Nine Circles – First Level
‘Halfway along our life’s path…’
The girls bounced on adrenalin fueled with curiosity. Moments passed by, as did a few car horns and side-way glances, before they realised that it was end of the line. Two brutes guided them into the foyer of an old terrace house, one of a few that has survived the slum clearance philosophy. A face waiting patiently to be made pretty again, its slow rotting features ticked for time running out. A Dickensian allure of light and shadow, high ceilings and splintered wood bannisters held an energy from which past could not escape – dark and darker more. Holding out their arms , their wrists were branded with ink, and so began the descent into the thumping blue blackness. They belonged to it now, no escape. Lou Reed oozed through The Velvet Underground. Together, Mo’s distorted drumbeat and his unmistakeable timbre scratched, soothed and lured them to the bar. Lights flashed the path, their footsteps sticking on tar. The zinc was wide and wet, settled under a large chipped and white, flying carousel horse. It’s teeth exposed, lips turned with steel stiff reins, mad for it, snorting hard. It’s eyes wide matched her wide-eyed innocents, the ‘oh so curious’ guests of her bi-curious world. She watched two mouth’s gaped, turning side to side like shiny plastered laughing clowns, and if they weren’t careful, someone might be tempted to put something in them. She needed them to relax, throw a few back . She thought If they held onto something, their hands would stop their fidgeting and focus their stares – there would be lots to hold and look at later…if they felt the urge. She took a swig from her beer and noticed her riding crop that was laced to her leather dress, eyed from afar. She pulled the tight sheath of black down both sides with one black satin hand – “Let’s rumble”. Things were warming up early, she pointed with her eyes to the next room and they followed like ducklings. They strutted past nooks of torn, abused ottomans and low tables, their rims sprung and sharp, a secluded area for a quick suck or fondle. Iggy screamed ‘Lust For Life’ as they weaved through the bodiced bodies, luscious latex, wet leathered flesh, tutus, lingerie and kink to the other side of the room. Two rather buxom bottomed girls suspended themselves from a wooden beam. They writhed, swirled and twirled like two mating leapord slugs, their clits smashed and rubbed from the g force, all round of eyes and applause came from the watchers in the booths that lined the sides of the club. One wide eyed swallowed fast , stopped dead and held the top of her arm. In the corner, stood a six foot black obelisk of darkness. His face covered in black metal, draped over a floor length hooded cape, his reflective black steel cap boots protruded light on noir. He stood still as a mountain, staring at them, her beautiful innocents. Two angels, unmarked, untainted. Maybe he was playing games and just turning his head in their direction, his eyes focused elsewhere. How could you tell, no eyes, no truth, no lies. Though she couldn’t see his face, she could read his menacing mind. His was a dramatic decadent, fetish threefold, something she would like to observe but not play with. They walked past him – close enough to hear him inhale, feel his energy, he smelling her heat. White knuckles wound her innocent’s beer bottle necks, their feet couldn’t move quick enough for their inner screaming torsos. Slow steps, she passed, gazing, smiling – such insolence would wind him tighter than a cock ring. Three snooker tables bared with green felt occupied the main arena. A woman hogtied, elbow bound and ball gagged is getting comfy in her bonds, warmed by the downlights of dim neon. Everyone around is chatting, admiring the ropes, teaching intricate weaves like an suburban macrame evening class. Her friend comes to check on her and notices some blood on her lip. “Excuse me” she leans down politely, “would you happen to have a tissue, the gag has cut her mouth”. They all search their bags and come up empty, “Sorry, no” Her girls are pale and stutter, “Is she OK?”. The friend waves her hand limply and smirks, “yeah, yeah, she’s fine, the metal ring just pinched her lip a bit” their innocent eyes can’t help their empathy. A man leaning against a burnt pole, fixes his eyes on the vision in ropes from a few feet away, clear liquid iced, sipping deeply, breathing slowly, deeply sipping, slowly breathing. A whisper to her ear from a small turned hand breaks her voyeuristic trance. “He scares me” one innocent gasps. “Look how thick his forearm is, he doesn’t have wrists, his hand and arm one long block of solid flesh”. She had noticed, took a quick swig and queried. “Does he scare you more than the black obelisk?” she asked. Her innocent ponders for a few seconds, thoughts back and forth her mind stops to the reality in front of her, “Yes… yes he does”. At the back wall, two wooden frames are in full