Continued from A Visit to Art: Part 1

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At an adult theater you should always give new arrivals at least fifteen minutes to get the action started before approaching. This is one of the commandments. In this case, we didn’t know how long the circle jerk had been going on, but it is best to err on the side of caution. Plus, the real newcomer here was the woman to my left. I wanted to make sure she was comfortable.

I glanced her way. Her fingers fidgeted as though itching for her pen. Her eyes were huge, taking everything in - the balconies over which hung two couples enjoying the proceedings below; the red lights splashed on the walls; the circle of men with their dicks out, surrounding the 69-ing couple; me. I was startled to suddenly find her eyes on mine, but I held them.

“What do you think?” I asked.

It was hard to tell in the low light but I think she was flushed.

‘Wow,’ she mouthed. She leaned closer. “Doesn’t seem real.”

I nodded.

“So we should wait fifteen minutes?”

I smiled. She’d read my reports. “Since they’ve already been at it, maybe just five more.”

She nodded and returned her gaze to the spectacle.

The spectacle at the front of the theatre should have been the most interesting thing in the room, but the presence to my right kept drawing my gaze. I liked watching him watch them. He took the responsibility of observer seriously. Mouth turned down slightly at the corners, brow furrowed. His thumbs rubbed the tops of his thighs rhythmically and I noted a hint of…terrain tenting his pants.

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That familiar gut-dragging sensation of takeoff pulled me into my seat. I didn’t used to get airsick, but one time I took an edible when I was flying back from Hawaii because I thought it would help the long flight pass faster, but all it did was make me viscerally aware of the shape of the plane and the orientation of our seats in space, so that every dip and turn the pilot took made me queasy.

But it wasn’t just the flight making my stomach jump.

Would I really be meeting TDL? All evidence suggested the answer was “yes.” We had an appointment set for the interview - 3pm at J Restaurant & Bar, an upscale venue located five minutes from Art Cinema. I noticed, for the dozenth time, that my knee was jiggling, and forced it still. I couldn’t seem to relax.

What would he be like? What if it’s awkward? What if he’s a serial killer? What if he only thought I was an interesting or worthwhile conversationalist? What if he finds me unattractive?

I stopped myself at the last question, because that shouldn’t matter. I would be interviewing him, about sex things, yes, but whether there was any attraction between us was irrelevant. We would both be attending Art Cinema in our respective journalistic capacities, not as participants.

And yet…

I fidgeted with the sleeves of my blazer. My knee resumed its jiggling.

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Continued from The Bathhouse: Part 9

It retreated again. That insufferable, maddening appendage that had slid inside me in my sleep, wriggling and expanding until it filled all my secret crevices, had, once I was writhing and yanking my shackles and pleading for release, remorselessly slipped out of me, leaving me panting and shaking, with tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.

How much fucking longer.

“How much fucking longer!” I shout. This outburst is met with a smattering of grumbles.

“God, shut up,” a woman’s voice mumbles.

“Hey! She’s new. Be nice,” another reproaches softly. It sounds like Alice.

There are several women in the room with me, so it must be nighttime. Not that I can tell with the hood Alice had, with an apologetic smile, pulled over my head earlier that day. Stupid Alice and her stupid stories about “loving” this experience. If I could see the ceiling right now, I’d be burning holes in it. The dildo begins snaking back into my slit - not again - and I bite my lip. My nerves are screaming. I am no stranger to edging, but this is the most extreme version I have ever experienced.

“We could gag her-”

A door clicks open and the room hushes, bated breaths replacing whispered conversations. A slow, heavy tread crosses the room, and stops by my bed. With a creak of leather, I sense that the figure is leaning over me. The tentacle dildo retracts.

“You mustn’t cause a disturbance for the other girls,” comes the barely audible whisper. The voice is still strange. He must be wearing a mask again.

“Vlad,” I hiss. He growls.

“Take a walk with me, my pet.”

He unshackles me. I sit up and rub my wrists and ankles, glad to be rid of the restraints. He catches my wrists as I start to push up the hood and holds them tightly.

“No.”

I glare at him from behind the hood.

“Get down on the ground,” he purrs. “On all fours.”

I make no move to comply.

“Always so stubborn,” he murmurs, with a touch of amusement. “Would you prefer I tie you into position?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

I know what you want. But no to that, too. Fuck your “sir.” I remain silent, eyes needling the darkness of my hood in his direction.

He seems to weigh to what extent I should be punished for my petulance.

“Well, then. On all fours like a good girl.”

Hot-faced, I slide off the bed and kneel on the cold marble. My juices slither down my thigh.

“All fours. I won’t say it again.”

Begrudgingly, I drop to my hands.

“Spread your knees.”

