The Witch and the Wardrobe
Hello darlings, I am a witch. My wardrobe proper may be full of clothes, from pink fluffy dresses to black-as-night garb sufficient for weaving unseen between spirit, demon and elemental -- but the wardrobe of which I speak is not that sort of wardrobe. It is a wardrobe where journeys are made, a wardrobe where clothing is a hindrance which will only, at the completion of that journey -- and certainly after many encores and revisits lost in the splendour of the place -- be ruined, certainly to the point of a really good wash. And thus you see why lions need not apply -- at least not of that sort.
The wardrobe is opened by way of the two knobs, themselves each in the centre of its own island oasis which rests atop its own warm, succulent, fleshy promontory. With a firm grip and a twist or two, the doors are slowly opened: no, not physically, but allowing the mind to enter like a body immersing itself in the heady hallucinogenic of pure bliss -- for here is the start of a journey whose peculiarities can hardly be described in words as well as it can be felt. After all, when something is beyond your grasp to analyse and yet you must, you scrabble at feelings which you hope will resonate with your intended audience. The journey is like going into yourself like love's core, like a mother's womb and there you, your newly-forming body experiencing, for the first time, the joys and the novelties of feeling, of life's extension into a new soul-crate -- yet with the knowing wink of wanton experience. And thus, the portal to this unseen realm opens downwards and, involuntarily, you rub your thighs together as jaws around a particularly tough morsel, in your imagining teeth hunting for your sensitive parts which, nonetheless, glisten with juices making them salivate even more.
And even more, too, is the gripping and the twisting as your nakedness thrashes about like itching powder in a mosh-pit, opening wider the doors to your depravity. And thus the Devil's triangle gets stronger and bolder, colours and flushes all throughout with a bright and rude complexion while the rude flows ever greater in the valley of your thighs clear, wanton. The longing becomes ever greater but, longing for what? Your sighs have long become moans, such that you no longer care about your surroundings or the embarrassment your conscious, societal self might be feeling at your pitiful state reduced, as you are, willingly to the mercy of your fingers and whatever it is driving them on, be it angel or demon. Indeed, your mischievous mind is bidden by some entity to imagine your helpless form in a compromising position -- perhaps St Basil's in Moscow, Trafalgar Square in London or perhaps the centre of attention at the Hollywood Bowl -- you don't much care. But your fingers do, as they increase the intensity of their attentions upon your sore, swollen but increasingly needy nipples. Indeed, all of your body is now a tinder-box, ready to burst into orgasmic flame at the merest suggestion of recklessness and, oh, what's this? A stray fingernail has somehow picked up an errant hair by static electricity and is even now sounding fire-alarms screeching along the white-hot rounded flesh of your breast.
And even though the control you, in your wildest fancy, thought you had slips helplessly from your grasp, even as the screech of the fire alarm is matched by the tuneful howl of your soul as it expresses itself violently through your body, even when a series of lesser aftershocks, passing through your ravaged system, feel more and more intense than the last one -- even then, you can't stop giving your nipples what they are now demanding, having taken your body hostage on pain of a cold-turkey withdrawal. And so your fingers keep on walking -- although by now it's the gait of a desperate alcoholic searching for the next drink -- tighter, tighter, faster, faster, more and more urgent. And each hit, each orgasm brings with it the message more, more, must have more. By now your bed has disintegrated, your body sweat, your orgasmic juices hell, even a squirt or two all conspiring to break down its fibres to a mush, aided by your unbridled thrashing. But you don't care -- and eventually, you fall asleep.
But even in sleep there is no respite -- even here, your nipples rule your dreams. Aided and abetted by the soft warm summer breeze that wafts over them, your dream's fingers are still forced to row the boat of your eventual consumption to a pleasure husk, even now your body convulses like an addict for such, now, you are. Whenever a more family-friendly storyline comes to your dreaming phases, it isn't too long before your nipples take centre stage, and familial thoughts are ushered out the back door. But when, in your dreams, you take the decision firmly and incontrovertibly to seek out medication to allow you to lactate, without regard to the risks, you know you're really fucked.
The wardrobe is opened by way of the two knobs, themselves each in the centre of its own island oasis which rests atop its own warm, succulent, fleshy promontory. With a firm grip and a twist or two, the doors are slowly opened: no, not physically, but allowing the mind to enter like a body immersing itself in the heady hallucinogenic of pure bliss -- for here is the start of a journey whose peculiarities can hardly be described in words as well as it can be felt. After all, when something is beyond your grasp to analyse and yet you must, you scrabble at feelings which you hope will resonate with your intended audience. The journey is like going into yourself like love's core, like a mother's womb and there you, your newly-forming body experiencing, for the first time, the joys and the novelties of feeling, of life's extension into a new soul-crate -- yet with the knowing wink of wanton experience. And thus, the portal to this unseen realm opens downwards and, involuntarily, you rub your thighs together as jaws around a particularly tough morsel, in your imagining teeth hunting for your sensitive parts which, nonetheless, glisten with juices making them salivate even more.
And even more, too, is the gripping and the twisting as your nakedness thrashes about like itching powder in a mosh-pit, opening wider the doors to your depravity. And thus the Devil's triangle gets stronger and bolder, colours and flushes all throughout with a bright and rude complexion while the rude flows ever greater in the valley of your thighs clear, wanton. The longing becomes ever greater but, longing for what? Your sighs have long become moans, such that you no longer care about your surroundings or the embarrassment your conscious, societal self might be feeling at your pitiful state reduced, as you are, willingly to the mercy of your fingers and whatever it is driving them on, be it angel or demon. Indeed, your mischievous mind is bidden by some entity to imagine your helpless form in a compromising position -- perhaps St Basil's in Moscow, Trafalgar Square in London or perhaps the centre of attention at the Hollywood Bowl -- you don't much care. But your fingers do, as they increase the intensity of their attentions upon your sore, swollen but increasingly needy nipples. Indeed, all of your body is now a tinder-box, ready to burst into orgasmic flame at the merest suggestion of recklessness and, oh, what's this? A stray fingernail has somehow picked up an errant hair by static electricity and is even now sounding fire-alarms screeching along the white-hot rounded flesh of your breast.
And even though the control you, in your wildest fancy, thought you had slips helplessly from your grasp, even as the screech of the fire alarm is matched by the tuneful howl of your soul as it expresses itself violently through your body, even when a series of lesser aftershocks, passing through your ravaged system, feel more and more intense than the last one -- even then, you can't stop giving your nipples what they are now demanding, having taken your body hostage on pain of a cold-turkey withdrawal. And so your fingers keep on walking -- although by now it's the gait of a desperate alcoholic searching for the next drink -- tighter, tighter, faster, faster, more and more urgent. And each hit, each orgasm brings with it the message more, more, must have more. By now your bed has disintegrated, your body sweat, your orgasmic juices hell, even a squirt or two all conspiring to break down its fibres to a mush, aided by your unbridled thrashing. But you don't care -- and eventually, you fall asleep.
But even in sleep there is no respite -- even here, your nipples rule your dreams. Aided and abetted by the soft warm summer breeze that wafts over them, your dream's fingers are still forced to row the boat of your eventual consumption to a pleasure husk, even now your body convulses like an addict for such, now, you are. Whenever a more family-friendly storyline comes to your dreaming phases, it isn't too long before your nipples take centre stage, and familial thoughts are ushered out the back door. But when, in your dreams, you take the decision firmly and incontrovertibly to seek out medication to allow you to lactate, without regard to the risks, you know you're really fucked.
7 months ago