Warning! Political Content! (Well ……… sort of.)

Having trouble deciding who to vote for from among all those amazing candidates? Tired of the same old thing term after depressing term? How about a little real change for a change? Step up to serious leadership. Vote for Canada in the 2012 US Presidential Election! …eh …

When I was a little kid I thought of Memorial Day as an exciting time of celebration and parades, …… and hot dogs. My father was the commander of the local Army Reserve Detachment and I remember being so proud to see him in the parade through the center of town riding in the front of his unit in a jeep or in a tank. Even though I had heard the reasons behind Memorial Day and had some intellectual understanding of the meaning, I really didn’t get it at all. It was just a fun day that I didn’t have to be in school.

 

As a teenager I was enamored with this one particular girl whose brother was killed in Vietnam. She was devastated and I suddenly got a lot more of the meaning of Memorial Day, but now I swung too far to the other side and felt that it should be a day of only somber mourning with no celebrations whatsoever. 

 

By the time I reached my twenties I had known several friends who had either died in combat in Vietnam or survived their tours of duty uninjured only to wither away back home from a slow death of spirit due to the horrors they had witnessed, or from the drug addiction they had picked up there. Then there were those who languished in VA hospitals and became as wounded inside as they ever were in body. Suicide came to two of my friends as the only way they could see to be free of the suffering they had become harnessed to in that terrible war. Again I adjusted my view of Memorial Day to include harsh judgement and anger towards the politicians who had gotten us into that mess in the first place.

 

Slowly, all too slowly, I came to realize that Memorial Day really is meant to be a time of celebration as well as the rest of the above. It is to remember not only who has served and fallen and those who were injured, not only why they served and fell or were maimed, but how they would wish to be thought of now. Who wants to be remembered only with a wail of lament? Of all the people I have known who saw their deaths coming, either through old age or sickness, not one of them wished for their memory to bring about even a single tear. To be a soldier and be forgotten is worth crying about. To be a soldier and be remembered is worth smiling about, laughing, being positive, and making some happy noise. Gratitude is best served warm and sweet.

 

Arafin

I have neglected my blog for too long. Recently someone found an earlier Fabulous Face Friday post to their liking and so I figured what better way to get back to this place where I can publish whatever I wish.

Red hair just does it for me. Is it subconsciously signifying inner fire? Is it just that there are fewer redheads than brunettes and blondes and thus the very rareness is exciting? Is it something genetic which is peculiar to only some people? Perhaps all of the above. I just know that I have always found Alicia Witt to be excruciatingly sexy, mysterious, and captivating. I hope I never meet her in person otherwise I might spontaneously combust.

Arafin

“THE CONTEST”

Arafin © 2011

In 801 BC on the banks of the river Volga in a tiny village which would eventually grow into the Russian city of Novgorod, a boy was born while a hawk cried. A normal boy by all accounts and seemingly destined for a normal life toiling in the fields and then meeting with death at around the age of forty, if he was lucky. But this time a child had been born into special circumstances as the stars above circled and formed rare connections. As the boy grew he began to exhibit peculiar traits such as learning to speak a full year before other babies, being able to walk sooner, and being able to think for himself and obtain with his little hands what he saw and desired. He also healed almost instantly from any scrapes or cuts he incurred. Most people of that day and age carried with them numerous sores on their bodies, rashes, scars, and bruises. Life was hard and a blemish free existence was not something anyone even imagined.

His name was Illarion Nicoli Asimov and as he grew he became larger and stronger than his father or any ancestors, something the villagers put down to simple good fortune. He looked like his father with a slim, wiry build and hawkish nose, deep set eyes of jet black, and sharply defined full lips. The difference was that Illarion at the age of fifteen was a full two feet taller than his father. He was incredibly handsome and remarkably free from the effects of his laborious life toiling in the fields and fishing on the river as hard or harder than any man. The villagers put this down to his unusual dexterity and just assumed that he was better at staying out of harm’s way than the others. All the girls in the village and surrounding area could hardly keep their eyes off him and when he walked he did so with a confident sexy swagger that bespoke a powerful intention to be provocative, yet underscored with a subtlety which hinted at some other more mysterious goal. When he looked at girls in the eyes they felt as if he was reading their minds and hearts, clearly seeing each and every tiny secret, both proud and embarrassing. He could have had any of these young women he wanted but for some odd reason never became involved. He seemed to be waiting for something. Waiting for someone, perhaps, but that someone never came.

Illarion grew into full adulthood and should have kept on aging, but that did not happen. When he was twenty one he should have, by all accounts, begun to decline physically, slowly at first with wrinkles on his sun bronzed skin and then more rapidly with sagging flesh and stooped posture from day after day of carrying heavy loads. At thirty years of age he looked as fresh as he had been a decade before and the villagers put this down to simple good fortune. By the time he was thirty five and had still not aged another day in appearance the villagers started to become suspicious. His parents, now dead, were no longer there to defend his miraculous good health and now he found himself being eyed with something other than desire by the women whose eyes he still looked deep into. They were becoming afraid. On his fortieth birthday Illarion decided that the time had come to leave the village and head elsewhere lest he be forced out. He very kindly bequeathed his little farmhouse and fields to his closest neighbors who accepted with feigned gratitude. No sooner had Illarion Nicoli Asimov walked down the dusty summer road and turned the corner out of sight than that little farmhouse was burned to the ground and the fields marked off with warnings to never tread there again. Fear can twist the perception of even the best intentions into the exact opposite of their original meaning.

So it was that for the next two and a half centuries Illarion travelled from one region of Russia to another, learning never to stay in one place long enough to arouse suspicion. He was apparently immortal, a notion that at first thrilled him but in the fullness of time horrified him. To make new friends wherever he went, only to see them grow old and die, to never find companionship with a woman. He always looked into their eyes, and a few dared to look boldly back, either out of hunger or sheer bravado, but none dared to fully open their hearts to his dark and awesome gaze. He realized early on that he could have used the power in his eyes to control any woman he wanted, but the very fact that they were so much weaker than him made him less and less interested. How he longed to find another person like himself, a beautiful woman who was as powerful as he was! Eventually he would meet the woman of his dreams, but what she would do to him would be anything but what he had so long hoped for. And Illarion continued to wander slowly Westwards and eventually out of the land we now call Russia.

In the year 549 BC Illarion strode into a small mountain top town in central Italy, not far from the sea. The Etruscans had yet to establish their dominance and found the great city of Rome and the area was often torn by warring tribes or scavenged by marauding Greeks. He had learned to be wise in his long years and had amassed considerable wealth for a traveller. He had also learned the wisdom of hiding it. In the lining of his cloak were sewn long filaments of gold he had melted down and beaten into thread himself. In his boots were gold coins and inside the scabbard of his long knife were tiny oval ingots. Although he dressed like a simple wanderer he carried with him enough riches to buy almost anything he needed, and if what he bore on his person was not enough, he had lain a trail of caches behind him over the last two hundred years which would guarantee his success in any venture. Finding a suitable house of stone and thatch he made a reasonable offer to the seller and moved in. This place felt different somehow. Not very different, but different in some subtle hidden way.

To fit in with the locals he attended a festival celebrating Pan, earthy god of pleasure and music and known for his provocative mischievousness. There would be wine, good food, and singing. As he had always done he would stare into the eyes of pretty women, and he fully expected to see the same thing he had always seen, interest peeking out from behind a cage of terror. Someone was playing a flute as he strode carelessly into the olive grove where early arrivals were already intoxicated and dancing. Soft laughter spattered out from behind bushes, betraying unions of happy couples who had found joy with each other, if even for a little while. With a slow ache in his weary heart he wished he could be innocent enough to be one of them. The music from the flute wafted in and out among the ancient olive trees, the notes slipping through the leaves and caressing each and every vein, wrapping softly around twig and branch and gnarly crusted bark. The music was almost too sweet and something felt just a little wrong about it. Illarion had the dreamy impression that it was flowing down into the roots of those trees, nourishing them as might sunlight and water and sweet cool air. He found himself becoming more and more fascinated by this liquid pulsing sound and began to seek the musician, but try as he might he could not discern where the notes were coming from. Then he decided to do the logical thing and approached an old woman standing by a cask of wine. Upon hearing his question she startled him by suddenly rolling her head back and laughing raucously, and as she did this the music of the flute grew louder and louder.

Illarion’s head was becoming dizzy even though he had not yet tasted a single drop of wine. The air seemed to become thick and heavy and sticky like honey, holding his thoughts in a trap, fixated on his need to hear more and more of the delicious flute. The olive grove seemed to turn and spin like a carousel and he experienced something totally new and foreign to his senses. He felt dizziness. And it was not only dizziness as the music swelled and grew almost impossibly loud, it was a full blown case of losing his balance. He barely had the wits to stretch out his arms to break his fall as he tottered and then dropped down onto the dry summer grass. So very odd, this insistent feeling of just wanting to sleep, to give in to the music and sleep. The odder thing still, although he did not notice it, was that not a single one of the other people there paid him any mind as he fell. It was as if he was invisible to them. A deep buzzing feeling surged through his head and he lost consciousness for the first time in his life other than in sleep. The last thought to flee from his departing awareness was that although he was vulnerable in this state, something wholly new to him, passing out was a welcome relief, and thus as his mind’s eye closed he embraced the approaching feeling of oblivion with not a care in the world.

It may have been hours or days before Illarion awoke, but the sun had clearly set and been replaced by the most beautiful full moon he had ever seen. It shone so brightly that it almost made a sound in his ears, or so he thought. Maybe it was just a residual buzzing from the flute music, which had now stopped. When had it stopped? He could not remember. As he had fallen deeper and deeper into his bottomless subconscious well, that music had seemed to go on forever like an omnipotent sucking maelstrom pulling him on and on down into the welcoming darkness. Now there was only the faintest hint of a zephyr rustling grass and leaf, and somewhere in the magic distance a nightingale sang it’s enchanting song, almost too far away to hear, but in that distance the need to strain to catch the beauty and wonder of such exquisite heavenly goodness. He was laying on his back and he did not even understand at first that he was paralyzed, completely unable to move his body save to blink his wide dark eyes.

It was when Her voice first spoke his name that he found he could not budge an inch. If he had had his way he would have leapt ten feet in the air, so startling was it to hear that wickedly intense and sexual sound. As with the music from the flute, he could not see where it was coming from. Illarion Nicoli Asimov, immortal man with the strength of five and the cunning of ten, was now finding it almost amusing that he was, for all intents and purposes, scared out of his wits. Was this similar to what women felt when he so ruthlessly pierced their eyes with his? The thunder of his panicking heart was almost deafening as the voice spoke again, this time almost a whisper, but with such intensity and focus that it seemed to come from deep within his mind. “Illarion, I have you now. Do not struggle. You cannot possibly escape.”

Still unable to move or speak aloud all he could do was cry out in thought, “Who are you?” And when Her answer came, so far down  within his core, that he scarcely knew if he She had spoken it or he had imagined it. Was this madness? Had his long life at last come to an end and this was the process of his dying thoughts?

“No, my pet, you are not dead. You are much worse off than that. You are mine.”

Her words or thoughts or whatever they were were so hideously evil in their coldness, and the superficial sexy warmth of their delivery amplified that evilness beyond all reason. How could anyone be so ultimately callous, so titanically cruel, so horrifyingly searingly focused, ….. and on HIM? To be the victim of Her terrible power was so frightening to Illarion that if he could have he surely would have fainted. If he could have, he would have died. But She was right. This was a fate worse than any death because there was no passing and no escape, no reworking of memories into a new existence far away down the foggy road of many lives ahead.

Again he cried out in thought, “Why?”

It was a single desperate plea, a last burst of some futile hope of safety in at least knowing, knowing what She had in store for him, this woman who was so much more powerful and whom he could not see.

“If you see me you will understand.” The barest whisper, irresistibly alluring, overwhelmingly terrifying.

A long pause followed. It could have been minutes or hours. The fierceness of the moon was no comfort and the nightingale in the distance sang sadly now of Illarion’s captivity. A single tear rolled down his cheek and dropped forlornly into the fragile crispness of the long brown grass. It was all so desolate, he thought. All the natural beauty of the wide world he had wished to explore and no way to be free to appreciate it ever again. Trapped now in a prison of paradise always just out of reach. He would have preferred the deepest stone dungeon in all the land. Still, his curiosity and his desperate clinging to hope caused him to utter forth that one last human thought, “Yes, please let me see you so that I will at least understand”.

