hands gently massaged the tiny ridges of her spine.

“I love you too,” she whispered in return. “Jamie Fraser...and yes, it is enough.”

Neither moved as the firelight dwindled, its heat flaring and encasing the two as they stared, nose to nose, into each other's eyes, silence holding them hostage as the words ran dry. Shy contentment took the place of anguished animosity as the brittle atmosphere evaporated leaving only ashes and dust. Renewed, Claire and Jamie basked in the afterglow of the nuclear blast, their internal world devoid of life now as if the world they had once known had, finally and very abruptly, been condensed to rubble in one explosive act.

Claire licked her lips as she shimmied closer, a speck of life blossoming in the dense nothingness as her irises twinkled. Jamie’s mouth slipped into an easy smile, his tense muscles relaxing as he himself sensed the subtle shift. “Christ, I love you,” he muttered, nuzzling her nose as he closed his eyes. “Wi’ all that I am, even if that is only but a hint of the man you ought to have…”

“Hush,” she returned, “you’re right, Jamie. I *ought* to have you. Mistakes and all.”

“Aye, sassenach,’” he said, his lips trembling with increased emotion. “Mistakes and all.”

[justjen523]

Teaching You A Lesson

Zyglavis x MC

(Rating E 18+)

Two Part pure smut story. I had been reading several fanfics with my favorite god and his darker side. I LOVE the dominating, controlling asshole Zyglavis and this piece shows that dark kind of sex.

WARNING: Filthy Smut Piece. Read at your own risk if you are sensitive to rough sex.

     You knew you just went too far by the way his intense stare seemed to change into something extremely dark and unreadable making Zyglavis even more terrifying. You thought you’d be sassy with him just this once with the other gods all present because hey, if anything went wrong one of them was bound to save you right? Not this time. Even they sensed you crossed a line there was no coming back from just by the sudden shift in his posture. 

     You and Zyglavis always had a troubled “relationship.” A fact which you had blamed solely on him. How could anyone get along with someone who had tried to MURDER them on several occasions? He may have apologized but you knew deep down he didn’t mean it and let’s be honest, you hated him for it. If he wasn’t so intimidating you may have tried to talk to him at least once or twice but it was like every time you even looked at him he would immediately scowl back letting you know with a simple expression that seemed to say “fuck off.” 

     “That was not wise little girl.” His grin seemed downright demonic. He looked sadistically excited and you swallowed hard as he ever so slowly approached you. Unsure of his intentions your body moved automatically in the opposite direction. He chuckled malevolently at your feeble attempt to escape. 

     “Zyglavis, go easy on her. She’s just a goldfish.” The god of Libra momentarily stopped his advance on you to address the one god you were absolutely sure would have stepped in to save you.

     “Oh I sincerely hope you are not telling me how to do my job O Arrogant Lion.”

     “Pfft, I wouldn’t dream of it Ponytail, only she’s important to us and I wouldn’t want you doing anything you may regret.”

     “Is that a threat?”

     “Certainly not, just a “friendly” little reminder. I have no interest in how you choose to train this goldfish.” 

     “Very well.” His focus now turned back on you that same sinister smile from before shines directly at you sending chills down your spine. The other gods seem too curious to see how this unfolds to help you or get involved. You were on your own against the scariest god in the Heaven’s. 

     “I-I-I’m sorry Zyglavis...t-truly s-sorry!” You offer as you raise your hands in defeat hoping he will accept your peace offering. 

     “Oh? You seem to forget you are talking to a god. I can see right through that empty attempt of an apology. You meant what you said did you not? That I’m a terrifying beast risen from the depths of hell?” The casual way he says this causes you to burst into a cold sweat. 

     “Yes, there it is. That terrified expression of yours is....exquisite. Perhaps you have forgotten just who I am? Come, let me remind you why I am called the Minister of the Department of Punishments.” The hushed voices of the others seem louder than usual as all of your senses are on high alert.

     “Wow, I have never seen him like this before. She’s in big trouble...” If you heard it then he had to have yet he acts as though nothing else matters other than terrorizing you. With nowhere left to go you are backed into a wall. Trembling as his imposing figure closes in on you your heart feels like it’s beating out of it’s chest. 

     Once he closes the distance he presses one hand against the wall directly next to your head trapping you from escaping. You are visibly shaking which seems to delight him further as his predatory smile widens. 