I do, feeling exposed as the cool air tickles the fork of my legs. Just like that day at the bathhouse, splayed out on the bench, when I was a consciousness rotating with the surface of the earth, body trailing behind. When two warm arms held me tight against a naked chest and a happy smile peeked through a brown beard. Tears sting the backs of my eyeballs. I had a life. I had Dan. Now, what am I doing? Crawling like a dog on cold marble with a desperate, wet cunt waving in the air behind me.

Something firm and thick and rubbery penetrates me, driving all thought from my skull. I suck in a breath.

“Is it too much?” my handler asks quietly.

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The Oak King is tired.

He has strength enough to peep into his children’s rooms, but before long he must return to bed, to his lover’s arms. To be swathed again in his lover’s sable enchantments. To rest.

The Holly King’s black fingers stroke his lover’s head and his eyes are watchful. He draws his immense cloak over them, pressing his body against his lover’s sleeping form. Above them, clouds gather, pregnant with snow.

It has taken all of the Holly King’s skill these last weeks to lull the Oak King to dream-laden nights. To coax him to bed. And he has relished the peace his efforts have brought the golden-haired man cradled in his arms. But he knows it is almost time to begin letting his lover come back to himself.

He sniffs the air, sharp with cold. Like a coiled spring, he waits. Although he has felt it for millennia, for as long as energy and form have intertwined, this sensation has always perplexed him - the height of power. For there cannot be height without a fall.

Yet he is glad of his descent.

He longs for the extravagant energy of the Oak King - his strength and vitality and radiant zeal. His warmth.

A shiver jumps down his lover’s spine and he presses himself closer, feeling even as he does the heat of his lover diminish.

It is time.

He tucks the cloak around his lover and stands, naked. The eye of the moon is bright with mirth. He circles their bed in widening arcs, stooping to collect fallen branches. When his arms are full, he drops the wood on a charred stone and with a snap of his fingers, they burst into flame.

More about the Oak King and the Holly King can be found on Wikipedia or (my favorite) in the tale of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

Thanks for reading (or listening)! As always, I love hearing from you. What do you have planned for the Winter Solstice? Do you enjoy the dark, firelit nights or are you impatiently awaiting the spring?

💛 Maia

If you haven’t already read it, check out the first part which I wrote for the Autumn Equinox:

Maia Woodhouse

The Oak King and the Holly King

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3 years ago · 8 likes · 5 comments · Maia Woodhouse

Almost a year ago, I hit publish on the first part of The Bathhouse series. At the time, I was just trying to process an experience I had in a bathhouse that I thought might make for a good erotic tale. I didn’t think it was a series. I didn’t think I was an “erotica writer.” But that experience needed to be surgically extracted from my mind in a way only writing could do. Which is why, when I read that first part now, the blow-by-blow structure of it makes complete sense. I was really reliving every moment of that encounter. A year later, The Bathhouse is in a much different place. I’m not reliving something through story, the characters are making it. There’s a plot. It’s an honest-to-goodness story and it reads so differently from that very first part, I’ve considered making it a standalone piece.

But that first exorcism-by-writing I began nearly a year ago started something else, too. I decided I would give this erotica writing thing a shot. I’d commit and see what happened. So I wrote and published to a nonexistent audience, with the goal of releasing something once a week. Naturally, life got in the way, as it does, but I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished in the last year. I have published eight audio episodes and thirty-six stories, including three series, ranging from humor to satire to gritty noir to high fantasy. I have 188 subscribers and two thousand people have viewed my work in the last thirty days. Honestly, I cannot believe it.

And there are so many more stories to tell. But the main one I want to make space for today is one of gratitude. Gratitude for you.

If you’re reading this, thank you.

Thank you for being interested in my words, even if only moderately so. Thank you for your patience as I figure out the shape of this thing called Maia Woodhouse. Thank you for your comments and engagement. Thank you for doing me the honor of trusting me with your desires.

Thank you for this year.

Here’s to another three-hundred and sixty-five days of discovery together 🥂

What’s been your favorite story from the last year? What are you looking forward to getting more of?

💛 Maia

Continued from Angel from Montgomery: Part 4

The light of dawn is cold, its thin fingers spreading across the glass panels, long and slender like a skeleton’s. Felix rubs his eyes, the movement splintering his awareness with a pain that shoves him into wakefulness. He looks down at himself. His wrists are bandaged, as are his ankles. He sits up, confused, and stares at the fragile white ash in the woodstove, which was a fire the night before.

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"How would you like to star in the next Maia Woodhouse story?" I almost asked you. Almost dropped my hand over the cedar plank to touch your belly.

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Transcript

Hey.