swing. Players, tied and whipped, smacked and bit – couples genuinely happy to put on a show, exhibitionism on steroids. The girls couldn’t contain their giggles at the pair on the mustard velour couch, like they were at home watching dvd’s, eating pizza and sucking on beers only difference they were watching live sex acts, eating pussy and sucking on toes. Her peripheral vision is forced around by a blonde beauty who sits in her frilly white skirt like a real life cupie doll. Wearing white stocking legs and patent white point shoes turned inwards and relaxed. Both of her perfect white breasts are exposed to the shadows, a halo of light floats above her head, luminous exitance like battling fireflies, her top fallen, layered like a curtain gathered at her waist. He is dressed in a white three piece suit, soft brown curls halo gentle features. His soft large writer’s right hand tweek and roll her nipples, her delicate fingers grip the sides of her chair, forcing her back to arch. Her iridescent flesh is a glistening sheen of pleasure, eyes encased in trance. Tilting and swaying her head, ears pricked to the smacks and whip cracks of fun elsewhere had. There’s another girl on her right, white latex sprayed on a body athletic. She holds her hand over the beauty’s lap, he strokes the top with his thumb. Gazing from one to the other. Every movement slow, controlled, felt, deep, love, turned on and on. Another show was about to start. The main stage beckoning the innocents, they drag her by the arm from her bewitchment, excitement building as to what they would witness next. A woman, her back rigid, head high, classic art deco posed draped in heavy velvet ready for her cue, fingers poised to reveal… who is this beautiful entity?
image & words - abbie 2013
Nine Circles – Second Level
She stands with her legs apart, swaying her hips to some French Indie pop. A goddess, petite and sure. Her hair, honey notes softly pinned and curled. Flawless skin, red luscious lips and cheeky grin. Black velvet frames her persona as she blinks out into the din with a calming awareness. A blissful cocked brow of anticipated rapture held within. Melody wears a corset of bands. Two inch wide straps of black, wrapped firm around her torso. The contrast of soft white flesh sighs in between them. Six inches of patent leather balance and lengthens her legs. Shiny black nipple covers are stuck firm to her breasts. X marks the spot where everyone wants to touch and kiss. My pupils so close, I can see my reflection in them. Flesh tremors as she bounces, tapping her heels, shimmying her shoulders, staring into the lights. She smiles…again, turns her head, dips her chin, smiles again and clicks her fingers to the rhythm. The music mingled with deep drawn breaths, form a hot haze in a spotlit cavern of voyeurs. Metres of hard, thick rope, lay piled, rough and raw on the deck, ready to hoist her up into a beam. The Artist walks on stage and gazes at his muse, steps back and paces around her, pawing her, stalking her with the gait of a black jaguar. Thoughtfully he plans his moves, his weave thoughts spike her with heat and moisture. Melody composes herself as he turns her around with a careful force – reflected, staggered like a strobe. She stares with awe, as if he is her solitary reason for existing. He takes her arms and pins them behind her. Head bowed to her neck, he whispers. She stills herself, he wills her obedience. His right hand clutches both wrists in one. He sniffs her skin from her elbow to her earlobe, before the rope makes it’s mark, before the transformation begins. The first tie is an anchor, a delicious ache tenses her wrists. The second loop locks them together. Her breasts smack out to reach our inquisitiveness, her back arches and her eyes close, comforted. The patterns on her back – intricate, secure holding patterns. Eight knots of hemp sat on every joint. There is no way out of those ropes that bind her, my mind is tied up inside hers, each others trust is paramount. Her master throws a length of rope over a large support ring and attaches her to the clunking metal. The end is wound round her right ankle. A lasoo to raise her leg high to reveal the pink folds of her glistening . He ties her leg back and attaches it to her waist. A sharp heel hovers like a long nail ready to pierce her back. He quickly swings and spins her to applause. He puts the stops on her spiral freefall – still, statue like and rubs her nub three times quick. I gasp, her mouth opens with the delicious shock of his thumb and we are all knee weak. Twirled and turned again, her eyes cast down, she bites her bottom lip…this is the only time he will touch her, a pain of want, so intense fills her…there’s nothing she can do but spin. Such beauty, beguiling twists and turns, brakes and twirls. She stares into my eyes, to reverse the ties. She wants to kiss my full mouth, smell my skin dipped in exertion. Suck my tongue because we both belong to him.