“You are a fool like all the others”, She purred, a cat toying with it’s silly mouse. And with that She laughed so loudly and so horrifically that the olive trees shook down still unripe olives like hail upon the hard ground and the nightingale in the distance took wing and fled as fast as it could. The sky above appeared to shimmer as if it was a reflection in a pool of water, and that is what it was, for he had not been laying on his back facing up, but laying on his stomach facing down into a pool of inky blackness. Now the mirror image of the beautiful moon broke into a thousand pieces and vanished, it’s liquid shards crying out in anguish for the fate of Illarion. Then, like a slow black smoke rising from Hell itself, came the first features of Her face. The mouth was herald of what was to come, so perfect and so full, lips so deep red they were almost black. He wished he could look away but also longed harder than he had ever longed for anything to see more. No, not just to see, but to kiss, to be kissed by, to be consumed. The nose followed, sharp and thin and angular like a piece of chiseled alabaster, cruel as a knife and haughty as a spoiled omnipotent queen. Cheeks and neck and hair, black, black hair, mounds of it, waving slowly and teasingly in the depths of the pool beneath. How he ached to touch that hair! How he desperately craved to become lost in it, lost in Her bottomless coldness. He could not help himself against these feelings of self destruction. He had become instantly addicted to this thing which terrified him most and in that instant his last proud memory of being so strong and so independent left him. He was ashamed of this for a second, at having given up so easily, and then that, too, passed away beyond his reach.

But where were Her eyes? “Oh, please let me see Your eyes! I will do anything if you let me see Your eyes!”, he screamed out with his mind, his body still paralyzed but now growing stiff and cold with the fear that was pulsing through him.

Silence.

Dead silence.

Not even the stirring of the breeze.

And then, with a suddenness she screamed one single horrible word, a command so strong that he had not the slightest thought to disobey. “LOOK!”, She shrieked. And he did. It was the biggest mistake of his life.

There beneath him were Her eyes, all other parts of Her dreadful face now gone. Burning like fire, brilliant orange with a heat so awful he could not understand why he did not incinerate in a flash. Stabbing into his own eyes, filling his mind with spastic jerking howling terror, Her flaming all powerful stare drove into his mind and burned him to the core, searing away every single last bit of his will, every shred of his dignity, every spark of hope in his heart. This was so much worse than death. There was no horror beyond this and he knew that. His curiosity sated at last, he would have given anything, done anything, good or evil, to be able to undo that fatal moment of asking to see Her eyes. He would have, except he no longer had the capacity to make such a wish come true. Illarion Nicoli Asimov had been turned from a blessedly fortunate immortal man into an cursed immortal vampire. And the woman who had done this to him? Some say She was Satan Herself while others disputed Her very existence. Whatever the case, the little mountain top town was seldom visited by those who had heard the tales, and when it was visited by those who had not, they seldom left.

That moment of turning had taken but seconds, although it had seemed like an eternity. Somewhere in there, during the time it might take a person to blink, She had vanished back down into her pool of blackness, leaving him with only a parting warning. “Never eat or drink normal food, especially by day lest you be barred forever from it’s light.” Somehow he understood more than this sentence stated directly, that mortal vampires could only walk abroad at night and that he could walk in night or day as he wished. The restriction was that he could not eat or drink by day or he would be banished to exist only in darkness, and darkness within as well as without. It meant that he would fall into that pool with Her!

In the hours that followed Illarion slowly found that he could move again. He rose and stretched his burning body, for the blood within him now boiled and churned with sickening need. He was hungry. He was thirsty. And without being told he knew exactly what he must do. And so began the new existence of Illarion the immortal vampire, one of only a handful of such never aging demons. It was fortunate indeed that when She turned ordinary mortals into vampires they lived only a mortal length of time and were at last freed from Her grasp by death. The rarity of immortals in the world meant that there were very few immortal vampires, a fact which displeased Her terribly, yet She knew there was nothing She could do about it.

Walking slowly at first, testing his legs as would a child learning to walk for the first time, Illarion strode back into the little town. There had never been any party, no homage to Pan. As he walked in a daze through the moonlit streets the few people he saw looked coldly at him with knowing expressions on their ghoulish faces. They were all servants of Her and this was Her refuge. It was to this horrible trap that She lured Her victims, some mortals to become as evil as they were able, and once in a great while, rare immortals to become wicked beyond all comprehension. Illarion felt so wicked now. He felt cruel and callous and hungry. He was angry at what She had done to him and he wanted to vent his rage upon the entire world. His heart burned with a fury to cause hurt and harm, to lash out and spread the pain in his mind and body to as many as he possibly could. No part of him seemed to remember his former feelings of simple adventure, especially the yearning to meet a woman with whom to join.

He needed to feed but here he knew there would be no repast, not in Her place. He was forbidden to prey upon Her servants, and with a deadly aching in his fetid boiling gut, he strode right past the house he had just purchased and forth on an unsuspecting and helpless world. Only the sound of the nightingale called after him. It had returned from it’s mad dash to safety when She had screamed. With tearful lament it called after him to not lose hope.

But he took no notice.

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With the precision of a panther Illarion stalked his first prey, a tinker camped next to his wagon not fifteen miles from the town where he had met Her and been turned. This man woke with a start to see Illarion standing over him and laughing softly. He had tried to rise but found he was too weak to do so, and his neck was wet. Running his fingers over the wound and then holding them in front of his face he tried to scream. His throat had been torn out and in a moment his heart stopped and he marched down into darkness, dead. The first taste of warm blood had been so good he almost couldn’t stand it. It was a rush of pleasure quite unlike anything he had suspected. It was beyond quenching an aching thirst of satisfying starvation with ambrosia and it outreached sexual climax many times over. It was ecstasy unbound and limitless in it’s free rambling horror, for it was the horror of what he had just done that gave him the most pleasure, the deliciously evil satisfaction that he had caused the old tinker to suffer before he died. Illarion had tasted not only warm blood with which to satiate his vampire body, he had tasted the hot rush of cruelty and knew in that instant that he needed it to satiate his vampire mind.

As he had done before to avoid unwanted attention, so he kept moving now, never staying in one place for too long. Rumors spread through Italy for many years of the terror that fed on human blood in the night, but then the rumors faded there and cropped up anew somewhere else. Spain, France, Germany, Tunisia, Greece. For more than five hundred years he roamed and fed and grew ever stronger and more cruel. He learned how to use the power he had always had in his eyes to capture prey and tease them before devouring. He found out how to increase the fear in a victim so much that the acrid taste of adrenaline in their blood vanished with exhaustion, leaving his drink sweeter to him than honey wine. He discovered the awful joy of promising delirious happiness to some woman whom he made to love him desperately, only to rip her heart to shreds with the cruel truth that she was never anything more than food. He was a monster and he loved it.

Illarion also began to hunger for other things. He coveted physical wealth in a way he had never done before becoming a vampire. He would visit an area and buy up land, then disappear for several decades, only to return in disguise, now the recipient of his former identity’s will,  and sell off his holdings at a higher price. He would buy the most priceless art and copy it, his immortal skill at such things making the copies more perfect than the originals. He would thieve gold and diamonds wherever he could, usually dining on the rightful owners. He would invest and scheme and invest again. By the time the Church had come to power he was well protected enough to be able to hide among the most devote populations by skillfully politicking with the those who were benefactors of the priests. He even accepted the odd invitation to high social events at which Bishops and Cardinals prevailed. They had no wish to see the river of wealth that flowed from Illarion into their coffers suddenly dry up and vanish. It’s amazing how money can create loyalties where none might otherwise exist and break them down where they might otherwise endure.

And so through the rise and fall of the Roman Empire Illarion prospered. During the Byzantine Empire he positively flourished. By the time of the Renascence he was most likely the richest person in the world, although he never let on his true power or fortune. Better to keep hidden, he knew. Better to hunt among those that did not suspect.

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In the year 1762 Illarion left the Old World and travelled to The New, landing in Boston Harbour where he quickly established a healthy shipping trade between The Colonies and Mother England. Barrels of tobacco and pepper made him even richer than he had dreamed back in Europe and Asia. Beaver pelts and gold made him financially invincible. There were few men or companies which would not bow to his will when this new deal was proposed or that new merger. The American Revolution only provided chances to play both sides and become richer still. By the time the century turned Illarion had amassed a wealth so great that no single brand of bank could safely hold it, and so he created his own. No sooner had he done so than he moved on, this time into the mysterious vastness of the opening West, and by the time the American Civil War ripped the country in two, he had cemented together an empire which would not only endure the tides of battle, it would blossom like a mad thing, profiting from the good fortunes of the victors and the misfortunes of the conquered. As always, he dined whenever he wished and upon whomever he wished. The boiling hunger in his vampire blood was exceeded in evil only by the boiling cruelty in his vampire mind. And while his blood boiled hot his flesh was icy cold, a sad fact of his new existence that he put down to simple bad luck.

Again he moved on, this time to San Francisco, where he again took up shipping and the new industry of the railroad. Not a piece of freight could move across the country or out of it without passing through the domain of Illarion Nicoli Asimov. He never used his real name when he moved, of course, but constantly reinvented his persona, and always in a manner which would inherit the wealth of his former identity. And so it was that in the year 1901 Illarion finally grew tired of gathering unto him all that glittered. After more than two millennium of accruing wealth that, if all it’s individual parts were tallied together from all their far flung hiding places, would surely have exceeded the budget of any country on Earth many times over. A long trail of death and dismay snaked behind him like a lazy river on it’s way to a distant sea forever out of reach. Being the richest man in the world had been his goal and he had surpassed that long ago. Being able to kill whoever he wished, including his most powerful rivals, had made him strong and crafty like no other man in the world.

Now he was bored. He bought one of the new gasoline buggies, a light blue Darracq, and headed back towards Boston. Roads across country at this time were a rugged adventure of mud, ruts, holes, and washouts and so it was that his route was fraught with constant detours. It was thus that Illarion became sidetracked and wound up much further south than he expected, but liking the countryside and the people he decided to settle for a while in the area. People were friendlier here than in Boston and he was finding that he craved something now he had never craved before. Genuine human interaction. It was no longer enough for him to feed on people to survive, he now wanted to know them and feel like one of them, to “belong”, something he had never done since being a boy in Russia two thousand eight hundred and eleven years ago. Why had he changed? He certainly didn’t know. Was Her spell weakening with the passage of time? And always he remembered Her warning to never eat during the day.

Illarion was still evil, but he was also now becoming curious about things which were not. Generosity began to fascinate him. It was so strange, to see people give when it was not to their direct benefit. Kindness mystified him no end. Why be compassionate when it did not feed one? His most wicked and cunning intellect, superior perhaps to the finest mortal minds the world had ever produced, was stunned and stupefied when he tried to fathom this concept. And then one evening when the full moon was bright and clear and seemed to sing, a nightingale burst forth with joy and in that instant Illarion remembered all his human feelings from before becoming a vampire. It was like a flood of cool relief from the heat of his wickedness. Was the grasp of She who dwelt in the dark pool of Hell finally letting go?

Would he ever completely remember his quest to find a woman who could stare back into his dark eyes and neither cower from him or rip his soul to shreds?

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In the year 1972 in a small mountain town deep in the Appalachians of the Southeast United States a girl was born whilst a nightingale sang. A normal girl by all accounts and seemingly destined for a normal life, if she was lucky. But above, the stars circled and separated and converged in the strangest of ways and the destiny of this girl began to unfold in a fashion which was unusual, beautiful, and very, very fascinating. Her parents named her Julia, though she had a willfulness about her to match Hera. Julia was not disobedient as a child, but she discovered and made increasing use of her ability to manipulate those around her by way of clever parrying with words. Her voice was sweet and clear and full of laughter and her eyes sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight. Always her determination to be her own boss was augmented with ever increasing skill with speech. It never appeared as if Julia was winning an argument. She just got what she wanted. It never felt to those around her as if she was controlling them. They just went along with her ideas. This phenomenon was not speculator or grand or flashy in any way but was so mundane in it’s nature as to be totally unnoticeable to all but the most scrutinizing and well trained ears, and even they soon fell under her spell. To enter into a conversation with Julia was to exit with little understanding of what had happened but holding a deep feeling of well being and happiness. Julia always used her powers of persuasion in such a way as to leave people a little brighter inside, a little more at rest within themselves.

As Julia grew into womanhood she pursued a career which fit in perfectly with her gift, that of psychiatric nursing, This allowed her to practice and further perfect her skill of guiding people with gentle words but it did not completely fulfill her desires. She wanted something more. She wanted to control men in order that they might be happy to serve her, leading them to find that what she wanted was in fact what they wanted. As Julia became more and more proficient at weaving her spell both at work and in leisure she realized that she actually had diverged into two lives. By day she was a psychiatric nurse and by night a Hypnodomme. At first she did not know that is what it was called, but upon learning the term she found that she quite liked it and eventually took on the name “Lady Julia” when engaged in these pleasurable pursuits. So, this woman with the voice of a sexy angel, the charm of the most sophisticated princess, and the mischievousness of a woodland sprite was “Julia” by day as a nurse and “Lady Julia” by night as a Hypnodomme.