I'm doing something different, which is instead of writing something out and starting there and then narrating it, I haven't written anything. I am in the parking lot, Trader Joe's with Inga and Partner’s inside getting hot chocolate fixings because obviously it is hot chocolate season. And, yeah, it's just been one of those days. A lot of go go go go. And, this morning I sat down to write and I wrote and I crossed things out. And I wrote and I crossed things out. And then at the end, it was just a bunch of crossed out nonsense. So here we are. I suppose that I may end up not sharing this at all. I don't know if anyone's going to like this. It's definitely not the type of content that you signed up for. So I'm sorry if this is totally not what you want, but I have heard from some people that you like more of the off-the-cuff stuff. So here it is, off the cuff. and just because it is Maia Woodhouse, you should know that I do have another Sunday Confession and, it has to do with a walk that Inga and I took yesterday.

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This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Her cleavage peeped out over the “v” of her sweater, making his blood boil. With effort, he maintained the posture of the Active Listener: eyes on her face, head tilted to the side, hands on the table. With effort. The magnetism of her form demanded his attention and he hated her for it.

How are women getting away with this? Flaunting their bodies and their “sex positivity” and their new gender roles. Dommes with stilettos pressed against the caged dicks of their sissies. It was never supposed to be like this. Once, Rob would have loved to have his way with this woman - to yank down that little top, exposing her breasts. He would have loved the smell of her shame and fear as he pressed her against a wall, his cock thick and ready. But those days were long gone. This woman wouldn’t be ashamed. She’d probably devoured 50 Shades of Grey in a book club and posted shibari’d pictures of herself on FetLife and wrote disgusting sex stories in her free time. If he pushed her against a wall, she’d say hideous things like “take me, Daddy” and act contrite when punished, but he could tell the difference. She would like it.

They weren’t supposed to like it.

Everything’s been fucked up since that stupid book came out. That’s when the floodgates opened. People suddenly decided their dirty thoughts could be redeemed by writing them down and calling it literature, but it would never be anything more than filth. He squeezed his fountain pen furiously, but his expression remained pleasantly engaged.

The woman looked at him and gave a nod.

“Thank you, Stacy,” he replied.

Rob tapped his pen slowly on the table, relishing the attention of his audience. Eight pairs of eyes on him. Waiting for him. Ready to do his bidding.

“I would now like to draw your attention to our list of prohibited businesses. I worry we are still being too lenient. Tripe Payment Processing has a moral obligation to ensure we are not financing dangerous activities - pyramid schemes, firearms, gambling, prostitution. Pornography.”

He looked around the table, daring someone to defy him.

“And I believe we could be doing more. It has come to my attention that Tripe is still supporting a large segment of pornographic sales: pornographic ‘literature.’ I’ll spare you the details, but I have done some research into the matter and the use of the word ‘literature’ in this case is an insult. It is absolutely pornography, plain and simple, and Tripe has no business supporting such commerce. I propose that we update the language of our Terms of Service to enumerate the types of mature content that will not be supported by Tripe, being sure to include pornographic ‘literature’. In a few months time we can begin off-boarding customers in violation of these policies.”

Nods around the table. No disagreement. And why would there be? What kind of person would think enabling such ill-gotten gains could be acceptable?

With the updated Terms of Service tucked under his arm, Rob walked back to his office feeling much lighter. He shut the door behind him and flicked the lock, then sat at his computer. Without thinking, his fingers tapped on the well-smudged keys and the little orange logo appeared on his screen, followed by tiles of naked men and women. Women with dicks in their throats and pussies. Women with cum splattering their tits. Men filling asses with huge cocks.

Rob unzipped his pants and tugged out his flaccid cock. He popped a Viagra from the bottle in his drawer and began to stroke.

Thanks for reading. I’m eager to know what you think of this one. I fear I’ve been very naughty…

💛 Maia

Voiceover transcript:

Hey, I wanted to provide a little character, profile about Skadi. This is a persona. It's a kind of a user experience or UX approach in order to define what kind of people are going to be using your software. And so I thought it would be fun to make one for Skadi, nicknamed Dee.