     “Tell me ____, am I even more terrifying up close?” His face is mere inches from yours. His dark silvery eyes are intense and staring directly into yours as his index finger is pressed under your chin forcing you to look directly at him. Never having been half this close to this terrifying god before you find yourself acutely aware of his scent. Clean, like fresh linen yet also a hint of bergamot. It was oddly comforting in such a horrific situation. 

     The finger that had been holding your face to meet his moves to run down your cheek as he continues to smile wickedly. When he suddenly leans in to whisper in your ear your entire body stiffens unsure of what his endgame is. 

     “You are quite a brazen little thing speaking to me in such a way. You don’t know your place little girl. How about I show you the vast difference between a god and a lowly goldfish hmm?” You’re so terrified that if Zyglavis’ broad form wasn’t so close that it was keeping you in place you were certain you would have fallen to the floor by now. He softly chuckles in your ear before grabbing a lock of your hair and inhaling deeply making you blush on top of everything else. Still speaking lowly in your ear he says something you were definitely not expecting.

     “I’d be lying if I said the look of fear in your eyes didn’t make me impossibly hard.” Your eyes go wide in shock surprised to hear Zyglavis speaking in such a way.

     “Judging by that expression you seem to have forgotten that though I am indeed a very powerful god, I am also in fact, a man.” When you feel his breath along the skin of your neck below your ear everything you are suddenly feeling is beyond overwhelming. Though nearly petrified with fear, his suggestive comments and actions send a wave of heat through your core. Chuckling he presses one kiss below your ear. It is so light you barely feel it make contact. 

     “Pitiful. Even though you are terrified of me and harbor such feelings of hatred your body still responds with desire.” You want to glare at him and defend yourself but you don’t want to incur anymore of his wrath. Once again his face is directly in front of yours. You stiffen as he leans in like he’s going to kiss you but stops just short just barely grazing your lips with his own. The heat beginning to pool at your core makes you angry. You certainly don’t want your body responding this way but you have no control over it. He’s teasing you making heat rise to your cheeks as you grow more and more embarrassed at the truth he just spoke. 

     “Hmm? What’s the matter? Embarrassed to be exposed this way not only in front of me but also all of the others?” A devilish smile follows the light that seems to suddenly shine in his eyes like he just thought of something extremely unpleasant. 

     “Gods are forbidden to lay with a goldfish but that does not apply to other forms of carnal pleasure.” He says this darkly with an evil grin before placing both hands on either of your shoulders.

     “I believe your kind has an expression on Earth. ‘Little Girls should be seen and not heard.’ It would seem you lack the self control to keep your mouth shut. We can easily remedy that. It is quite difficult to speak when your mouth is full wouldn’t you agree?” He doesn’t wait for you to respond, instead he pushes you down to your knees and you instantly realize his intentions. Shocked at his audacity you scowl at him incredulously though he looks at you dispassionately before cupping your jaw in his big warm hand. 

     “Come now, be a good girl and take it out.” You can hear the room light up with many indistinguishable conversations.

     “Do you not understand my instructions? Have you never had a man’s member in your mouth before?” At a loss for how to proceed you angrily shake your head. 

     “Oh I see. Well then, let me instruct you in the art of pleasuring a man. First you must take it out, so go ahead and do so.” There is no way you are getting out of this. It’s not like you can fight back against a god not to mention what he may have in store should you refuse. Maybe giving a god a blow-job was far better than the result should you refuse. Why you were getting wetter at the way he was looking down at you was beyond you but hesitantly you complied and removed his manhood from his pants staring at it in surprise. You couldn’t imagine something that size ever entering you. The goddesses of the Heaven’s must be far larger than you to be able to accommodate such an enormous member. For some reason that thought left you feeling satisfyingly smug on the inside. 

     “Lovely isn’t it?” When your eyes meet and you see that confident smirk of his you realize this god loves control. You can see it all play out in your mind just how things are in the bedroom with him. He’s dominating. So, how do you turn this moment against him? Take the reigns. 

     You of course had been lying earlier when he asked if you knew what to do. It’s not that difficult even for the inexperienced to understand how to . No, you knew EXACTLY what to do and you were about to turn the tables on this game he was playing. With a devilish grin of your own you lock eyes with him and confidently wrap your fingers around the base of his shaft gripping him firmly. The former smirk he had been so confidently wearing wavers, his eyes momentarily widening. With a nasty shit eating grin of your own you chuckle at his reaction.