One day Julia decided to answer an ad in the newspaper for taking care of a man named Bill and so left the hospital for a more quiet and relaxed life. Bill and Julia took an instant liking to each other and she not only took the job but moved in to a spare room in his large house. Using her physical skills as a nurse and her mental skills as a hypnotist she cared for Bill so expertly that his health improved past all the expectations of his doctors. Living so close to someone diminishes the ability to keep secrets and Julia eventually told Bill about her alter ego. At first he was a bit shocked, but after thinking about it, (and after being hypnotized to think about it some more), he came to both accept and relish the wonderful platonic connection they now had. Knowing of her Hypnodomme side only added to his good fortune in being able to be guided by her to continue getting healthier and healthier. It was thus that their friendship grew and they shared much with each other about their pasts.

Julia worked hard and sometimes needed a respite from her job and was happy to enjoy occasional days off when she might stroll in a peaceful wood or sit by a lazy river and feed the ducks. One warm summer day when she had such time to herself she packed a picnic lunch and set off for her favorite park. There was a small lake there with swans in it and she so loved to watch them swimming gracefully back and forth, to the left and to the right, to the left again and to the right again. She was happy to be alive and the sun felt good shining down past the high white puffy clouds that floated peacefully along. She was waiting for someone, but she did not know who. It was just a feeling.

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Illarion Nicoli Asimov lived in a large mansion in a city many miles from the park where Lady Julia sat with her picnic lunch watching the swans on the lake. However, on this day he had taken one of his antique automobiles for a longer trip than usual, feeling both peckish for new flesh and peckish for new contact. Perhaps he would dine with someone interesting and perhaps he would dine ON someone interesting. As fate would have it his car broke down not far from the park where Lady Julia sat on a blanket enjoying the summer sun. Upon hearing from the mechanic in the garage that repairs would require more than a day because of the parts which had to be ordered by courier, Illarion took the advice to book into a nearby hotel and perhaps explore the park across the road. This was not an inconvenience in any way. He would search to fulfill his new fascination of ernest conversation with whomever in the park felt like talking, and when darkness fell he would fulfill his growing hunger and thirst upon whomever was unlucky enough to still be there. Because it was a park he bemusedly thought of his approaching dinner as a “picnic”.

He followed a winding path through a quiet forest, the leaves of beech and maples swaying gently in the soft breeze. Eventually the forest thinned and he could see a small lake ahead. Upon the lake white swans were swimming slowly back and forth. Such a peaceful scene. Then he saw her, Julia, sitting on a checkered blanket, eating a sandwich and watching the swans. Unknown to him she had already heard his footfalls and with her peripheral vision was watching his every move. Was this who she had felt she was waiting for? Illarion was strangely drawn to this woman. She seemed almost too relaxed, almost too unafraid. Most women felt a tinge of fear in the back of their minds when he drew near, and though they soon succumbed to his devilish stare, that fear was still present, sometimes whispering for them to run, sometimes teasing them to stay and learn more. He boldly walked right up to the edge of her blanket and looked down at her. Would she look up on her own or would he need to invite her with a suave hello?

Without turning her head away from the lake in front of her Julia calmly spoke to this being of immense age and power. “Sit down”, she said, and these two words sounded so sweet that he found himself sitting without even thinking. Now she turned to look at him. In the instant before her eyes focused on his he expected her to react as all women before had reacted, with instantaneous desire to drink from his dark and mighty gaze. In the instant after her eyes focused on his he was utterly dumbfounded. Here was a woman who met the power of his immortal eyes with the softness and seeming innocence of a child, yet with an underlying calm and confidence which was anything but childlike. Never had he seen such eyes. Never had he felt such peace under someone’s inspection. While all others were both frightened and awed by him, this woman could, he knew, see him for what he was but was not at all afraid. He would have felt fear of his own next, in that instant which followed her warm smile, but she spoke before his mind had time to react.

“Would you like a piece of fried chicken? It’s Bill’s favorite.” She held out a drumstick towards Illarion as if it were a magic wand and the spell it wove was one of deepest wonder.

Illarion stammered and coughed, “I …. uh …. can’t eat ….. yet.”

She just looked at him and smiled, her face repeating the offer without need of repeating her words.

Illarion stuttered, “I’m sorry, ….. I can’t eat …… chicken.”

“Oh, you poor dear!”, Julia remarked with half feigned sorrow, a smile still on her full lips. “Allergies to poultry?”

He almost laughed at the absurdity of the truth buried within her question. If he tried to eat anything other than human flesh or drink anything other than human blood he would become violently ill. To eat anything at all by day, even fresh human kill, would surely send him into the depths of that awful pool with Her.

“Would you care for some wine then?”, she lilted, her voice singing just a little, an almost imperceptible rhythm to her speech.

“Uh … no …. thank you, really, …… but I do not drink …… uh ….. that.” His Russian accent, so long ago masked by centuries of skill at practicing others, came through now loud and clear.

“You’re not from around here are you? Well, no matter, you looked hungry and I was only trying to make you feel better.” She was so right, not just as to his geographical origin but to what she had tried to do just now, to make him feel better, and he found it almost too much to bear that he did indeed want to feel …. better, whatever “better” meant. He wasn’t sure. Did he want to wait till dark and drink her blood or did he want to just hear some more of her words?

“I know”, Julia whispered, so softly he had to strain to hear. “Have a piece of this pecan pie.”

What did she know? She knew something, of that he had no doubt.

Illarion tried to stutter another excuse why he could not eat such things, but the sweetness of her voice and the gentleness of her smile had entranced him, that and the way she seemed to be rocking rhythmically back and forth as she sat, causing him to unconsciously rock in time with her, synchronizing his movement to hers without even realizing it. All memory of his terrible existence left him in that soft moment, that heavenly bubble in time, and he dazedly reached for the little paper plate with the piece of pecan pie.

“I feel dizzy”, he balked, and it was no lie.

“Well, bless your heart. You must be famished. Here, take this fork.”

As if in a dream he saw himself take the fork from her outstretched hand and stick it into the pie on the little paper plate, and then, so slowly that time seemed to be grinding to a halt, he passed it to his lips and parted them. He prayed feverishly for time to not stop in that moment but to continue just long enough for him to taste that which he had not tasted for over two thousand years. He didn’t care if it made him ill. He just wanted to taste real food and more than that he wanted to please her by tasting what she was offering. As the pie went into his mouth and his prayers were answered, as the rush of flavor exploded in his mind, the rush of memories of his life before becoming a vampire swept into and over him. He swallowed only that one bite before he passed out, and Julia, always the good nurse, quietly and efficiently checked his vital signs and then covered him with her blanket. The fact that his body temperature was about fifty degrees below normal and that the blood pulsing through the vein in his wrist was at least one hundred degrees above normal would have shocked anyone else, but to Julia it was all part of life. She would take what came her way and make the best of it. This man had obviously wandered very far to find her and she was not about to abandon him now.

As he slept he began to dream, first of his life on the Volga as a young boy before he realized he was immortal, then on the road trying constantly to improve his lot in life while keeping his secret from those he met and dealt with. Then followed the feelings of wanting so much to find a woman who was his equal in immortality of body and keenness of mind. When his dream reached that moment in which he had fallen into the hideous power of Her in that little Italian mountain top town, in that awful field with that sickening pool, he began to shudder and moan. Julia soothed his brow as he slept and whispered encouraging words for him to continue and not be afraid. He heard these words and for the first time since he had become a vampire he knew what it was to let go of his fear. This release was profoundly powerful and he sighed out loud. “That’s right”, whispered Julia, “just let the dream go on. You’ll be fine. You’re doing really well.” And so his dream rolled onward through the long centuries in which he had done such terrible and cruel things, he alternately cried when he felt remorse and laughed when he felt relief that he never had to do such things again. When at last he was caught up to the present he slowly awoke.

It was early evening now, the orange sun settling below the distant horizon. A gigantic full moon was rising from the other direction, casting it’s silver sheen deep into everything in the park, but especially into the heart and mind of Illarion Nicoli Asimov. What had happened to him? Was he still alive? He knew that he had eaten forbidden food and eaten it by day.

“You’re alive, silly. And you’re confused, aren’t you?” Julia’s voice was so enchanting, so gentle and yet so overwhelmingly strong. He yearned to hear more and the more he heard the more he wanted to hear. She laughed lightly to him. “Come on, get up. We need to get you home.” Home? What did she mean? Her home? His home in Russia? His mind was racing with misty swirls that made no sense and he teetered as he rose, grateful for her steadying hand under his arm. Her skin was so smooth and so warm. The sensations caused by her touch were almost too much to handle and he balked when he saw his desire rise up like a long dried fountain suddenly awake after a pitiful drought. Julia noticed this, too, and just smiled. “Now you be good”, she said with mock severity,” or I’ll have to punish you.” He knew immediately that punishment meant pleasure and almost tried to walk so as to make his erection more noticeable, but then thought better of it. “Good boy”, she cooed, and his heart melted with sheer overwhelming gratitude.

Back along the path to the parking lot. He walked in a daze and she frequently had to help him when he stumbled, he, Illarion, who possessed the strength and dexterity of a lion. It felt good to rely on someone to help him. Julia had to practically load him into her car, and as soon as she had fastened her own seatbelt she took out her cellphone and called Bill to let him know there would be a guest that night. Illarion slept again as she drove. This time he dreamed of his village on the Volga before he was born. He saw his parents meet for the first time and fall in love. He saw his own conception and the strange convergence of stars and moon which bestowed upon him the gift of immortality, so rare and so wonderful. Yet, so sad in the loneliness it brought with it, a loneliness which had driven him to embrace that hideous woman in the pool. This faded now into thoughts of the pecan pie. How incredibly hungry he was!

“Bill, I’d like you to meet Illarion. Illarion, Bill.” When had he told her his name? Oh well, it didn’t matter, did it? He was clearly dreaming all of this and had died the minute he had eaten that incredible pie. “Let’s go into the kitchen and get acquainted over something tasty”, she said. Was she reading his thoughts and teasing? He didn’t care. Bill seemed mildly amused by this sleepy guest but was a bit concerned about his name.

“Illarion. That’s Russian, isn’t it?”

“Yes”, he replied to Bill, his eyes having trouble looking anywhere but at Julia.

Bill shifted from one foot to the other in a manner which suggested some mental discomfort, but he remained silent. Julia noticed this but not Illarion.

“But I haven’t lived in Russia for a very long time. Have you ever been there?” Illarion spoke with relaxed politeness in an attempt to break the ice.

“No”, said Bill. “I … just …. knew someone once …” His voice drifted off like the echo of the wind sighing through an empty hall.

“Ah”, said Illarion, “a woman!” Feeling now a justified and safe to be a bit playful. “A long lost love?” He grinned mischievously.

Julia nudged Illarion’s foot with her own to signal him to let drop this line of conversation, and he, neither understanding nor wanting to displease, found a short rush of pleasure in the opportunity to obey. Or was it from the touch of her toe? Or both?

“Here, you boys have all the pie you want. There’s plenty!” And with that Julia swept from the refrigerator the whole from which had been cut the piece Illarion had eaten from earlier that day. Outside the moon grew brighter still and in the distance a nightingale sang. A lone tear rolled down Illarion’s cheek and fell onto the marble floor as he heard that sound. It reminded him of the promise of hope he had once tried to ignore.

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Illarion ate half the pecan pie and finally, for the first time since he had become a vampire, knew what it was to no longer be hungry. He had satiated his thirst, too, not on blood but on milk. Milk! It had flowed down his welcoming throat like cool moonlight. Was he even still a vampire that he could drink such stuff and not be sick? Questions. So many questions. He slept in the guest room and rose at dawn when Julia and Bill did, surprising himself once again by ravenously eating an enormous breakfast of eggs and bacon and slab after buttery slab of thick toast cut from a fresh loaf of homemade bread. What flavors! What sensations! This was a whole new world to be discovered all over again, an adventure which he hoped he would be allowed to continue, at least for a little while. In the back of his head he still wondered if he would wake from this pleasant dream or somehow quickly age and dry to a husk. Then he looked at Julia as she sat sipping coffee and she looked back at him. “You’re not dreaming and you’re not going to dry out and turn into a husk. Don’t worry. You’re going to be all right.” His thoughts were as clear as spoken words to this angel.

Bill spoke now, his voice calm enough but hinting at just a bit of concern. “You remember that the Stepfords are coming over tonight, don’t you?’