She is a pilgrim for Snøgud and she's 20 years old. She's Andri's lover. And her education... she is educated in the village. There's various teachers in the village of Eru, but she's done most of her education - I think that she would consider education - has been her training with Bylur and ah, that's mindfulness training, just basically meditation. Her background, due to the belief of her people, the Edur, that those with the palest skin are most desired by Snøgud, the god who rules the winter moons, Skadi, an albino, has been destined to make the pilgrimage to Nadgang Mountain to beseech Snøgud to spare their village from a cruel winter. She is the daughter of Freya and an unknown giant to the west of Eru And well, I should have said in the beginning, there is some spoilers in here for the first let's see, part one, perhaps part one you don't know that she is the daughter of a giant to the west. But she is, she's half giant. And, as with Norse mythology, that doesn't actually mean - we'll get into this, but just a little tidbit - doesn't actually mean that you are of giant proportions. The giants are able to change their size and some of them can shape shift and stuff. They're really loose with the abilities. It's like, you know, Loki could just sort of become anything. And when he has kids, they're always fucked up. It's like, yeah, Sleipnir has like seven legs or something. I think eight legs. and he has like another one. I forget. It's probably like a two headed snake or something. I forget. Anyway, yes, so, to be totally honest, I haven't decided yet how closely it is going to mirror that aspect of Norse mythology. But, it's probably going to be very similar. I'm just not sure about the with respect to the magical elements, if things are going to be as hand wavy, no offense, Norse mythology, but it is sort of like anything goes. So, yeah, we'll just see how things unfold. all right. Her goals. To be mindful like Bylur. She admires Bylur a lot. And he's very in the moment. He's present and, wise figure. And she would like to be like him. Although, as you can see, her mindfulness - I think it's a little silly to have a mindfulness score like this, but - I would say it's like a talent of hers. But it's not fully formed. She's still working on it. her other goals are to meet Snøgud and get some explanation for the tradition of pilgrimages she wants, to make... If she has to make a sacrifice, she would want it to be a meaningful one and to meet her real father. She doesn't know yet that that is a goal, but, yeah, once she finds out that her dad is not her dad, then that is going to be one of her goals. Spoiler! And to belong. Don't we all? Frustrations. She feels powerless over her fate. She's frustrated with traditions and superstitions of the Edor. She's frustrated with the way her village treats her. she's also annoyed with Lumi's obsession with Andri and her own limitations, especially her day blindness. And, ah, included in those limitations. She knows that she's not the most mindful, but she's working on it. And her archery. She's pretty good, but she gets frustrated with herself and I'd say that's one of her biggest flaws. Anyway, hope you liked this. Let me know. And I'm definitely going to make more whether or not you like them, because I like them. And, yeah, thanks for listening. Love you. Bye.

I don’t know if y’all like the more informal posts I put out on Sundays. I mostly have to gauge interest by number of likes (not the best metric), but we work with what we’ve got. Not that I should necessarily put out content similar to previously well-liked posts. By that logic, I would only write about the Wall of Dicks for the rest of my life. Of course, part of the reason people liked the Wall of Dicks so much is probably because it was something new. And it was lighthearted and fun. I have a pet hypothesis that people are more willing to share and engage in humorous erotica, because there’s an element of plausible deniability - “I was here for the laughs, not the dicks!” Not that the Wall of Dicks post was terribly erotic in the traditional sense. In any case, I’m sorry to say the story you are reading is about neither walls nor dicks.

It’s a story about the real me.

A confession.

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Continued from The Bathhouse: Part 8

There are faces everywhere.

I read once that humans seek out faces, seeing them where they are not, inventing eyes from drywall, lips from rippling ponds. There is a species of crab native to Japan, whose shells resemble the faces of samurai warriors and when fishermen would encounter those crabs they would throw them back into the sea. The faceless crabs were eaten and the faced crabs were left to reproduce, which meant more faced crabs in the ocean.

Something prods my awareness. I break my gaze from the face that has materialized in the soft whorls of woodgrain above me and find another at the foot of my bed, wearing an expectant expression.

“What?”

“This place. You get used to it,” the face repeats. “Like it, even.”

I want to be nice to this wide-eyed new acquaintance, but am feeling uncharacteristically ungenerous. I suppose getting kidnapped, taken to an undisclosed location, locked in a room with strangers, and shackled naked to a bed will do that to you.

Seemingly unbothered by my reticence, she bounces closer.

“Mind if I sit?” she asks, plopping down before I can reply. “I’m Alice. What’s your name?”

“…Phoebe.”

“Phoebe! Oh, I love that name. It’s great to meet you. I would shake your hand but, well…”

She laughs and gestures at me, then scratches a patch of skin beneath her collar. With her sharply drawn eyes and angular jaw, the movement is strongly reminiscent of a cat.

“So…is this…normal?”

I flap my hands a little, indicating my restraints.

“Oh, yes. We all start out like that. But don’t worry, it doesn’t last long. I mean, if you ask me, it doesn’t last long enough.” She nudges me with an elbow and winks.

“What does that mean?”

“Oooohh, you’ll see. I’m so excited for you!” She bounces on the bed to illustrate her point. “And a bit jealous! But-”

At that moment, she breaks off and her eyes roll back in her head. She gasps sharply. As though in a trance, her hands find her breasts and squeeze. A faint, pulsing buzz emanates from her neck. She moans and rolls her nipples between her fingers. The pulses grow longer and she arches her back, lips parted. One of her hands begins to snake toward the fork of her legs but stops, clenching at her abdomen. The buzzing grows into one continuous vibration and as it does her hips rock into my mattress and her hand scrabbles against her belly. She cries out, making little hiccuping gasps of pleasure. The buzzing dwindles back into silence, leaving her to catch her breath with one hand still gripping her breast.

