Category Archives: LOVE

Poetry from the Torture of Loving a Narcissist

These are from my,
Poetry Collections
The Worst of It

The worst of it was his disbelief in my love
In how I truly felt about him
The conflagration of him; the intensity of my desire to be his.
How he affected me, changed who I was, and what I believe
I adored him and wanted to give him everything

He laughed at my passion and my offerings
His indifference to my flailing ruined what was left of a fragile soul
He misinterpreted, misconstrued, and misunderstood everything I was
It felt as if he did so purposely
He ignored my only talent and wouldn’t read my words

I am still a shattered mess, only aching to be understood
Something about his rejection rendered me invisible
Even to myself.
Now, he’s attempted to delete our tombstone inscription
As if a few scratches could expunge my grief at the loss

As if I could ever un-feel what I felt
As if I could reverse the affects of him on my heart
The worst of it is he banished me instantly from his
Moving along as if I were roadkill to be forgotten
Whew, that was a close one, glad he survived
as I drag my own carcass away from the crash site.

The worst of it is how my love for him, awakened me
Changed me, made me want to be more than I’ve ever been
A better me, because of him.
He didn’t feel any of that impact, not even a jostle of recognition
He irreparably wounded me to a core I didn’t know I possessed,
and the worst of it was he didn’t care a lick.

The worst of it is the weight of what I now carry
The baggage of un-spent adoration, love, lust and submission.
How can I ever give this to another?
Another will never be him.
But of course, he isn’t really him either.

Irretrievable, irrevocable, irreversible
Whatever toxin he infused, is a fatal affliction
I’ve come to decide I will not recover
I will continue as a shell of empty grief and sorrow
But who I once was, is gone, lost, destroyed

I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m still standing
The placebos I feed the world
I know the truth, but I’m the only one who cares
He doesn’t, never did, lied his way through my devotion
He didn’t care if it was a love note, or a suicide note,
it was simply something to feed on.

I thought the sex was love, and for me, it was more like worship,
But I think for him, not so much.
He loved his prowess and stamina.
He loved his power.
He adored himself as I writhed under his weight.

It’s strange how I still love him.
The façade he presented in the beginning.
The conglomeration of parts I’d always dreamt of.
He is a master of the craft, a fisher of emotions, an infantile monster of extraction and extortion.
He baited the net perfectly, and then laughed at his prey’s declaration of love.
An Oscar worthy performance as a vampire of emotions.

If my love was a lie, I’d be over him by now.
I’d have moved past this brokenness and mourning.
For me, it was so much more than lust, and chemicals.
My soul fell, and is still screaming through the abyss
My heart is obliterated and now I’m a nothing.

He interrupted my aura, and I was instantly changed. It was an irretrievable moment and I am still suffering through the sorrow. It weeps through my skin and strangles me with longing for a man who doesn’t exist. It’s like a straight jacket of locks and chains; a noose of emotional torture; this ache of grief that renders me fetal as I hold myself together.
I thought a year would at least provide a scar I could live with, but instead it rips free and bleeds on a regular basis. He laughed at my love, thought me a fraud and a liar. Of course, his disordered mind hadn’t a clue of love or it’s power.
It was naïve of me to think the firestorm I experienced, would translate to his awakening. My own metamorphoses was irrevocably enacted the moment I saw him, but for him to want me with the same passion, was a much too delusional fantasy on my part.
He set the trap well, offering me bait of my ideal. I saw his cage of writhing demons and yet still, still, I loved him with a ferociousness I will never understand.
Even still, a year past and I am swept away by the interruption of a continuous thought of him.
He tried to scratch away the inscription on our tombstone, but no matter, it is still him who haunts the halls of my heart and renders me useless to this world.


I’m working on a new book of poetry, prose and introspective articles/memoir.