The “Stepfords” referred to a group of Bill’s friends who Julia had thus named due to, in her opinion, their uncanny resemblance to the women in the film “The Stepford Wives”. It was a private joke between Bill and Julia but Illarion could see it for himself. “Can I help in any way?”, he asked.

“Bless your heart, you’re so sweet”, she lilted, and again Illarion felt that tug to fall under her wonderful spell. When she said “bless your heart” it really did just that. It blessed his heart with a new chance at life, a new chance to redeem himself from all the terrible things he had done. He no longer needed to kill in order to survive! He had somehow been cured! Was there any vampire left in him or not?

“You are still a vampire”, she said, her brow furrowing just a little as she said this, “but now you’re a good vampire and you can eat what we eat instead of all that nasty human flesh and blood.”

Suddenly Bill got up from the table as if he was going to be sick.

“Julia, can I have a word with you? …… Now!”

In another room Bill spoke in indignant astonishment. “A vampire? A real vampire! In my house! What the heck are your thinking? He’ll kill and eat us in our sleep!”

“Now, Bill, he’s not going to do any such thing. He’s been all confused and led astray by some horrid Italian woman who made him think he needed to act like Bella Lugosi or something. Now he’s better. Really, there’s nothing to worry about. Please try to be his friend.”

Bill knew better than to argue with a Hypnodomme and so returned to the kitchen where Illarion pretended not to have heard with his highly sensitive immortal ears every word that had been spoken at the other end of the house. He was amazed by Lady Julia’s kindness. Not only had she rescued him from his fate worse than death, now she was asking her friend to be his friend. It was difficult to remember that he was not dreaming.

After they had finished eating Lady Julia looked at Illarion and spoke in a soft voice not unlike her usual tone, yet just a little lower in volume, just a little slower in pace. “Illarion, wouldn’t it feel nice to do the dishes? You can allow yourself to think about your fingers swishing away through warm soapy water, sliding over the china plates and imagine how good it would be to do that for me, can’t you?” And it was so very easy to imagine what she had just described. He suddenly found himself at the sink, dutifully washing the dishes as envisioned. He could not remember standing to clear the table. He could not remember putting the plug in the sink or running the hot water. His mind had skipped a beat, but he didn’t care. It felt wonderful to be helping Lady Julia in this small way. A vampire washing dishes, he mused. This was one for the books. Bill looked on and only grinned. He was happy to have someone else do the dishes for a change, though he knew he would miss the pleasure of performing that chore soon enough. He grabbed a fresh dish towel and began to dry as Lady Julia remained seated at the table, humming softly to herself, occasionally looking up at the two men who were so happy to be of service.

At some point she had walked out of the kitchen, but neither of the men had noticed it, so wrapped up were they in the pleasure of their respective tasks. When they finished and looked around to find her gone, she instantly appeared in the doorway, now dressed for town with her purse in one hand and a shopping list in the other. “Go brush your teeth. I want to do the shopping for this evening before it gets crowded in the city.” Even these words of task were sweet to hear and Illarion savored every one. Her voice felt delicious passing through his ears and sinking deep into his open mind. But had there been a little humor there when she told him to brush his teeth? Had she seen his fangs?

Bill stayed behind to tidy the house while Lady Julia drove along the winding road by the river, taking the scenic route into the shopping center. Illarion sat looking out the window. Everything seemed different now, so bright and clean. As the passed a group of children playing in a schoolyard he marveled at their exuberant joy. When they drove by an old woman pushing a heavy shopping cart with all her worldly possessions in it, he felt like crying. Upon driving along side a limousine with darkened windows which would block the view of mortals, his immortal eyes saw inside a cold hearted business man talking on his cell phone about how to cheat a rival out of a great deal of money. Had he been like that man?

Reaching the mall they disembarked and began collecting the various items needed to feed and entertain The Stepfords. Tasty crackers and pate, miniature rye bread and imported cheeses. Illarion was very helpful here, knowing as he did about each and every variety of cheese from Europe. Lady Julia just smiled. She knew it pleased him to please her. They filled their cart with aperitif wines, dinner wines, and dessert wines. They filled it with crown roast and vegetables and fruits. When Lady Julia began to pick a bottle of Italian sparkling water from the shelf, Illarion stopped her. “This comes from too close to where I was, …… ummm …. you know.” She put the bottle back and chose a bottle of a similar product from France. “Is this okay?”, she queried like an innocent schoolgirl. He could see that she was anything but, though played along with her petite charade and nodded seriously. This caused her to laugh out loud, a sudden burst of quivering joy which shook the air and sent little waves of erotic pleasure down his spine. Two women standing in the next aisle looked bemusedly at each other and smiled knowingly, they thought, but had they known more about Lady Julia and Illarion they surely would have fainted.

That evening a feast lay on the dining room table which would rival that of any emperor in old Russia, or so Illarion said. Lady Julia was very pleased to hear this compliment but silently wondered about where he had come from. During the final preparations and before the first guests arrived they began to talk about this. She was amazed to learn how old he was. She did not seem amazed at all to learn that he would apparently live forever. She found it so sad that he had never found the woman of his dreams, only one that became his nightmare. She marveled at his tenacity of purpose, both before becoming a vampire and afterwards. If he had been a mortal man he would still have been strong and resourceful and accomplished much in life. She respected him for this and he respected her for accepting him, both his good side and his bad. His good side was now beginning to blossom again, so long suppressed by his hunger to feed on humans and relish in their suffering. Illarion wanted to help. Anyone who needed it. Just help.

And of course, it was especially pleasing to help Lady Julia when she asked. This she now did once more as she bade him vacuum the hallway one last time. “Oh goody!”, he thought, “the vacuum cleaner again!” She seemed to sense what he was thinking and whispered in his ear, “Tomorrow, if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you vacuum the whole house while wearing nothing more than a little apron.” The absurdity of this image initially made him laugh, but as he pondered it a bit more he found the prospect of doing what she described to be intensely erotic and his manhood awoke. “Now you behave yourself!”, she scolded, obviously noticing what had just happened. He grinned through his embarrassment and she shot him a half scowl, half smile, teasing so seductively that he was worried he would not be able to hide his condition from the guests who now rang the doorbell. They were early. Lady Julia was in her element and grabbed his arm. “Come with me”, she purred. “Answer the door with me and welcome our guests.” It was almost too much, her sexy playful voice, the touch of her velvet skin on his arm, the raging desire surging to be free but without opportunity to do so in this restricted environment. He squirmed a bit as she dragged him into the hallway.

The Stepfords arrived in a pack, all twenty of them. Ten men whose lives of grey executive drudgery had left them craving mock adventure. Vacations in the tropics with drinks that had those little umbrellas in them. Ten Stepford wives whose voyage through the world of needless excess had left them craving more needless excess. Their hair was perfect and would not have looked out of place upon the heads of ten manikins. Their skin was completely devoid of blemishes, the result of hours spent in salons and spas adhering to the latest regimens of cleansing and hydrating, all the while gossiping about everything useless under the sun. Their teeth! Those disgustingly white and flawless teeth! When they laughed, and they laughed often and too loudly, their teeth shone garishly forth like the offending searchlights from skulking cities searching for bombers to shoot down. To be caught in the glare of those gleaming teeth was to be caught in the glare of mindless imbecility. Illarion had seen their kind before, in the ballrooms of Imperial Russia, in the castles of medieval France, in the mansions of Old Vienna. Grinning and preening and fanning themselves, each one trying so hard to outdo the other. A competition of silliness from which would emerge only losers. Of all the people he had ever eaten, he had enjoyed the flavor of such mentally fallow suckling pigs the most. The smell of their blood now had an instantly inflaming effect upon him and he struggled again to hide the erection which grew harder as the desire in his mouth grew hotter, burning mercilessly in his fangs.

As these women and their husbands poured into the house Illarion thought he would surely succumb to his exploding ravenous hunger and kill the lot of them right there, but Lady Julia still had hold of his arm and he restrained himself, more than anything not wanting to displease her. But he could not restrain himself completely and bent close to her ear that he might whisper his anxious request into it. “Please, dear Lady, may I eat just one of them?”

“Absolutely not!”, she shot back. “These are our dinner guests.”

“Precisely”, he said. “Dinner guests. Dinner being the operative word.” He was trying to joke, but most of him was serious.

“Don’t you dare eat any of The Stepfords!”, she scolded. Bill would never forgive me. I know you’re hungry for a bit of what you used to eat, but you’ve changed now. Remember? Now be a good boy and go serve the punch.”

The words “good boy” had two immediate effects. One, it sent a shiver of mental pleasure washing over his mind causing him to utterly forget eating The Stepfords. Two, it caused his bulging erection to increase to it’s very limit. Walking across the crowded room to the table upon which stood the large punch bowl was not an easy task. Being able to stand behind that table and hide behind the punch bowl was a most welcome relief. Lady Julia noticed the entire process. Nothing escaped her sharp eye. As Illarion put on his best display of sophisticated European gentleman and ladled sweet punch into the little glasses held by pampered hands, Lady Julia shot him a teasing glance now and again. She was just making sure that he remained in a state of arousal while he worked. It was so much fun to dangle him over the edge like this.

Bill and Lady Julia put on a magnificent spread of hourderves and food. Illarion served punch till it was gone, and by that time, mercifully, so was his tumescence. When the sun set and they sat down to dinner everyone was feeling well lubricated and the speech flowed as freely as the wine. The snippy jealous digs between The Stepford Wives flowed as freely as the fat from the roast in the oven. When the time came Illarion carried it out upon a huge serving platter which he set ceremoniously in the center of the table. Everyone “ooed” and “ahhed” at the circular crown of ribs and the delicious looking meat attached below. Everyone except the vampire. He had his eyes and his teeth pointed very directly at the loudest and most obnoxious of the women present, an arrogant poster child for the ugliness of new money. She talked constantly about herself and never once admitted to not knowing something. To believe her tripe would have been to proclaim dimwittedness before any who would believe, which all the other Stepfords pretended to do with ridiculous eagerness because this woman was connected to people who were truly powerful in the local business world. It was her lawyer husband which afforded her all her power. By herself she was nothing. No one dared give offense and so they laughed at her jokes and smiled sticky little smiles at her nasty antidotes. It just would not pay to fall out of grace in this queen’s court. Oh, how Illarion wanted to bite deep into her neck right there in front of everyone and drain her like a struggling lamb! He could taste the scent of her cholesterol laden blood from across the table.

Lady Julia was aware of his hunger and bumped his foot with hers under the table. “Tell us a story about your time in Monaco when you met Grace Kelly.” Her request would be complied with, she knew, and perhaps it would get his mind off the white flesh in front of his lusting scrutiny. The foolish woman had been so busy talking that she had never noticed Illarion’s devilishly black eyes staring at her. And so he began to recount the tale of how he had travelled to Monaco decades ago and been invited to dinner with Prince Rainier. There she sat next to the Prince, the most beautiful woman in the world, a movie star who gave up her realm upon the silver screen to be at the side of the man she loved. Grace Kelly had been charming, witty, and undeniably sexy, all with classiness befitting a true royal. Her eyes divulged her inner warmth and her voice divulged her inner strength. This was no pretty woman who had simply capitalized on the good fortune to snare a rich husband. She had come to where she was now because she had always belonged there. Anyone who saw her in person would instantly know this. As he told his story he bent this word or that so that very, very subtly he was drawing attention to the crassness of the woman whom he so desired to consume, sitting there stuffing herself on too much red meat and scalloped potatoes. Lady Julia saw it first, almost from the start. By the time Illarion came to the end of his fascinating story everyone in the room had come to recognize his double entendre. Everyone except the foolish woman who kept on eating and eating and eating.

In time the guests wandered away home, not in a pack as they had arrived, but one couple at a time. One man left alone and then returned an hour later when he realized that he had forgotten his lovely bleached blonde plaything, all bubbly and simplistically perky like the good little trophy she was. Finally only one couple remained, the lawyer and his gas bag of a mate. Lady Julia and Bill wondered if they would ever leave while Illarion wondered if they would stay long enough. Long enough for him to snare her and sink his fangs deep into her lily white throat.

“I told you, my pet, you can NOT eat any of the Stepfords.”

Her voice was totally stern now with not a hint of playfulness. She had seen his look change from mere human hunger to something much more animalistic.

“Please, dear Lady, please! Just her. Just this one and then I swear I will never taste human flesh again.”

“That’s no fun”, she quipped, not missing the opportunity to allude to flesh tasting of a different kind.

“You know what I mean”, he said. “I just feel I need this one last bloody feast and then I will have it out of my system and be done with it forever. Now that I know I can subsist on normal food, and now that you have rescued me from an eternity of damnation, I do not wish to continue killing. Please believe me. To eat this woman is something different, ….. well mostly. I just want one last BITE!” He spoke this word so loudly that Lady Julia was startled. Had her spell slipped? Would he revert back to the monster?