Well. That was fucking hot. My cunt clenches around the dildo inside me, an apparently ever-present feature of my new life. The Courtesan peeks out from behind a pillar, wary but intrigued.

“Did you just…?”

“Oh,” Alice replies breathlessly, “yes. Mmmmm. That was a good one.”

She looks up at the far wall, where a list of names and numbers is displayed in red alphanumerics. “Alice” flashes and then jumps up the board. “00:37 is displayed next to her name.

“I’m getting better,” she says proudly.

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Today’s episode is brought to you by an offering on Etsy for mushroom-shaped wall hooks1. After a few representatives of the D&D crowd jumped into the conversation2, I knew this was a story that needed to be told…

INT. SMELDORIAN PUB - NIGHT

GOSHREY is seated at a table in the corner of the pub, surrounded by a group of villagers listening with rapt attention.

GOSHREY

I’d heard tell of it. Ain’t a soul in all of Smeldoria who hasn’t.

It’s the whisper in the darkness. The looming shadow on your path. The story told ‘round dying fires.

But nothing could have prepared me for the night I saw it with me own eyes.

Immense. Towering. When I stood before it, I saw nary a cloud in the sky, that’s how tall it was (also, I had a crick in me neck that prevented my lookin’ up too much). Yet, more astonishing than its height was the way it moved. It writhed.

Maybe you’d be expectin’ that. Maybe you think you know. I see you nodding like you could picture it, but lemme tell you somethin’ -

You could not possibly imagine the Wall of Dicks.

Thousands of appendages, of all shapes and sizes, wriggling and flapping and waving. Saluting and staring you down. The way it all moves together, it’s like the whole bloody thing is creeping toward you. And maybe it is. I don’t remember walkin’ toward it, but somehow it went from a shadow rising over yonder to the great behemoth I saw right in front of me. Close enough to reach out a hand and touch! And you wanna know something else?

It can hypnotize you.

That’s right! You ain’t heard about that in any of the old stories. Now, you know me. You know I’d sooner kick a dick than look at one but before I knew what I was doin’ I was reachin’ for the nearest one, a tentacle-y-lookin’ bugger. And it was reachin’ for me. It was like I was possessed.

No, see, don’t look at me like that. If you were there you’da done the same bloody thing. And you’da liked it.

That’s right. Fellas…I can’t believe it myself but this is the god’s honest truth - that fuckin’ wall makes you like it.

Like I said, I’d sooner kick a dick than lick one, but there I was, begging for that tentacle dick in my mouth, in my arse, wherever it would go.

Next thing I knew, I was lyin’ in the dirt and the Wall of Dicks was gone. And I had a strange kind of melancholy feeling - like I was missing it.

Now, you know I ain’t no queer. Like I said, I’d sooner kick a dick than fuck one. That’s how powerful the Wall is.

…

Where? About a thirty minute walk down past the boulder that looks like Reggie.

It does, Reggie, everyone knows that.

Well, your wife’s lyin’ to you then, I’m sorry.

Wait, where are yous goin? All of you? You ain’t afraid?

Thank you for tolerating my Sunday Sillies. If you liked this, let me know by dropping a comment! If you didn’t like it, let me know that too by sending a carrier pigeon. 😉

Love ya.

💛 Maia

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Hey! I’m traveling today. Just checked into my hotel in Manhattan. Which means today’s post will be a bit more off-the-cuff than usual. I hope that’s okay, seeing as we’re all friends here.

With my remote gig, I don’t much go out in the world. Besides the gym and the grocery (and Home Depot, we can’t forget about Home Depot), I don’t really go out at all. Now, here I am in Manhattan.

People everywhere.

I don’t exactly feel like the stereotype of the wide-eyed Country Girl in the Big Cityᵀᴹ. I’ve been here before. But I do find myself jumping at car horns and smiling at passersby before remembering that is not how things are done here. With such a staggering number of people in one area the chances of a Weirdo Encounterᵀᴹ are high, so New Yorkers simply can’t risk smiling and saying “hello” to everyone they pass. And, let’s be honest, you and I both know I am one of the weirdos.

One of my favorite games is imagining under what circumstances two strangers would be willing to…get freaky. This was the inspiration for my series The Bathhouse. I think about it a lot. If she weren’t wearing earpods, would he not have stopped at shy glances and gone ahead and complimented her Chewbacca socks? There is a subtle line between two people ignoring each other on the street and two people who lock eyes and flush. What then of the line between the flushing couple and one of them daring to grab the other’s hand and pull him into a kiss?