     “What’s the matter Minister? Never had your cock sucked properly before?” Without hesitating you take him in your mouth sliding your lips tightly all the way down practically swallowing his godly manhood. You fight back the laugh threatening to escape at the silence that suddenly falls over the room. It doesn’t take long before the commentary begins.

     “Woooooow....I’m soooo jealous right now.”

     “Riiight?”

     “Oh-ho? Well it seems we haven’t been putting the goldfish to good use.” Even though their comments are derogatory at best you love the fact that they are all there to witness this moment. You want them all to see that you are the one who has the ability to control Zyglavis. Still staring into his gorgeous dark silvery eyes you can see the uncertainty pooling within. He is definitely trying to put on a good show which means you need to step it up. You absolutely want to break him and you want everyone to witness that glorious moment. 

     Your mouth tightens around him sucking so hard you delight in watching his long black lashes flutter. You know he’s far too proud to make a sound and he wouldn’t want to let any of them know that you were actually doing a phenomenal job. His lips slightly part as your tongue swirls around his hardness before your hand finds its way underneath lovingly stroking his testicles. When his hand grips the back of your head you feel his long fingers entangle in your hair gripping harshly making you oddly aware just how much that truly is turning you on. Just like your counterpart in this situation you don’t want to give him the satisfaction that you are actually enjoying yourself so you keep up your best poker face. Engaged in a sexually dominating game of chicken a look of pure determination is ever present on both of your faces.

     As you make sure to continue to sexually frustrate him by pulling him to the edge but not letting him over you notice just how dark his eyes have suddenly gotten. His face remains expressionless but you can see the tension in his jaw the more and more you fuck with him. You are absolutely in control and are reveling in this power over this terrifying god. Who would have thought all this icy god of Libra needed was a proper cock sucking. Maybe he’s actually as docile as a lamb underneath all his exterior harshness. 

     “Don’t think I am not aware of your endgame little girl. I promise you that what you believe to be happening here is far from reality. Or have you forgotten once again that I am a god?” His dangerous smirk is more arrogant than ever making you hesitate and release his member from your mouth. His palm cups under your chin and pulls you to your feet putting you directly in front of him and so close your noses almost touch. Once again the entire room has fallen silent and there’s an uncomfortable vibe flowing between the others like even they are terrified of what Zyglavis might do next.   

     “You don’t scare me.” You say sounding as confident and believable as possible. You’re proud of how sure you sound backing up your words with a defiant glare. Zyglavis chuckles darkly amused at your brash attempt of confidence. 

     “Oh? Little girl, you have no idea who I am do you?”

     “No. I am perfectly aware of who you are. The Minister of the Department of Punishments.” His smile turns sinister as his hand cups your cheek, pulling his thumb gently down it.

     “Yes, while that is true I am sure even a simple creature like you understands that one is not simply defined solely by his job.” The way he’s now staring at you is far different than you are used to and it has your stomach in knots. You won’t show him that though so you give yourself an internal pep talk keeping a stoic expression plastered to your face.

     “And?” You say sounding annoyed still staring daggers at him.

     “I shall grant you the honor of being the first human in the entirety of Earth’s history to bare witness to the real Zyglavis. Not even one of the eleven other gods sitting among us have been given such a rare opportunity.” He lets you go and takes a step back before removing his uniform jacket followed by his dress shirt underneath. The room still silent just stares in curiosity as to how all of this is going to unfold. 

     You are stunned to see such a display from Zyglavis especially with the others here to witness whatever he has planned. Standing now shirtless before you the corner of his mouth pulls up into a sneer upon seeing the uncertainty in your eyes. Stepping back towards you he slowly pulls the hairband from his signature ponytail releasing his long locks never once taking his hawk like eyes off of yours.  