Outside the full moon had risen and was casting it’s ghostly radiance over all the land. In the distance a nightingale began to sing but was interrupted when a hawk swooped towards it for the kill. Silence. Had the nightingale escaped or been caught?

Just then the Stepford woman stood up and tugged at the arm of her dozing husband. It was time to go. Lady Julia felt a sigh of relief but Illarion grew more impatient. This might be his last chance.

As Lady Julia escorted the drunken couple to the door Bill began to clear the table and let slip from his fingers a serving platter. The heavy piece of china fell to the floor with a crash and Lady Julia excused herself to run to the kitchen to investigate.

In that brief window of time, that space between blossoming opportunity and withering chance, Illarion looked deep into the Stepford woman’s eyes. Now she did not turn and continue babbling. This time she was transfixed, a stone statue of a spoiled brat erected on the spot where a second before had stood a living being, or so it almost seemed. Her husband let out a large belch and toppled out the front door, not seeming to realize that his wife was still inside. Illarion moved closer, his lips parting to reveal his fangs and his cunning dark eyes piercing the foolish woman’s weak little mind straight to the core, thrusting his irresistible charisma deep into her libido. In an instant she was wet with desire for his body and aching with love for his heart. For nearly three thousand years he had known how to do this and the skill with which he held the reins of his victims’ souls was very great indeed. He opened his mouth and moved closer to bite. She opened her heart and moved closer to be consumed.

Lady Julia and Bill stepped from the kitchen in that instant and saw Illarion and the Stepford Wife next to the front door, about to embrace. Illarion heard them and drew back, the racing blood lust in his vampire veins slowly ramping down and subsiding. He looked back at Lady Julia with shame in his eyes. She looked back at him with relief in hers.

Overhead the stars circled and formed new connections. The Stepford woman let out a huge belch, followed by the most unwise words of her unwise life. “Julia, you know, that roast was overcooked. I’m just telling you so you will do better next time.” A parting insult as she had emerged from the vampire’s waning spell. The roast had not been overcooked and Lady Julia knew that. Everyone knew that including this imbecile before her in the hallway. It had been a remark designed solely to inflict a little hurt, an attempt to show her who was boss.

Such a bad idea.

“Illarion”, cooed Lady Julia as Bill saw what was about to happen and tugged at her arm for her to stop, but then, realizing that it really didn’t matter, let her continue. “Illarion”, she began again, “wouldn’t you like some dessert?”

Her meaning was clear and with a joyous howl unlike any noise a mortal man can make, Illarion Nicoli Asimov turned back to the Stepford Wife and sank his long fangs deep into her bulging neck.

In the distance the nightingale sang again, confirming it’s good fortune and proclaiming itself the victor in the skirmish with the hawk, and now resumed looking for bugs with which to feed her chicks. The hawk cried aloud in hunger and swept away on dark wings to look for food elsewhere. She had young to feed, too. Perhaps another day she would catch the bird whose song was so sweet that it brought tears of joy to those who were lucky enough to hear.

In the contest between the needs of two competing hunters of the night, the one with the sweeter song usually has the advantage.

The lawyer husband probably noticed after a while that his trophy wife was gone, but he never did anything about it.

Illarion slept at the foot of Lady Julia’s bed, a drop of dried blood on his lips. He was a vampire no more and would wake in the morning to desire all the various foods the wide world had to offer, but never again human flesh. He would thirst for every drink under the sun, but never again human blood. The woman in the pool had never actually changed him into a vampire at all. She had just brainwashed him into thinking it was so. She was a prisoner in that abyss, perhaps sent into a dark eternity there by Pan himself, and her only power had been the ability to trick others into doing her evil for her. Her warning to never eat normal food, especially by day? That was just a means of keeping her victims from seeing through the charade. Fear made mortals and immortals alike believe they must kill to survive. Vampirism, like so many other things in life, was just a state of mind.

In the garden Bill dug a small hole and into it dropped all that was left of the Stepford Wife, her dress and her shoes.

Lady Julia was not asleep. She just lay there while her Illarion slept at her feet, thinking of how nice he would look in the morning in a butler’s outfit which had no pants as he cleaned her bathroom and ironed her clothes. She would take excellent care of him and she knew he would never kill again. He could perform so many other duties for her, including to scare the wits out of those silly Stepfords if she thought the situation warranted it. It could be very handy to have a twenty eight hundred year old Russian immortal around the house.

Dear Friends,

A while back I heard about an AIDS awareness campaign which uses a particular woman’s cosmetic product as a reminder to practice safe sex. I thought that sounded a bit like a trigger, but one aimed primarily at women. I then had the idea of using hypnosis to implant post hypnotic suggestions to practice safe sex which could be used by anybody, not just women who applied a particular brand of lipstick prior to intercourse. After all, most sexual activity takes place when the mind is in a trance state, and as such one’s critical faculty is often so far in the background that thoughts of safety can become diminished or forgotten altogether. I floated this concept in a forum I belong to and received some very good suggestions such as; using pre-intercourse desire itself as the trigger, and that remembering to practice safe sex would not diminish pleasure but actually increase it. I wrote some initial scripts in various styles and took people’s proposals into account.

I am not trying to make a name for myself and I am not trying to make any money with this idea. I am simply trying to spread this concept in the hopes that some lives can be saved.

All versions of the scripts are protected under a Creative Commons Copyright License which allows alterations as long as such work continues to acknowledge the same copyright and is non-commercial. In other words, any variations of these scripts or recordings of these scripts shall remain “open source” and free. Of course, anyone who made a recording of any version of these scripts would be able to list themselves as the recording artist. That would not affect the Creative Commons Copyright License.

I formed a Yahoo Group to which the Copyright of the scripts is attached and as an archive for the roster of all contributing authors. This Group can also act as a discussion venue in order that this project may be improved upon. The Yahoo Group is called the Safe Sex Hypnotic Conditioning Project Forum, (SSHCP forum), and can be found here: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/SSHCP_Forum/ To obtain drafts of the scripts one does not need to join this forum, but simply write to me at arafinte@gmail.com and I will be happy to send them to you in PDF, WORD, or RTFD.

Finally, I would like to propose the following idea to you. The idea is simple. Make use of the initial scripts from this project, or form your own from scratch, and offer as much pro bono hypnosis as possible to help people remember to practice safe sex.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. Hopefully this idea can help to prevent the spread of HIV/AIDS, other sexually transmitted diseases, and unwanted pregnancies.

Warmest Regards,

Arafin

Stories of Mistress Catalina and her slave Rowdy

(Now all in one place)

***********************

“THE MARK OF EXCELLENCE”

by Arafinwe copyright © 2007

As Catalina’s rusty red Jeep bounced like a drunken gazelle along the winding desert road it left behind for all to see a giant worm of slow dust, drifting lazily towards the high snow mountains to the North. It would be dissipated and invisible by the time it got there, nothing more than a wistful memory of speeding tires and rattling metal which carried the lone rider as if she were a lioness in pursuit of a jack rabbit. Her faded jeans caressed her perfect legs, relaxing just enough at the bend of the knees to allow teasing hints of tanned skin to peek through between Venetian blinds of old cotton. She wore an off white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled half way up the forearms. Crowning her long black mane rode a cowboy hat of reddish brown leather, banded by Navajo beads, and bearing an eagle feather like a flag held proudly by the leader of some grand parade,….soldiers marching home after a terrible victory long forgotten. The sun shone peacefully now over this scene, reflecting off her impossibly blue eyes, glistening like jewels from the pearls of sweat that speckled her angled cheeks. Catalina was coming home and someone was waiting.

Rounding the final corner into view of her desert ranch, this lady of the land smiled wryly as she picked up the form of her one and only hired hand, and aside from the horses, chickens, one very torpid bloodhound, and two young cats, the only other living thing in her domain. It had not always been thus. Once, long ago in a city best now unremembered, she had held court like royalty, seeing to the wants and needs of her subjects, directing them to tend to HER wants and needs. Worker bees administering to their queen. She had gone by the name of Lady Catalina in those days and the suggestion that she would one day dress like a cowgirl would have drawn guffaws from those in attendance. From them, but not from her. They had never known of her early past, the tender years on her father’s Virginia horse farm, helping to raise world class race stallions. Three Kentucky Derby winners had come into the world by her young hands, grown into muscled thoroughbreds, and called her Mistress. She had cared for their rippling forms and high strung minds as she now cared for Rowdy.

Rowdy, (yes, much like the Clint Eastwood character from the TV series Rawhide), had been a drifter in her city, crashing from a night of bad wine and stale pizza in the doorway to her apartment. She had come out in the morning to gather some groceries for breakfast and found him sleeping like a spent and beaten prizefighter, wrapped in newspaper, old cowboy boots peering out from underneath. Perhaps it was because she had grown tired of her retinue of pretty slaves in the chambers above, always trying so hard to please her, yet always failing to really spark her deepest fires. Perhaps it was because it looked like rain. Perhaps it was seeing his cowboy boots, an echoing reminder of happier times for her,…..and possibly for him. She had taken him in, bathed and clothed him, trained and educated him, all very much to the dismay of her city pawns, who one by one grew increasingly discontent and peeled away from the hive like pitiful drones looking sweeter honey. Some might find such, she had mused, but most would more likely have found a harsher mistress and realized only dark hours of misfortune at cruel hands. They should have stayed put, for no one else would have ever been so forgiving of their shortcomings.

Rowdy was different. Although a drifter in every sense, he was a natural gentleman. Polite not just to her, but to all, kind not just to his queen, but to anyone who needed it. At first he had seemed lazy to her and she had to constantly administer punishments usually reserved for men of lesser character, and this actually caused her second thoughts upon more than one occasion, yet something in her told her to stick with him, and in six short months, (for him), and six long months, (for her), Rowdy was not only the apple of her captivating eye, but the talk of the town, at least that part of the town which lived the lifestyle of sexual exploration that Catalina prowled through like a cat. After a year there was but one remnant of the drifter in him, a laid back way of walking when he was not in a hurry upon some errand for her, always when he was unaware of her watchful gaze. She let him keep this trait of slow ambulation because it pleased her. He reminded her of a stallion she had once raised who would walk thusly when it was hot and there was no need to hurry. That stallion had won more blue ribbons than any normal race horse had a right to, and she sensed Rowdy had the same potential.

They would both be there still if it hadn’t been for Rockwell, the impertinent spoiled brat son of a powerful international banker with diplomatic immunity and a brain the size of a walnut. Rowdy had accompanied Catalina to the opera one evening. Handel’s Ariodante. Can cowgirls and cowboy enjoy opera? The tears of passion that rolled down their cheeks that evening spoke to the affirmative. As the red velvet closed for the final time, the cast having taken three curtain calls, Catalina spied Rockwell in the hallway. She had known him years earlier when he had pitifully begged to be her slave, not with the sincerity of a true submissive, but with all the gall and bad manners of a smart-alecky school boy. She had refused him time and again until he left town, not due to her rejection, but by orders from his father called away on business. Catalina did not want to meet Rockwell again. He was disgusting to her and she knew that if he saw her there would be trouble. Rowdy sensed none of this as he dutifully escorted his Mistress by the elbow towards the stairs. She had tried to get him to change direction and go out the back way, but to no avail. Rockwell had seen her and approached like a hyena, laughing hysterically and smelling of too much cognac.

Harsh and cruel teasing issued from his pursed lips as if he were playing a trumpet of insults. Rowdy immediately bristled and would have thrown Rockwell from the nearest balcony if Catalina had not restrained him. Making fleet work with her legs and guiding her pet, she managed to extricate herself from the unpleasant situation, only to be cornered by the cad again on the street. Rowdy wanted to crack his skull so badly he could taste it, but she knew better than to allow such a thing. If it had been anyone else, perhaps, but Rockwell was one of those people who could not be touched by the law, and a long list of saddened souls who had tried left warning to others who would follow. Again she slipped away, Rowdy fuming, but in tow. And again, the Fates conspired to bring ruin to her happiness, as Rockwell pursued them to a jam of people waiting to cross the street. If only the light had changed but a few seconds earlier, so much would have been different, allowing escape from the morass of suffering that was to follow.

Rockwell began to hound her in earnest now, choosing the unkindest of insulting lies, hurling them like rotten fruit. If he had been someone of even modest intelligence, she could have hypnotically dropped him on the spot, so powerful were her fascination techniques, but this lout simply did not posses the capacity to be hypnotized. She had tried years ago, just to make him go away. Finally the spoiled brat said something which overpowered her hold on Rowdy, and the fury of a bear was unleashed upon the dismal fool. Three well timed punches designed to break first the yammering jaw, then the collar bone, then some ribs. Rockwell was out before he hit the ground, silent at last, save for the heaving of his vomit as he tried to regain consciousness a few minutes later. Catalina and Rowdy were gone by then, but not forgotten.