I don’t know a release date yet, but I have my cover art.
Here are some samples of the poetry:

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She says she’s a Horseygirl…

There is always dust on her jeans
Her hair is like a torch of satin flames; honey and fire, sunlight and copper; spilling from a ball cap.
She wears sunglasses, even in the dead of winter. 
She’s unbelievably strong and agile. 
She’s empathic at a level others never comprehend
She doesn’t think she’s graceful, but she is.
She dances when nobody is watching.
She towers over most women, and looks most men directly in their eyes.
She is a carnivore, and will admit to eating things with faces, but then smiles deviously.
She can back up a thirty-foot bumper-pull horse trailer into the tightest spot—in one try.
She can load 3 horses, by herself, just by pointing.
She can back up a 2000-pound animal with a look.
She knows what knot, to know.
She’s open, and ugly-honest about everything.
The opinions of others, are none of her concern.
She is precise and clear with her communication.
She never makes assumptions. 
The word, ‘wrong’, does not exist in her vocabulary. 
She is calm and balanced, yet decisive and direct. 
You always know where you stand, and how she feels.
She loves adventures and getting lost in the woods. 
She believes balance is key to everything.
Her faith game is off the charts.
She’s incredibly passionate, sexual, alive and open. 
She claims the best drug on the planet is a gallop down the beach,
Or sex with, him 
I love to watch her move amongst the beasts she guides. 
When she’s atop, no other can compare with her erotic beauty. 
She is a centaur of elegant, fluid exquisiteness. 
A part of the dance in a way others envy.
Someone broke her trust, and she no longer believes love can conquer all. 
She never talks about it, and refuses to linger too long in the past, or play victim to anyone, but he broke her heart and she never truly recovered. 
I see it in her eyes when she thinks she’s hiding behind that slaying smile.
She says, she’s a horsey girl, as if that explained everything.

Semifinalist in Poetry Contest

I entered the below poem at and was just notified I’m a semifinalist.  It also secures this poem and a small author bio in their upcoming print anthology collection of amateur poets.

Pretty exiting for me since I’ve never entered any of my writings in contests. My new mission is to enter more of my stuff, more often and on different platforms with the end goal of getting my name better known as an author and poetess of emotional, soul searching, and love focused writings.

So here it is:

The Devastation of Love, (revised edition to fit their submission guidelines).
I'm forever hopeful to be stolen by it, swept up and falling into...
I will cease to be a singular soul, alone. 
I will join with another, and become someone entirely new. 
It’s messy and often ugly. 
It’s devastating.
Perhaps it’s simply my love of playing with fire?
It’s a shattering experience. 
Life altering, soul modifying. 
It’s anarchy. Destruction. 
Demolish what was there, rebuild stronger joined as two. 
It’s crushing, humbling and overwhelming. 
It’s embarrassing, pathetic, and shameless. 
I must surrender to the tidal pull of another. 
I must submit to the power of two combined. 
I am no longer me. I am now, us and we. 
I hand myself over to the other. 
It’s a before and after episode. 
It’s a demon who burgles my deepest secrets. 
It’s a cresting wave, pummeling me into the depths. 
It’s a deity demanding I bow and worship at it’s alter. 
Scrape and beg, plead and surrender. Succumb. 
It sweeps me up into a hurricane of destruction. 
It blows through me without a care for who I once was. 
No matter my preparations, 
or how long I've sought this elusive beast. 
No matter…
It will destroy me, and still I seek nothing else.

Original Prose which inspired this shortened version:

The Devastation of Love Original Prose/poetry by Payne Hawthorne
The Devastation of Love
Original Prose/poetry by Payne Hawthorne

Weekly Erotica; The Claiming

The Claiming

It’s one of those biting cold nights. My little house is freezing and I need to get a fire started, but my fingers are numb and striking the match is darn near impossible. Rarely do I feel alone, but when I do, man it hits me like a tsunami and I crash. I fall into depression almost instantly, and usually I end up crying myself to sleep. I’ve been alone for a very long time, so it always baffles me when the despair hits so strongly. You’d think I would be used to it by now. 

I miss him, but I shouldn’t. It’s not like we ever met, and honestly, I hung on way longer than I should have. Two years of nothing but emails and phone calls should have been enough for me. I wish it could have been. I’m starting to think I’m defective. I should have just been okay with what he did give me and not ache for more. If only I were one of those women who hated sex and men in general. If only. 

I needed him to be real. Tangible. I needed his arms and his lips and his warmth. I needed to talk to him with body language and with only my eyes. I never got that, and now I’m more alone than ever. I don’t even have his voice. 