-TBC

[frederickwiddowson]

Genesis 24:1-9 comments: no wife for Isaac among the Canaanites

Genesis 24:1 ¶  And Abraham was old, and well stricken in age: and the LORD had blessed Abraham in all things. 2  And Abraham said unto his eldest servant of his house, that ruled over all that he had, Put, I pray thee, thy hand under my thigh: 3  And I will make thee swear by the LORD, the God of heaven, and the God of the earth, that thou shalt not take a wife unto my son of the daughters of the Canaanites, among whom I dwell: 4  But thou shalt go unto my country, and to my kindred, and take a wife unto my son Isaac. 5 And the servant said unto him, Peradventure the woman will not be willing to follow me unto this land: must I needs bring thy son again unto the land from whence thou camest? 6  And Abraham said unto him, Beware thou that thou bring not my son thither again. 7  The LORD God of heaven, which took me from my father’s house, and from the land of my kindred, and which spake unto me, and that sware unto me, saying, Unto thy seed will I give this land; he shall send his angel before thee, and thou shalt take a wife unto my son from thence. 8  And if the woman will not be willing to follow thee, then thou shalt be clear from this my oath: only bring not my son thither again. 9  And the servant put his hand under the thigh of Abraham his master, and sware to him concerning that matter.

Abraham was well-acquainted with the religious practices and the character of the Canaanites. Ham’s grandson’s descendants were very carnal and impulsive, prone to the most awful religious practices like temple prostitution with both female prostitutes called whores and male prostitutes called sodomites, a reference to Sodom once under control of Babylon, and the source of that early God-defying religion. The slang dog is also used as a derogatory term for them.

Deuteronomy 23:17  There shall be no whore of the daughters of Israel, nor a sodomite of the sons of Israel. 18  Thou shalt not bring the hire of a whore, or the price of a dog, into the house of the LORD thy God for any vow: for even both these are abomination unto the LORD thy God.

There was also child sacrifice to Baal where, with trumpets blowing and drums beating, the infant was thrown into the super-heated arms of a statue of this devil. The noise was so that the screams of the infant could be muted because it was not pleasing to this devil for parents to mourn. In this way, on one occasion, 300 babies were slaughtered in the city of Carthage, a colony of Phoenicia, much later in history when Rome besieged it, to appease Baal’s wrath.

Sex with animals as evidenced even today on an Indian temple in carvings and other sexual practices under the guise of religion and for any reason as banned by the Law given to Moses were also common. It was a wicked world without even the superficial layer of pretended morality we have today.

Abraham wanted nothing of this world to have polluted the wife he desired for his son. Unfortunately for Solomon, later king of Israel, he did not feel that way much to his shame.

1Kings 11:4  For it came to pass, when Solomon was old, that his wives turned away his heart after other gods: and his heart was not perfect with the LORD his God, as was the heart of David his father.

Nehemiah 13:26  Did not Solomon king of Israel sin by these things? yet among many nations was there no king like him, who was beloved of his God, and God made him king over all Israel: nevertheless even him did outlandish women cause to sin.

The Christian is warned not to be unequally yoked with an unbeliever.

2Corinthians 6:14  Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? and what communion hath light with darkness? 15 And what concord hath Christ with Belial? or what part hath he that believeth with an infidel?

Many marriages made by Christians with cynical unbelief have either turned out unhappy or, even if physically happy, have borne no faith and a lack of regard for God in both parents and children is the result. It is a terrible mistake to encourage a son or daughter who has been a faithful Bible-believing young person to marry someone who does not believe or trust in Christ, someone whom they met in the public school you sent them to or the university you thought they must attend.

There are two things, two trends, in American history that have killed faith in later generations. One of them is the hyper-Christianity, the self-righteousness of conservatives and liberals who believed they were bringing in the kingdom of Christ on earth without Him. The other is Christian youth marrying unbelievers and creating confusion and then unbelief in their families.

Here we see an odd custom of putting one’s hand under the upper leg of a person superior in rank to swear an oath. The thigh in the Bible refers to the leg down to the knee as in this description of breeches, the underwear of the Hebrew priests.

Exodus 28:42  And thou shalt make them linen breeches to cover their nakedness; from the loins even unto the thighs they shall reach:

This steward the eldest servant of his house, that ruled over all that he had is identified by name as Eliezer of Damascus in 15:2. It has been said that if Abraham is a type of God the Father, then Eliezer is a type of the Holy Ghost going into the world to gather the church, the Bride of Christ, for Isaac, who is a type of Christ. Verse 8 underscores the free will nature of this church as God forces no one to follow Him.

One fact of God’s perfect will be completed in His way successfully is His angel, or appearance, going before. When you are doing God’s will and in obedience to Him He has already prepared the ground ahead of you, make no mistake of that.