In the days that followed there had been a plethora of police and FBI agents at her door, first arresting and then releasing Rowdy, then arresting once more. Questioning and interrogating. Manipulating and framing. She had called in every favor she had from lawyers and a judge she had know ages past, but to no avail. Rockwell had clout far beyond hers and she knew it. Her beautiful cowboy was doomed to the worst prison the country had to offer unless she could think of something. She did, and it didn’t take her long.

Initially Rowdy was to be released on bail before his trial, which was by now incredibly swollen to the charge of attempted murder. If he had wanted Rockwell dead, he would have collapsed his throat with the first punch. No, he had only wanted to silence the lout and defend his lady’s honor. Now Rowdy was to be held without bail due to some trumped up charge of conspiracy, but conspiracy against what or whom, no one would say. Catalina called in her last favor, and with the help of her skill as a hypnotist, it all worked like a charm.

She managed to gain visiting rights. Just one visit, but that was all she would need. By her side was an old math professor she had known from childhood, who now by happy coincidence lived in the same city. She had once cured him of migraine headaches and he never forgot. Now he was willing to go through fire for her, but this day he would only be required to perform a lighter task. Juggling. His hobby was fascinating to children and adults alike, and all she depended on now was that the guards had not heard of him of seen him on TV last Christmas as he entertained children in a cancer ward. They were both

searched. Nothing illegal, though in the future items such as rubber balls would most likely be added to the list of things forbidden entry.

Rowdy looked hopeless as he sat at the other end of the table from Catalina and the professor, two armed guards standing close by, making certain no physical contact took place. She made a slight facial sign to her pet as she prepared to cue her assistant. At first Rowdy could not believe that his mistress had some kind of plan, but he knew her too well to argue, and only sought now to follow whatever directions she gave. She spoke of his past, something he had only told to her, of a desert ranch he knew of, owned by an old prospector he had once befriended. A place to go where no one could follow or find. No legal records connected him to that place. No trail existed whatsoever, and this is where they were now headed. She spoke softly so that the watchful guards could not hear. When all was ready, Catalina gave her little signal to the professor.

Like a circus clown at the ready her old friend slowly stood up, took seven rubber balls out of his coat pockets, and began to juggle. The guards looked in amused disbelief, yet did not object. Now Catalina began to speak, loudly enough now so that the guards could hear, but just barely. She had such a sexy voice and they strained to hear her words. All this was as she planned. Not speaking loudly enough so that they could hear without effort caused them to focus more intently. As soon as she saw them straining to hear, she knew she had them. Words so silky and intoxicating drifted from her perfect lips that the dead themselves would have listened that day. She spoke of something seemingly harmless and simple, the rubber balls being so skillfully manipulated by the clever professor. In a matter of minutes the two guards were totally transfixed by the juggling and now she changed her tact so that deeper thoughts were implanted into their unsuspecting minds. She easily convinced them that they had the wrong assignment that day and were in fact supposed to be escorting “Mr. Glimmer” to the new East wing, (the new wing which was only partially completed). It seems that Mr. Glimmer was a government official sent to inspect the new construction on the sly in an attempt to catch unawares any dishonest procedures of security, any lax regulations.

Within ten minutes of starting her plan, Catalina, the professor, the two guards, and Rowdy, (aka Mr. Glimmer), were on their way to the East wing. It is a peculiar thing that if people look and act as if they are doing what they are supposed to be doing, most observers will believe that to be the case. Having two high ranking guards escorting three people as if on a tour was not unusual, and since the professor had long since stopped juggling and Rowdy had long since changed into the set of clothes the professor had worn under his own, no one was the wiser. Thinking all the while that they were performing some important secret assignment which would further their careers, the two guards were actually quite enjoying themselves. If it had not been for the knife edge urgency of the situation, Rowdy would have managed a smile. He didn’t have to. Catalina managed one for him. If this was to go down in grand failure, she thought, at least she would have pulled it off this far, something to be spoken of in tales of “the old days” around the lunch table where guards drank coffee and munched on sandwiches prepared for them by waiting wives.

Eventually they reached the unsecured East wing, bid farewell to the helpful assistance of the two most unlucky prison employees of the year, and walked calmly to the professor’s mini-van. An hour later they were at the airport, not to board a commercial plane, but at Catalina’s private jet. Four hours hence and they were touching down in the warm and welcoming desert. The flight plan filed had been totally bogus, of course, and now they towed the little Lear with an old tractor out into the scrub brush, camouflaging it against prying eyes. Soon they had started Rowdy’s old Jeep, driven into town to purchase new gas and emptying the old. It was a miracle the poor old thing had started on such ancient fuel, but now that the obstacles of the city were past, new luck seemed to well up from the Earth like Spring grass after a gentle rain. The Jeep brimming with supplies, they headed for the old prospector’s cabin, and after cooking him a dinner he would never forget, obtained what they had wanted, permission to live at the old ranch up in the foothills. The old prospector would never talk, and if he did, it was usually of moonlight and faerie dust, all to the chagrin of the locals who thought him mad as a hatter. If they only knew. He was sitting on top of more gold than Fort Knox and he shared generously with his few friends.

By the winter the old ranch was looking almost like new. Catalina and Rowdy had disappeared off the face of the Earth. He had bleached his dark brown hair blonde and she had stopped doing the same to hers, allowing her naturally dark tresses to lengthen with the winter nights. No one in the city had ever seen her as anything but blonde. This was a part of the world that time had forgotten and would remain that way till the sun winked out. There were no minerals here worth mining, save what the old prospector had already gleaned, and the land was too poor to raise stock on. No cities stood near enough for this to become territory for new development, and although pretty, the scenery was surpassed by other places which drew pilgrimming tourists. By next summer all was right with the world of these two lovers, one still very much the regal queen, the other still very much the dutiful knight in service. Catalina had so many plans for Rowdy, so many interesting and delicious things she wanted to try. For now she was content to just tie him to the old wagon wheel when the mood took her. She never had to struggle, as he obediently went to his post in deep hypnotic bliss. He never had to wait long for her attention, her mind deep in sensual ecstasy.

Two desert blue birds chirped a sweet song of curiosity as they looked down from the old barn roof upon these two creatures of passion. A fresh brand was healing on the man’s right buttocks. It was the essence of the lady’s family crest, a twisting scepter encircled by a ring of leafy thorns. Soft moans of delight lifted into the dusky sky as the female tilted her head back and let out a blood curdling “YeeeeeeeHAAAAAA…….”

“WHIMSY”

by Arafinwe © 2007

Catalina had told Rowdy not to go to town unless he came back with some fresh strawberries for her. He knew two things regarding this matter. One, that they needed feed for the horses, and two, there would be about as many fresh strawberries in that little dirtwater town in January as there would be pink elephants. What to do? Finally deciding that Catalina’s horses were not worth the punishment of returning to the ranch without the prescribed fruit, he brushed the dusting of snow off the seat of the old jeep, cranked it till the dying battery almost rested in peace, and rumbled off down the icy road, slipping and sliding like a drunken cowboy on a bar crawl, (something he had no small experience with, by the way).

Arriving in front of the farm supply store and soon thereafter filling the order for oats and pellet feed, he thought it couldn’t hurt to ask the old shopkeeper if he knew where one might find some fresh strawberries on a day like this. Rowdy tried to make it sound like a joke just in case the shopkeeper decided to laugh, ….. which he did, …… a lot. Piling the sacks of feed into the back of the jeep, he headed for the little convenience store on the other side of town, it being the only place within 50 miles that sold fresh flowers. The strawberries had been an impossible task, he knew, but at least he could prove that his heart was in the right place and hope for the best. Catalina was not one to take failure lightly, and he knew his fate might well include a lack of her passionate embraces for a week or more, depending on her mood, but flowers might lessen the harshness of her judgement, or so he prayed.

The old Hopi woman who ran the convenience store wasted no time telling poor Rowdy that there would not be any flowers until her next delivery on Wednesday. This news, coupled with the sad but immutable fact that today was Thursday, sank his heart like a stone tossed callously into the deepest well. Asking why the long face, the old woman learned of the young man’s predicament, and offered the explanation of her lack of floral wares as compensation. A lady dressed all in black had purchased every last one of her flowers only this morning, driving out of town on the old back road to the abandoned gold mine. No one ever went that way, especially in winter. Rowdy in his amazement asked what sort of vehicle this mystery woman had driven that she would brave such a treacherous route.

“One of those new fangled things the army uses, only shiny, you know, like on TV in the news. Chains on all four wheels, too.”

“Oh, you mean a Hummer”, said Rowdy.

“Yeah”, croaked the leathery skinned woman. “A humdinger.”

Rowdy smiled kindly and headed for the door.

“Hey, wait a minute”, she cried. “You wanted flowers for you wife, right?”

“Girlfriend”, said Rowdy, pausing only for a split second to avoid using the term “Mistress” in public. What a mistake THAT would have been!

“Oh my”, she said. “Well you needn’t disappoint. I got something from my niece this morning, but I’m allergic to  ‘em, so maybe you’d like ‘em to give to your lady friend.” She bent down to pull something out from underneath the counter where he believed she kept the bottle of Jack Daniels she was rumored to nurse throughout the day. Rising back up again she soon appeared to Rowdy like a heaven sent angel tasked to save him from certain doom, for in her gnarled old hands was a flat of perfect, bright red, fresh strawberries!

“Mammmmm , you saved my bacon like you’ll never know!” But somehow the naughty smile on the old woman’s face made him think she did indeed know. Forcing her to take twenty dollars for what she wanted to give for fee, Rowdy placed the crimson fruit tenderly on the seat next to him and drove with as much alacrity as he dared back to the ranch, taking both care to not damage his precious cargo and at the same time make haste.

Catalina was waiting for him outside on the porch, a thick Indian blanket across her shoulders as a shield against the growing cold. There was not a cloud in the sky and the temperature would dip well below freezing tonight. It was a good thing he had gotten the feed, fuel to keep Catalina’s beloved horses warm for many days until the predicted thaw next week. Telling Rowdy to feed and water the animals and then come in and shower, she did not appear to notice the contents of the front seat, and quickly turned to disappear behind the thick wooden door, weathered by too much sun and a surfeit of wind.

As Rowdy finished his chores, he took the fouled straw out of the barn in a wheelbarrow to dump in the pile out back, but then thought to drop this load around the little new apple tree some two hundred yards beyond. Catalina had planted it there just that spring, a sort of offering to remember her Italian aunt by, and the mixture of hay and dung would protect the roots as well as nourish. Slipping along the narrow path to the young tree, his eyes fell towards the old road that snaked down from the mountain where the old gold mine had once made a mysterious man rich. This rough road, no more than a track really, was the other end of that which terminated in the town where he had just been. There at the edge of the far field, against a crumbling stone wall, Rowdy could barely make out the silhouette in the evening light of what looked like a Hummer.

Entering the house he was immediately told to strip and bath, don some jeans and nothing else, and meet his Mistress in front of the fireplace. Emerging from the bathroom Rowdy stared in amazement as he watched Catalina gently sucking on a ripe strawberry. In his haste to comply with her orders he had forgotten what was on the front seat of the rusting jeep. She had found them. Or had she somehow known all along?

“Lay down next to me, pet”, she purred, taking a fresh berry between her equally luscious red lips.

Those trigger words dropped the young man like a shot from a buffalo rifle, and he crumpled into a hypnotized heap beside her, staring dazedly at her startling beauty.

“Let me feed you some of these magic strawberries”, she cooed. “They’ll make you feel more aroused than you ever thought possible.”

With the last bit of his consciousness fading like the setting sun outside, Rowdy stared past Catalina for a brief second into the bedroom. The old four poster bed was covered from end to end with fresh flowers, and he had the slightest inkling of understanding as the first strawberry touched his lips, …. and then he sank, ….. sank into a bliss of erotic trance wider than all the oceans of the Earth, and so much deeper by far.

In TCOD post#10086 Miss R asked:

Would someone like to give it a try to tell the story of today’s group’s image?

I think it is a compelling image… would you dare to get closer to the heat?

Miss R

“THE HEARTH OF SORCERY”

(Continuation of “The Mark of Excellence” and “Whimsy”, which can be found on Lady Julia’s site, “Femdom Fantasies” at http://www.femdomfantasies.net/ )

Arafinwe © 2008

Catalina had long known about her grandmother’s mansion in Tuscany. Although she had never visited it she knew from the photographs sent to her by the caretaker what a beautiful structure it was, and the reputation of the area was widely known. Many people would have given their eye teeth to live there. With the full onset of winter now bearing down upon the ranch there was little to do outside and she noticed that Rowdy was becoming restless. Perhaps now was the right time for that little vacation she had been planning?