Maybe it’s because it’s New Year’s Eve. Maybe the being alone on this night is the reason for my despair. Hopefully I’ll fall asleep early enough so I don’t have to hear the celebrations of all humanity. I don’t understand their glee in making it yet another year. I’m so tired. 

It’s been almost four months since we talked. I know he’s still out there because I get little pins from him on occasion. He’s in all our old haunts, Facebook, Pinterest, Tumbler. All the places we get to be who we aren’t in real life. 

I want to be real. I want to be substantial to someone in a physical sense. I’ve grown bored with the cyber life. It’s much too transient for me; too counterfeit.

I finally get the stove lit and I sit and think as I watch the flames grow ever higher. I didn’t hear from him at all today. He was strangely absent from all my normal feeds. Maybe he was snowed in. There are supposedly horrible storms back where he lives. 

I don’t feel like eating. I don’t feel like doing anything, but I need to feed the horses a late hot bran mash with electrolytes because it’s supposed to dip down into the twenties tonight. I head out to the road with my flashlight and make my way up to the barn. I hear a car, and see headlights, but figure it’s the neighbors either leaving for a party or just getting home from dinner. I feed the horses and then head back down. Slipping my way over the frozen puddles in the road. There is a car parked at my gate. That is strange. 

I turn off my flashlight and stall right where I am. I consider heading back up to the barn and grabbing some sort of weapon. Not like anyone can hear me scream all the way out here. Wish my dog was with me, but I left her at home. Whenever I’m tending to others’ properties, I usually leave her home. I’m undecided and remain frozen in a shadow. 

The thing is, I can empathically feel the driver. It’s a masculine energy and unsettlingly familiar. It can’t be him. It just can’t be. It isn’t; I talk myself out of the feelings part of this, and assess the situation. It’s almost ten at night, my breath is steaming and my teeth are beginning to chatter. The only weapon I could gather would be a shovel, and I seriously doubt I can defend myself with that. So I turn my flashlight back on and with a thudding heart, I resume my march down the road. 

As I approach the back of the car, the door swings open. He’s tall, and broad, and fills the space between us. I can no longer pretend. His emotional imprint is too singular. Too focused and certain. It is him. 

I stop at the end of the driveway. There is easily twenty feet between us, and I can’t really see him, but I can feel him, and I know he can me. 

“Um, what…I…I…” I’m at a loss for words, and apparently my legs have gone numb. I can’t feel my feet. 
“It’s me.” He says and that’s when the tears begin. “Don’t be afraid, it’s me.” 
“I know it’s you, but…but…how did you…?”
“I told you I could find you. Come here.” 
“I can’t.” 
“Are you okay?” He rubs the back of his neck, and it’s the first time uncertainty shows in his voice, “With this? With me being here?” 

I’m still dumbfounded. Two years of continuous communication revealed who we were, both to ourselves and to each other. I know this man almost as well as I know myself. He knows me better than I do myself. “I gave up.” 
“I never did, and you knew I am a man of my word.” 
“Let me back in. Please.” Now his voice is almost pleading, and this man never begs. 

I stand there, breathing; my face is surrounded by fog. It matches the exhaust pipe of his still running car. He has yet to move. He gave me a direct order and I know it’s up to me to follow it, but still I can’t move. “Are you sure? I can’t…”
“Yes, I’m certain. I needed to make some changes. I just traveled all day to get here,” He chuckles and rubs his neck again, “You weren’t kidding about living off the beaten path.” 
I finish my sentence, “I can’t play this game anymore. Real or nothing. All or nothing. That hasn’t changed.” 
“That’s why I’m here. This is all. I am here to claim you as mine. Now get over here.”
My laugh is awkward at best and I confess my inability to move. “…I might fall down.” 
He starts to move toward me, his teeth gleam in the moonlight, “I’ll catch you beautiful.”

Something unsticks and suddenly my feet are flying, and I’m running. I do almost fall, and he meets me half way, and does catch me. Now I’m sobbing uncontrollably and I feel a fool. This shit doesn’t happen in real life. At least not mine. I don’t know who writes the stupid Hollywood romances, but I’ve not found real life to be even remotely close. 