I don’t think I’m the only one fascinated by these shades of amour. Why else is “meet cute” such a consistently popular trope? Maybe I’m reaching, but I hazard you’ve thought about it too. Is the next random conversation going to be with my future wife? Why don’t more of us grab their hand and pull them into a kiss? Well, it would be jarring I suppose. And you might be wrong, which would be embarrassing and possibly more than embarrassing. So, we flirt. We test the waters.

I get it.

But that line will always fascinate me. And as I sit on my hotel bed, sucking sticky cinnamon bun1 syrup off my fingers, I watch the slices of life in the building opposite me, and I think about that line. If I held up a sign, “You Belong With Me”-style, that read “horny and alone, wanna bone?” would the guy eating dinner by himself in his apartment be tempted to come over and see how weird it might get?

Anyway. Hope you are having a blessed Sunday.

Lova ya.

💛 Maia

PS Due to work travels, there may be a delay in this Wednesday’s audio episode (or it may not happen at all, depending how demanding my colleagues are). Thank you for understanding.

Continued from The Bathhouse: Part 7

The ship rocks and sways over cresting waves. I see Vlad on the deck, facing away from me toward the blue horizon, shirt billowing in the wind. He adjusts his stance effortlessly with the ship’s movements. The picture of a seasoned seaman. I approach him unsteadily. With every step, my body bounces absurdly and my feet leave the deck. Long enough to make me wonder if they will return or I will be carried away.

I place a hand on his arm, his skin hot through his cotton shirt.

“Where are we going, Vlad?” I ask.

His hand covers mine and he turns toward me with a playful smirk on his lips - that are not his lips. They are Dan’s. Dan’s smirk, Dan’s dancing eyes, Dan’s bushy beard.

“Dan! I’m sorry, that was the weirdest thing -”

“We’re not going anywhere, love. We’re already there.”

My eyes crack open to lights flitting by in Morse Code, faint as though seen underwater at a great depth. My body is jiggling bonelessly, head lolling side to side. Am I on a boat? I try to sit up, but am unable to. My first thought is sleep paralysis, but there is no shadowy figure looming over me as there usually is during those episodes. The vessel bearing me takes a sharp right and I slide to the opposite wall. I don’t hear any other objects sliding with me so I must be alone in the container. A finger of panic pushes through my grogginess. Why can’t I move? What’s happening?

With an effort, I try recollecting the most recent events. The fragments of memory are slippery. Meeting Vlad on the street. Going to the coffee shop. Our kiss. The cab. His apartment. With an obscene mixture of shame and pleasure, I recall the orgasm he suckled from my breasts. And then what? I fell asleep? The last thing I can remember is the tender way he laid me on the bed. Would he have drugged me?

Fuck.

He must have.

FUCK.

I curse my stupidity. How could I have trusted a man who records naked people getting massages without their knowledge and sells the recordings on the black market? And to go to his apartment with him? That’s…unhinged. At this point, I deserve whatever I have coming.

And, of course, I can’t expect Dan to rescue me. He has no idea where I am. I don’t know where I am.

The vehicle turns left and I slide back across the floor. At least some things are coming together. I’m in a van. It’s nighttime. I’m blindfolded, but it’s not thick enough to block out the streetlights still flashing by. My wrists and ankles are bound. Without knowing how long I’ve been out, we could be anywhere. At one time, I might have found this situation terribly erotic, but it doesn’t feel that way now.

The van lurches to a stop.

The front door slams and there are footsteps outside. My stomach roils in trepidation. Am I to be thrown over a bridge? Gang-raped in an alley? Sold into sex slavery? Maybe that last one wouldn’t be so bad, if i had a nice master…

No! Shut up. What am I thinking? This is absurd.

The rear door of the van swings open and someone grabs my feet and pulls.

What’s going on?! I try to demand. But what comes out is -

“Nggnghhhn!”

Great, I can’t talk either. My probing tongue is met by the smooth surface of what could only be a ball gag. I realize my jaw is aching from biting into it.

“Morning, gorgeous.”

It sounds like Vlad, but strange. Muffled.

“Hngghgg.”

“How was the ride? I know you like it rough.”

“Ngghnn!”

A chuckle.

“We’re almost there.”

He hauls me onto his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. Like he’d done after our naughty cab ride, carrying me up the stairs. It had seemed so daring and exciting then.

Rain is falling lightly. It mists my hood and shooshes gently on the pavement. Vlad carries me up a flight of stairs and there is a sound of large doors being opened.

“Sir,” another voice says.

Vlad steps through the doorway, his footsteps echoing as though we have entered a grand ballroom. My head swings with each step. Still no muscle control to speak of. Vlad carries me across the ballroom and we enter a closer space - a hallway. Then we take a right and another man greets my bearer.

“Sir.”

A door clicks shut behind us and I am lowered onto a chair. I slump forward uselessly. My wrists are uncuffed briefly before being fastened to the arms of the chair and my ankles are given the same treatment. Finally, my hood is tugged off.