It was easy enough to convince Rowdy that northern Italy was where he wanted to be right now. A few long-standing triggers here and there, a few new suggestions about how much fun it would be, and that smile of hers, against which he was totally defenseless. The time that elapsed between his initial objections and his enthusiastic agreement could have been no more than three minutes. Clothes were chosen and bags were packed. Care for her horses was arranged and flights booked. As they bounced down the icy dirt road towards town she turned to look at him and smiled to herself as she noticed his obvious eagerness to continue pleasing her. They ditched the old Jeep in town behind the gas station and caught the bus into the local airport and an hour and a half later they were in the city.

They spent that night in a hotel by the airport and she worked her magic on him and she always had, a gentle smirk here, a stroke of her finger against his cheek, the soft whispers which rendered him totally helpless, and then the earth shaking sex. Rowdy was a goner and he knew it, but he just didn’t care. Why would he? This was paradise most men would die for. Tangled together like two vines they drifted asleep and woke to a crisp, clear morning with not a cloud in the sky.

He bathed her with loving tenderness as he did every morning, patting her silky skin dry with a soft, warm towel and then rubbing in just the right amount of that French moisturizer she swore by. Although his hands were rough from a lifetime of working outside the gentleness of his touch was beyond measure. He treated her with his hands as if he was praying to a deity. To him she was a goddess, his reason to live, his reason to serve. As they dressed she coyly inquired if he still wanted to go. She was teasing, of course, and knew what his answer would be, but she loved to do this, to test the bonds which she had tied so expertly around his mind. Rowdy vigorously answered in the affirmative that he not only wanted to go to Tuscany but had wanted to go there all his life. Catalina almost laughed. Before yesterday afternoon he had never even heard of Tuscany.

They chatted on the flight about little things of no importance and played games by watching the other people on the plane and betting on their actions. There was a young couple across the aisle from them, perhaps newlyweds, perhaps just very intimate friends. Their affection for each other was obvious. Every once in awhile the young girl would offer a knowing nod to Catalina and Catalina would return the gesture with a nod of her own or smile. The unspoken language between two beautiful women who knew how to get what they wanted from their men and leave the men with the complete faith that that’s what they wanted, too. As the plane finally touched down in Turin, Rowdy was staring out the window at the unfamiliar landscape like a little boy agape with awe on his first trip away from home.

Leonardo, the old caretaker, had dutifully driven all the way in to meet them. He spoke not one word of English and Rowdy spoke not one word of Italian so Catalina translated the greetings between them. Of course, she spoke fluent Italian and could affect the local dialect as if she had lived here all her life. Back on the ranch she had looked as if she had been born a cowgirl on the range, but here she looked as if she had been ever the sophisticated lady of means. The drive from the airport to her grandmother’s mansion was a happy mixture of local gossip offered from Leonardo, affectionate thanks from Catalina, and laid-back country humor from Rowdy, which Leonardo seemed to understand perfectly. They had both grown up working the land and so had that common ground between them.

The mansion was just as she had seen it in the pictures. It was an absolutely gorgeous seventeenth century estate house with long stables in the back and several cottages for various servants here and there. An oval pond stood directly in front of the house upon which a small flock of black ducks paddled and quacked and nibbled at water bugs. Long vines swirled around the pillars in the front of the house, now bereft of their leaves, yet showing a lovely reddish-brown color which seemed to go perfectly against the light orange stone. High arched windows with too many panes to count and the grandest front door for miles around, carved by hand from ancient oak, fitted with massive bronze hinges, and decorated with copper inlay which had long ago turned a delicious shade of green. Leonardo bid them enter and held the door open for them, actually bowing as they passed. Rowdy found this amusing. No one had ever bowed to him before. For Catalina, to be the recipient of such respect was common.

Although the air outside was chill and crisp for this locale it seemed balmy when coming from the high plains next to the Rocky Mountains in the dead of winter. Leonardo introduced them to Sylvia the young maid. Sylvia spoke a little English and proudly explained that she had set a fire in the living room. Back on the ranch this weather would not have been cold enough for a fire but here it was not at all unusual. The house had long ago been modernized and had radiant heating in the floors, but the black walnut logs crackling amidst yellow fingers of flame was a welcome sight. Sylvia offered to prepare some supper immediately though Catalina quickly explained in Italian that she and Rowdy wished to have some time to relax alone, and with the little grin she added at the end the young maid easily understood what had been meant by “relax”. Leonardo had not been so quick on the uptake and it required a tug on the elbow from Sylvia to shepherd him from the room.

They both stood in front of the fire for a moment and admired this beautiful setting. Catalina was used to such elegance but to Rowdy it was grander than anything he had ever seen and it made him a bit uncomfortable. Turning to look at the picture of her grandmother over the fireplace, Catalina slowly began to undress. Although he had seen her do this more times than he could count, to witness her disrobing with others so nearby, as well as in a strange location, had his mind boiling in seconds. She noticed this, in fact she expected and wanted it. It was part of the game. When nothing was left but her lace panties and thigh high velvet boots she carelessly shuffled the discarded clothes across the slippery floor with her foot, turned directly to face the fire, and then threw a challenging glance back across her right shoulder at the bedazzled cowboy. He knew that look and in an instant began shucking off his clothes as if they were painful to wear.

“Do you see this picture? This was my grandmother. Her name was Catalina, too, and as you can see she used to play music. It was said that her voice was that of a nightingale and could bewitch any man in seconds. I only met her once when I was very young when she visited my mother in New York. We spent an entire afternoon chatting and she taught me many things. Would you like to see some of the things she taught me?”

And with that Catalina smiled at Rowdy with that little mischievous look of hers that let him know he was about to embark on yet another deep and wonderful journey into the mysterious pleasures of her exquisite imagination. As the heat of the fire lapped against their bronze skin she slowly, ever so slowly, drew the back of her right index finger laterally across his chest, the nail leaving a faint red line like that one might make on the map of an expedition one intended to take. Rowdy’s mind raced a little harder, a little faster, and then her whisper met his ears. That one word, a mere hush of breath, almost a kiss, ………. and he was gone.

Just outside the door Leonardo and Sylvia bent to share glimpses through the keyhole and strained to listen. Things were beginning to get interesting and both the old caretaker and the young maid began to recall the local tales of the sorceress who had built this place and the spells she had woven.

(Picture is “Femme Dragon Reverse” by Elena Vasilieva)

(Picture is “Dinner’s Ready” by Lorenzo Sperlong)

(Picture is “Cute” by Jim Young)

Singer Andrea Corr – photo by Jordan Appleton

So pretty it almost hurts to look at her, and she can sing, too.

STREET LIGHT

Arafin © 2010

This was not a dream or hypnotic experience, but a delightful real life encounter. I swear.

It had been rather windy for several days and the power had been flickering on and off round various parts of the island. As the storm began to abate I ventured out to do a bit of shopping and as I was walking towards the bus stop along a busy city street, who should come up to me on a golden unicycle but Lady Jenifahr, holding an enormous candelabra in one hand and a long BBQ lighter in the other. She was dressed all in a black leotard and footless tights with little black ballet slippers, yet tiny white socks shone out between shoes and tights, invoking visions of Audrey Hepburn in the coffee house dance scene from “Funny Face”.  Her graceful balancing act was most charming and I marveled at the deftness of her control as she perched stalk still atop the device without wavering in the slightest. It was beginning to grow rather dark and at that very instant a city-wide power failure robbed us of the benefit of street lights. I felt the wise thing to do would be to follow her in hopes that she would light the candles and enable me to see where I was going. For some reason it never occurred to me that where I was going would now be wherever Lady Jenifahr was going, but it just didn’t seem important right then. She spoke not a word, and smiling so sweetly that my feet felt as if they were rising slightly off the pavement, she pivoted the golden unicycle and peddled slowly off down a narrow side street. Of course, I followed.

The walls on either side of the little street seemed to press in and amplify the growing gloom as she rolled softly along and I padded behind as best I could, trying to avoid tripping over any obstacles which might escape my challenged vision. Without looking back she asked, “Would lighting a candle now make it any easier to follow me?” Her voice was like cool velvet in the darkness and it felt simply delicious to hang on her every syllable. I replied with an affirmative nod whereupon she touched the BBQ lighter to the topmost candle and it burst into warm yellow light. It seemed to have escaped my attention that she had responded to my nod without actually seeing it because she was still facing away from me. Now with enough illumination to feel confident that I would not trip on a loose cobblestone, I pursued more vigorously, attempting to slowly decrease the distance between us in hopes of hearing her speak once more. Speak anything. Any word would do, just so long as it was hers.

She suddenly changed direction once again and darted down a tiny alley to the right, and I, in my haste to keep up, bumped into the post of a street lamp, it’s function now temporarily abolished by the lack of electricity. Again without turning Lady Jenifahr spoke in that smooth and melodic tone so enchanting and so captivating. “Shall I light another candle now?”, she cooed. The words seemed as much between my ears as outside them. I simply nodded and she lit another candle as if she had seen me reply with eyes in the back of her head. This time I noticed it but somehow did not dare to remark on the phenomenon lest it break the spell. Spell? Yes, that is certainly what it felt like as she rolled cleverly along and I pattered hurriedly behind like a quail following in determined procession. The alley grew more and more narrow and it felt as if I might have to turn sideways in order to proceed.

“Shall I light another candle?”, she queried, this time her voice displaying an impish underlying laughter. My head nodded all on it’s own with not the slightest encouragement from my mind, and once more this graceful Lady perched upon the silent golden unicycle sparked a candle to life. The gentle radiance shimmered in the heavy air and rippled off the stone walls like mad dancers in some mysterious ritual of divine confusion from which there was never meant to be any release. I no longer felt even the slightest concern that I was now far from the bus stop or that Lady Jenifahr was for some reason in the city where I lived instead of the much more logical location of her own country half way around the world. I just didn’t care about anything anymore, anything except following and hearing her voice and hoping she would light more candles. I hungered for the sound of her words and I thirsted for the magical golden warmth of the candelabra.

The alley now became so narrow that I did indeed have to turn sideways in order to continue on. Lady Jenifahr experienced no trouble whatsoever navigating this cramped passage, however, and actually increased her speed a bit, forcing me to sidestep along in a sort of crazy polka movement, panting for breath and straining to keep sight of the shining candles at all times. I desperately wanted to avoid losing sight of them for even a second. I had become a moth in spirit it seemed, totally unable to turn my gaze elsewhere but from the brilliance which had so completely ensnared me. She laughed out loud now, showing that she was well aware of my situation, my struggle to keep up through the constricting confines of the narrow alleyway and my growing addiction to the beautiful golden light. “Shall I light all the rest of the candles now?”, she teased. It was too much! The very prospect of all the candles being lit at once, much as I had craved it, implied somehow that my feelings, this uncontrollable yearning to follow closer and closer and closer, would cause me to spontaneously combust in a flash of manic ecstasy hopelessly foolish and excruciatingly thrilling, so intense that there would surely never be any return to that which I had previously known as sanity. I tried to speak but could not. I merely gaped amazed as my head nodded in the affirmative, quite disconnected from the last vestiges of my control.

“Good!”, she triumphantly shouted, the surprising force within her loud voice shaking the very walls of the alleyway and rattling the cobblestones beneath the lone wheel of her golden unicycle. She was staring straight at me now, her large dark eyes drawing me in as surely as the increasing light from the candelabra. She rapidly lit more and more candles till at last they were all blazing in an impossible brilliance that burnt through my heart and soul as completely as any fire would burn an unresisting bit of dry paper. My head grew lighter and lighter as the radiance grew. My entire body became increasingly less solid and more ethereal. Was I vanishing forever in a crescendo flash of incomprehensible pleasure?

“Just follow the light with your eyes and my voice with your ears”, she lilted, her delicious words almost singing as the brilliance finally became so blinding that all I could sense was purest hot white. Each vibration of each syllable of each word penetrated every molecule of my being and seemed to separate them from their neighbors as if I was being dematerialized into pure energy. I couldn’t see in the normal meaning of the word, yet I understood with a new clarity that surpassed anything so mundanely visual. I could also no longer hear as I once had, all sound now being that of Lady Jenifahr’s all encompassing voice, her words replacing even the vibration of my own pulse as the mad cacophony of this moment built and built towards an end which I was helpless to resist, yearning so strongly to be engulfed by. I was vanishing. In a moment I would be no more.

*************************

“Excuse me, sir, but the power is back on now. The buses are running again. Where are you trying to get to? You look a little lost.”