He is so strong and his certainty fills me up. His arms wrap around my back and he presses me to his chest. He is so warm and I bury my face against his sweater. My tears are still popping from my eyes and I can hardly breathe. He strokes my back and simply holds me as I calm down. When I register that it is his heartbeat thudding against my cheek, a new onslaught of tears ensues. He doesn’t seem to mind.
After what felt like forever out in the cold at the end of the driveway, I let him in through the gate and then the house. For the first time, I can see him, what he truly looks like, and his scent. His intoxicating aroma that I knew would affect me exactly this way. 

We haven’t spoken much, and I mumble, “I guess the time for words is over?” 
“Yes, we did that part.” 
I give him my awkward half grin, “Just words?”
“So much more than words.”
“Everything,” I say with irony. He was the only male I’ve ever communicated with who wanted all of me—everything I was, down to my darkest core self. 
“Everything,” He responds.

There had been a point near the beginning of our communications that he’d asked, what do you want me to know about you? 
My answer was simply, everything. 
He’d grown quiet and then with prompting confessed, excellent answer, that’s what I want as well.
I haven’t turned on many lights and the house is dim, but I feel almost drunk from being in his presence. I give him another glance and he’s staring at me in such a way I’m certain he has x-ray vision. I blush and my entire body flushes warm and then gooseflesh pricks from my nipples all the way to my toes. 

I choke on my words, “It’s more intense than I even imagined.” I drop my gaze and glower at the hardwood floor, “At least for me.” 

He covers the expanse between us in two massive strides and grabs my shoulders, “Look at me,” he orders and I obey. His tone softens as our eyes meet. “Me too.” Then he grips my chin and holds my face steady. It hits me we’ve never kissed. Imagined it a million times, but that was all fantasy. I bat my lashes and I feel my chest heave. “You’re mine. Never forget that.” 

I can’t reply because in the next instant his mouth is against mine. It’s tentative at first, on both our parts. I’m trembling so I don’t know if it’s him or me or the combination of us, but everything feels like an earthquake around us and in us; all is awash in monochromatic turbulence; except our lips. Our lips are hungry and thirsty and satisfying the other in bursts of vibrant color unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Fireworks isn’t accurate enough to describe what is happening. It’s a joining unlike anything I’ve ever imagined, or fantasized. 

He pushes me to the wall, and presses himself along the length of my body. He’s hard, and big, and now, after months of feeling like a parched desert, I’m almost dripping with need. I gasp as he allows me air, and then he resumes his insistence to be inside my body, even if just a tongue. 

His hands roam and find my plump bottom, and he drags me to his groin, and grinds against me. I apologize for being covered in so many layers and we both laugh. Then it hits me and I mumble, “Oh crap.”
“What? What is it?” 
“I’m, um…I’m not ready for you.” He draws his brows together, studying my features, and reaches up to gently tug on my pony tail. “It’s my…um…I haven’t shaved anything accept my underarms.” I wrinkle my nose and semi-shrug. “Sorry. For years I kept it all tidy…you know…just in case…”
He grins, “In case I showed up unexpectedly?” 
“Yeah, exactly.” 
His hand is still on my thick, unruly hunk of long red hair, and he uses it as a handle to drag my head backwards. His voice is incredibly deep and the dominant male I’d come to know, has apparently just revealed himself. “I’ll tend to that issue later. For now, a little bit of hair isn’t going to interrupt me entering your body in the next few minutes.” 
My eyes involuntarily pop open, “Now? Like, um…now?” I squeak, and he chuckles. 
Then he says the words I wanted to hear for years, “And you will please me.” 

There isn’t a question, or even a hint at it being a possibility. It’s so certain I feel it as a directive or a command deeply inside. My pussy floods obscenely and I gasp. He knows. He always knows, and his slight curl of lip tells me. He scents the air and his eyes go half-mast. His lip curl increases, and he almost growls, “Mine.” 

My voice is way too breathy, but I can’t help it. My nipples hurt behind the layers of warm clothing and suddenly I’m so hot I can’t breathe. “Yours.” 