The low light is warm, giving my eyes time to adjust. When they do, I can see that the room is clean and minimalist, with wooden shelves on the wall and an oak desk crouching in front of me. Seated on the other side of the desk is a woman in a leather mask. She wears an immaculate charcoal suit, complete with silver cufflinks - the initials BT. Were it not for the mask and the black leather gloves I would have thought we were at a business meeting.

A stone block engraved with the word “Processing” sits on the corner of the desk, facing me.

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They say that the Oak King and the Holly King are at war - an endless war, and one which the Holly King, as of today, is beginning to win.

The Oak King, like his namesake, is strong and majestic. He stands in the sunshine with arms akimbo and feet planted firmly, his broad shoulders thrown back with pride. Opposite, stands the Holly King, much smaller than his foe, obscured by a thick cloak. He is a sorcerer of shadows.

And the shadows are lengthening.

Yesterday, they were perfectly matched, the shadows driving against the sunshine, the sunshine blazing defiantly into the gloom, neither giving ground. Then, for the first time in seven moons, the light gave way.

Now, each day, the Oak King grows weaker as the light fades. And the power of the Holly King grows.

Shadows stretch over fallen leaves and a chill creeps into the air. The spells of the Holly King grow stronger. But he does not vanquish his adversary - for what would be the joy in endless night? Instead, he entices him to bed.

They say the two kings are at war, but to my eye it is a seduction. For is your lover not best held close in the chilly darkness?

They are more like roguish lovers than foes - one bold and brassy and wild, the other coy and subtle, slowly drawing the blankets over their heads. It is the Subtle Lover’s time - time to move purposefully. To quiet. To embrace the shadows. But it is not to last.

When his power is greatest, and the black of the night most profound, his lover will begin to stir. His light will glow again, weakly at first, growing stronger every day. The Bold Lover will begin to tug the Subtle from their dusky bed.

Then, once more they will face each other, light and dark in perfect balance.

More about the Oak King and the Holly King can be found on Wikipedia or (my favorite) in the tale of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

Thanks for reading (or listening)! As always, I love hearing from you. Had you heard of the Oak and Holly Kings before? How does the autumnal equinox feel for you? Are you looking forward to cooler days and longer nights, or already missing the warmth of summer?

💛 Maia

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I had been to a couple of “house parties” before. Typically, they were humid, packed with sweaty pulsing bodies, dark, and your shoes stuck to the floor more than they should. I would inevitably be pressured into playing Flip Cup and would have a terrible time trying to flip that fucking cup while being ridiculed by my team.

But I knew this party would be different. It was an adult party. With real adults. Not the proto-adults who would magically appear skin-crawlingly close behind you while you were dancing at the 18+ club, their hips gyrating clumsily and their hands hovering around your waist, not quite touching, forcing you to scooch away as politely as possible. And it was an adult party. With sex. Not just a quick fondle on a dance floor, but actual sex happening right there, for all to see. That evening, for the first time in the two-and-a-half weeks since my breakup, I forgot about my ex. I didn’t feel like the shattered shell of a person attempting to cobble herself together. I was excited.

It was a Halloween party, but after a fruitless trip to the thrift store earlier that day, we decided to forego costumes. I wore my leather miniskirt, knee-high boots, and a t-shirt I got from a web development conference, which I had cut into an off-the-shoulder job - smart and sexy, I thought. After putting the final touches on our makeup (or the final spritzes of cologne, in Samuel’s case), the three of us gamboled down the stairs like colts out to pasture.

LeAnn, Samuel’s mother, poked her head from around the open door of the refrigerator.

“Where are y’all off to?” she asked.

To have sex, I thought, feeling my face flush. I could tell by the energy zipping between the three of us that they were thinking the same.

“Just gonna grab a drink,” Samuel replied smoothly. “We’ll be back late.”

“Oh, we have drinks here,” she said, gesturing around the kitchen.

“We were thinking it would be good to get out of the house,” Samuel answered, darting a glance in my direction. I chipped in by arranging my face into a more downtrodden expression.

“Oh, of course,” she cooed, nodding sympathetically at me. “That sounds fun! Have a good time. Drive safe.”

“Will do. Thanks, Mom.”

Feeling deliciously naughty and terribly eager, I was practically skipping to the car. I imagined this was how it felt to be a teenager sneaking out of the house for a late-night tryst.

“How are you feeling?” Blake inquired, her gaze serious.

“Honestly, good. Really good. Excited. Nervous.”

“If anything is too much, just say so, and we can go.”

“We should have a safe word,” I said. “Banana! No, that might come up.”

The three of us burst into laughter at the shamelessly naked truth of that statement. God, it felt good to laugh. It seemed as though the last time I had laughed was very long ago indeed.