The female bus driver sat in her seat staring down at me with growing concern that I might be loopy or drunk or both, but then I answered, my voice halting and raspy as if I had not spoken for ages. “I want to follow the woman on the golden unicycle”, I said, my words making no more sense to me than they had to the bus driver. Rather than risk a confrontation which might result in an interview with the police or an ambulance attendant, I resolved to walk the rest of the way home and moved away from the bus to hushed chatter revolving around the topic of my madness. I turned down a narrow side street and began to fixate on a glowing yellow streetlight some ways off as I walked for all the world as if I was in a dream.

Harajuku Girl

Frightening or beautiful of both?

Picture is “Blood Lust” by Sobolev Max

“WICKED THIRST”

Arafin © 2010

I never imagined that I would end up here. Never in a thousand years.

I had engaged in various fetishes, including erotic hypnosis under the expert guidance of a Lady who dallied with mock-vampirism, something which had never really interested me that much. I liked a good vampire movie as well as the next person, but the whole drinking blood seriously thing was not my cup of tea. It was surprising to me then when she suggested that I might enjoy “tasting the heat” with a real vampire as she put it. What surprised me more was the very odd fact that I readily agreed as surely as if I had been brainwashed. But had I? No. Certainly not. We had a long established set of rules which cherished informed consent above all else. Seeing the puzzled look upon my face at my own eagerness to explore this new area, she grew quite somber and cautioned me, “Well, perhaps I spoke too soon. You’d best leave it for another year or two. It is not a thing to rush.”

Now I was really curious. Tempt me with an idea and I would be interested, but tease me with denial of it and I would lunge like an idiot frog for a wasp every time. She laughed now as she saw my desire to have what she had warned me against and shook her head as might a grade school teacher at a hopelessly mischievous boy. This was no further tease, however, and I had no trouble recognizing the underlying seriousness of her meaning. After half an hour of very sane discussion I swore not to investigate “tasting the heat” on my own. If I wanted to do it someday, and only when she said I was ready, it would be on her terms and no doubt under her watchful eyes. I was so lucky to have found such a caring Domme.

But what had happened here that we never discussed? Was not something missing? I had never before believed that vampires were real. Now I did. Why had I not burned to know more about this revelation? Chalking it up to fatigue from a long week I bade Mistress goodnight and navigated the rain slick streets in search of my home as might a drunken sailor seek another bar when all were well past closing. I was tired and I wanted to sleep. I yearned for the comfort and safety of my own house, yet try as I might, I could not focus on the satisfaction that the image usually brought me, not even upon reaching it. I felt slightly feverish and hoped I was not coming down with something. Showering and crawling into bed yielded even less relief as I now found myself inseparable companions with a perfectly insidious bout of raging desire. Determined to honor the ritual of chastity Mistress had set in play I left my bed and sat wearily in front of my computer, bent on reading news articles all night if I had to or watching an old movie. Yes, that’s it! An old John Wayne western should do the trick. I logged into a classic film service I subscribed to and soon settled on “The Searchers”, one of my favorites which I had not seen in many, many years. Funny, even as the opening credits began to play I felt myself becoming so sleepy that I had trouble to keep from nodding.

John Wayne stood looking back at us, warning us that we might not like what we found on the other side of the ridge, yet we, burning with desire to find our sister, insisted on continuing. Up the rise we crept until at last we were able to peer down into the hollow, and in the midst of that hollow a campfire around which danced several native warriors, some sporting various elements of our kidnapped sister’s clothing. I recognized this scene from having watched the film before, and I also recognized that I was now IN the film. Very strange. It was so hot in the room as John Wayne tapped me on the shoulder and said in that inimitable voice of his, “Well, Pilgrim, now that you’ve seen this much hows about a taste of the heat?” Those words, “A Taste of the Heat!”  rWith a shiver of fright that ordinarily would have rocketed me awake I was horrified to learn that I could not, and was fast asleep beyond my control. Try as I might, I could not wake myself. I tried counting upwards, tried changing my breathing, I even tried shouting to myself but none of it worked.

“Go on, Pilgrim”, said The Duke with a maniacal grin on his weathered face, “go down there to the fire and taste the heat! You know you want to. Mistress won’t know. It’s all right.”

I was so scared now that I was shaking. I was even more scared to find myself obeying his words like a programmed robot. Oh, how I wish I had never even slightly grazed the thought of vampirism! I struggled to hold my legs still but I was walking down the slope as surely as if I had intended it. I tried falling but could not. I tried closing my eyes so that I would stumble but my eyes would not close. I could feel The Duke striding along behind me, egging me on, taunting me with his low drawl. “Go on, get on down there and do it! You know you want to. It’ll feel better than you can possibly imagine, Pilgrim! It’ll heat you up like a Roman Candle and BURN YOU TO A CINDER! Fry Pilgrim, FRY!” And he laughed like the demon I now knew he was. John Wayne, Bow Legged Servant of the Darkness.

The closer I got to the campfire and the dancing braves the more clearly I could see their faces. Slowly at first, and somehow tied in to the flickering light from the fire, their features were mutating into hideously suave ballet dancers, every move becoming more graceful and less native, more purposefully evil and less innocently savage. With a start then I saw it, the face of the buck who was wearing my sister’s blue party dress, and he became my sister, only she appeared to be in a trance, eyes wide and dazed and lost beyond all familiarity. I cried out to her in panic, and despite the fact that I still recognized it was all part of the movie gone wretchedly wrong and that I had no sister at all in real life, I craved an answer from her more than anything in the world at that moment. And with that the dancing stopped. Everyone was frozen. Another woman glided into view and turned only her eyes to look at me, piercing me to the bone with that horrific gaze as her face changed from native American into the most beautiful red haired vixen I had ever seen, bright green eyes flashing like wild lightening bolts straight to my aching heart.

I no longer thought of searching, in film or any other way, and I understood that the whole medium of “The Searchers” had been nothing but that, a medium within which to weave the means of my capture. For all the terror I was now feeling I did not care enough to try to flee any more, so strongly did I ache to be consumed by those awful green eyes and those dripping red lips. Two gleaming white teeth, longer than the rest and pointed, beckoned to me with hideous allure, and I knew what was about to happen. Behind me The Duke began to cry like a baby, shivering and shaking and blubbering, “Please don’t make any more dolls tonight, my Queen! Please just let this one go! He ain’t worth it!” John Wayne, reduced to hysterical tears by this red maned sorceress. And of course she ignored his pitiful whimpering and reached forward for me with one long outstretched finger, a finger more ghastly in it’s beauty and deathly elegance than all the beckonings of all the courtesans of every paradise imaginable. I screamed inside to escape. I screamed inside to fall into her wicked grasp. I was wild to run. I was wild to fall. As her finger touched my lips I dove into her arms, pleading with all my puny heart for her to take me, to devour me, to utterly consume me in the flame of her blood.

A bolt of brightest lightening turned all suddenly blinding white, her skin like marble and just as cold, but her lips and her eyes promising a warmth that goes beyond all physical desire, right past sheer madness and all the way to catatonia. The brilliance of the flash faded as she opened her mouth wider, white fangs dripping crimson love beyond love. I could smell it now, the blood in her veins, so molten honey sweet, so sickly like death, so absolutely overpowering and delicious and terrible. My own heart beat a funeral march for me as I bent to my doom. The alabaster points of her fangs sparkled for me.

A pause like ancient frozen eons.

And she bit.

Searing hot deepest red lava of her blood met the comparative frozen ice of mine, and it felt for all the world as if my entire being was turning to steam. For an instant I anguished that I would simply evaporate out of existence and never know the ecstasy of her fire, but then, as she bit deeper and began to drain me, I felt the unbelievable relief of knowing that I was becoming so totally hers. Yes, let her drink me. Let her kill me. Let her obliterate me and remake me into a porcelain doll plaything, to dance if she bid it, or to stand like a statue, or to fall and break beneath her feet. No command would be unwelcome, no order questioned. My heart grew weaker and weaker as she drained me, and my pulse, once so strong and proud now faltered like a candle nearly done it’s work. Flickering with a last sad tear of longing for the life that was gone forever, I expired in her arms, more content and more happy than I dared believe. And in that moment of dark desert night I was no more. And then I was remade.

So slowly at first that not even the grass at our feet could detect it, the green eyes that had drawn me inside now smiled a tiny little smile of mirth over my limp marionette form, still held tenderly in her iron embrace. Green, bright green, like the life of all the forests and all the fields of all Creation pouring from those eyes. Strange it seemed in that instant that a vampire would exude green energy. And then exquisite heat from her veins into mine, drop by pulsing drop, through lips fixed on mine with a strength so complete that nothing, not fiercest wind nor mightiest ocean could break the hold, she deftly and lovingly filled me. That heat! That wonderful warmth! So much dearer than sunlight, so much more beguiling than fire’s tongue. Oh, how I yearned for more, to be pumped full of her blood and filled to bursting! It was an ache and a thirst and a hunger above all reason and below all basic needs and wants. It was ultimately primal. It was older than the Earth. It was more terrible than the blackness of deep space.

Then at last, as the heat of her magnificent blood filled the last of me and remade me into the image of her reflection, I dared to open my eyes again and look back at her, this crimson angel with the glowing emerald eyes. Her lips parted from mine and the transfer was complete. It was done. “So, Pilgrim”, her words so sweet and dancing like a young girl recounting her first kiss, “was that anything like you expected?”

Quite matter-of-factly I replied that it was not. Odd to hear my own words now, dry and crisp in the cold desert air just before the dawn.

“Well, I suspect that you will want to listen more carefully now to me than ever before, won’t you Pilgrim?” Very odd indeed that she was borrowing words and inflection from John Wayne. But it was so cute the way she did it, so magically feminine and endearing.

“And have you found what you were searching for?”

“Yes”, I said, though I still had no idea what that was. My answer had been truthful with the innocence of automatic reaction.

“Good. Then wake up!”

I stared sleepily around the room. I was still in Mistress’ apartment, and had in fact never left. Her laughter greeted my ears with such gladness that I tried to leap up and run to her. My legs had other plans, though, both being rather devoid of blood and fast asleep. I stumbled and fell flat on my face.

“OH my!”, she laughed. “I can see that you made quite a journey this evening, Pilgrim.” And just that little hint of John Wayne’s drawl in her voice let me know that I was never really going to figure out what had happened to me that evening. Not that it mattered. As long as I kept learning, it didn’t matter much at all.

Picture is “Fairy Tale Red Riding Hood”

With a skillful driver, going fast can be a real rush. (So can going slow.) Long foreplay every time or sometimes slam bam? Seemingly endless confusion induction or instant hand drop? Triggers to stretch the reality of pleasure into an agonizing fantasy of denial or a single short command to explode more violently than the last supernova in this part of the galaxy? Mix and match?

Picture is “Fairy Tale Rapunzel” by Unknown Artist

“BRAIDED”

Arafin © 2010

Weaving one suggestion into another into another into another until you lose all track of her hypnotic intention, suddenly to find that you are deliciously trapped in an exquisite and very beguiling braid. Struggle only increases the pleasure, sending little shivers of playful fear cascading into an uncontrollable chain reaction of mind blanking lust. Whimper if you will. Roll your eyes and strain to breathe. She has you so completely that it is no longer possible to tell where your mind ends and hers begins. When at last she has toyed enough and she lays you down, she will pull you down, and down, so far below your fleeting memory of futile self control that you will firmly believe you have been here all along. You have forgotten how she caught you, how you came here, and why you may ever have thought of escaping. Just part of her dizzying constrictive weave. That is all you are now. That is all you need.

Age can indeed sometimes be friendly to a woman’s looks as evidenced by the increasing beauty of singer/songwriter Emmylou Harris. She was gorgeous when she was young with her long black tresses, but when it started to grey prematurely she made a wise choice and just dyed it all silver. Now 63, she is more stunning than ever.

Less is More

(Painting is “Europa” by Soa Lee)

There are a lot of “binaural beats” and “brain wave” recordings out there today and the trend is growing. Why so popular? Well, if the frequency being generated begins near the listener’s existing frequency and then lowers, relaxation is usually the result.

It just feels good to listen.

Videos often employ fractal geometry to captivate eye focus and further the intensity of the listening process.

Just one more way in which the mind can be shifted into an altered state. It may not be classified as “hypnosis” proper, and specific suggestions are rare, (although some videos and audio files do contain subliminals), but relaxing into a trance state is undeniably achieved in many cases.

Hudson Leick

(“Callisto” from Xena, Warrior Princess)

Not many people have attempted to cover Dylan’s “All Along The Watchtower”. Now Lisa Gerrard has done it, and in the style or Jimmy Hendrix, … sort of. This is one eery and beautiful rendition. If you ever get a chance to see her in concert, do. It will change you.