“Cum up,” Blake riffed, shaking her head as her laughter subsided.

“How about ‘penguin squid’?” Samuel suggested, a combination of their favorite animals.

“Yes, perfect!” Blake answered.

“Sounds good, I’ll just start talking about the mutant penguin squids and no one will want to have sex with me anyway, so leaving will be easy.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure that’s the turn-off you think it is,” Blake joked.

The drive was far shorter than I had imagined it would be - twenty minutes at most - and the house far plainer. I had been imagining a Hugh Hefner-esque mansion, but this was your typical American ranch house, nestled among the trees of a quiet cul-de-sac. Light sprang into the night through the gaps between drawn curtains, along with muffled music and the chatter of party-goers. No one would suspect that in this unremarkable home, costumed strangers were performing various sex acts with each other.

And before that day, I would never have suspected that I’d be one of them.

Thanks for reading/listening!

As always, it makes me so happy when I hear from you, so please don’t be shy.

Love ya.

💛 Maia

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Continued from Angel from Montgomery: Part 3

Two weeks after naked Dianne emerged from his woodline, Felix Finn’s ability to go more than a couple minutes without thinking about her is nonexistent. Unsurprising, given how dramatically she had entered his life, and how drastically she had altered it. For the first time in years, Felix can glimpse a world beyond the hated prison of his sexuality, a world unshackled by the past. He had longed to tear those bars apart and greet that world, whole and alive, but with Dianne no violent escape had been required. She had simply, with quiet confidence, fit the key into the lock, popping open the door.

After their bedroom escapades, in the cold light of morning, things had felt almost awkward - both of them shyly stealing silent glances. But there had been a peace to the silence as well. An acceptance. The same acceptance that, when faced with the monster within him, had caused her not to turn away but to reach out a gentle hand toward the snapping, thrashing thing and lay her palm on its heaving neck, murmuring soft words and stroking its muzzle. Taming it.

The memory of their time together still thrilled him, but with every passing day he grew less certain that the feeling was mutual. Yet - surely, she needn’t have allowed him to walk her all the way back to the cabin she was renting nine miles away (NINE miles)? Something told him that she had wanted Felix to know where she was staying.

The cool wind stirs the needles of the fir trees, rushing like water. In the distance, Felix discerns a similar sound, but steadier, more purposeful. The stream. The birds flit quietly between the trees, casting fleeting shadows on the ground. His footsteps are muffled by the thick bed of pine needles. His skin tingles. His heart thumps a rhythm against his ribs he hasn’t heard in years -

Hope.

He barely feels the weight of the logs on his back.

‘You’re getting your hopes up for nothing’, mutters a voice from the back of his mind. A clawed fist drags his guts for a moment, but he shakes it off, refusing to let doubt dampen his spirits. The day is clear and bright, the air cool. Every scarred rockface and glistening needle is hyperrealistic, abundantly present. Felix breathes the crisp air deeply, relishing the way it fills his chest, caressing his lungs from the inside.

What a beautiful day, he thinks.

The babble of the stream is growing more distinct, rippling off the stones and trees.

Must be close now.

Dianne’s cabin was located only a hundred yards from the stream. If he follows it long enough, he should find it. To be sure, he checks his satellite phone. The waypoint to Dianne’s cabin is still marked from the last time he had made this journey with Dianne at his side - a ‘D’ nestled against a squiggly blue line indicating the stream.

Only another quarter mile, he thinks, heart pounding and not wholly from exertion. Would she be happy to see him? Disappointed? He reflects on what they had talked about on their walk - the birds that had caught their eyes, the sun, the wind. Nothing of the previous night or that morning. Nothing of his past. But she might want to know more now. Rounding the bend, which should mark the final stretch between him and Dianne’s cabin, a flash of movement catches his eye on the opposite bank.

A young woman is kneeling by the river, among the roots of a large quaking aspen. Her dark hair falls down her back, swishing gently from side to side. In a rush of excitement, Felix picks up his pace and opens his mouth to call her name, then stops short. It is indeed Dianne, as naked as the moment he had first seen her.

Blindfolded.

Undulating.

Her hips are moving rhythmically, muscles rippling along her spine. Her head is tipped back, lips parted. Her form is so crushingly beautiful, his knees buckle as though he might fall to them in worship of her. His cock stirs, tingling heat at the root of his being. The beast inside licks its lips, watchful.

With her hands planted on the ground in front of her, Felix can’t see much of her front, but she seems to be straddling one of the aspen’s roots, knees in the dirt, thin calves flexing.

Felix is growing harder by the moment.

The beast paces, lips curled.

As though bewitched, he tugs off his boots and then his trousers. He drops them on the bank, along with his pack of firewood, then steps into the river.

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