He abruptly pulls away and I almost fall. He’d been holding me up and my legs are still overcooked noodles. He looks around the living room and I lean against the wall. He takes off his coat and carefully places it on the back of a chair, and then his attention is back on me. “Strip.” 

I don’t question him. I know he never says anything without meaning it. So I begin the arduous process of peeling my many layers. I find it odd that he spent years discovering my emotional complexities and now, now it’s just fabric, but feels like so much more. 

Then I remind myself he’s seen all of me, naked, bared, unashamed and attempting to please. He’s had the view no others ever have, and I did things for his eyes only. Things I’d never done before and certainly not since. 

I get down to just my long underwear and a thin cotton tee shirt. I don’t have on panties or a bra, and I look down to see why my nipples ache like they do. They’ve never been this hard before, and they are pornographically popping behind the thin cotton. I stand there, still trembling, and suddenly afraid to finish. This is it. The last little bit of protection and barrier between us. It’s not much, but it’s the last remaining armor I’ll ever possess in front of this man. 

He levels me with a look that I can easily interpret, and I pull the tee shirt off. I throw it on top of the pile of material that was once my shield. My breasts hurt from the constriction on the tips. My soft long underwear is the last thing, and I slowly slide them past my hips until they fall on their own to puddle around my socks. The terrain of gooseflesh down my thighs is almost comical because I’m no longer even a little bit chilled. 

He licks his lips. I don’t feel sexy, or attractive or any of the things that I know men visually appreciate. My body is aging and I’m not as fit as I once was. I’m also so pale you can see every capillary, scar, dent and bump on me. I feel as if I should apologize that I’m not more pleasing to view naked, but then I lift my eyes and I see his hunger. I guess its okay. Or rather, more than. His cock is so hard it is attempting to tent his slacks and his eyes are devouring me. 

I’m uncertain what to do, so I do nothing and stand there, waiting. My teeth begin to chatter and he mistakes it for me being cold. I shake my head, “No, nerves.” 
His grin is nefarious. He stands, “Don’t move. I need to inspect you.” 

Before he leaves the alcove where the couch is, he strips as well. His cock is hard and jutting and the tip is shiny. I know he’ll be pleased to find I too am wet and ready. He maintains eye contact on his journey and it takes all I have to stay upright. One hand goes to my ribcage, and then he travels it down over the swell of my hip. 
His exhale is so emotion filled, my lungs tighten and I gasp. His other hand cups, and then strokes up his own shaft. Another stuttering exhale. Now I can hardly find air and I wonder if I might pass out. 
He reaches behind me and again grasps my bottom, spreading me and releasing some of my lubrication. I breathe, “Oooohhhh gawd,” as his index finger tickles across my taint. 

Then he comes up close enough to rub the hot tip of his cock against my belly, and he uses both hands to spread me apart. I bite my lip and continue gasping for air. He has to lever himself down, but he does, and then bends his knees enough to slide against my inner thigh, at my apex. Upon retreat, his entire phallus is shiny. 

His fortitude is otherworldly as he meticulously continues to tactilely study my body. Touching my breasts, my hips, my bottom and then my neck and collar bone. It’s as if he’s blind and remembering me through touch. Or, maybe it’s all the places he instinctually knows I’m my most sensitive. My eyes follow his path until he turns me around and peruses my back, running his fingers down my long spine. 
His warm breath at my ear sends my entire body into overdrive, “Perfection.” 

He frees my hair from the captivity of the hair tie and it falls in an unruly wave of fiery curls all the way to my shoulder blades. He runs his fingers up against my scalp and tightens his grip. He is also rubbing his length up through my butt and against my lower back. He drags my head back with one hand and the other wraps around to my stomach, pinning me to his front with my head against his shoulder. He turns my face and takes my lips. This time, bruising me with ownership. 

He steadies me with a hand on my hip, but then forcefully folds me over with a hand between my shoulders, and growls, “Over the end of the couch, now.” I instantly give to him and seek the stability of the couch arm. I’m grateful since I was certainly going to fall down otherwise. He leans up and over my back, “Another will never touch you from this moment forth. Is that understood?” I make a sound of acknowledgement and nod frantically. “Who do you belong too?” 
“Who is your Master?” 
Then he pauses and a tenderness rushes over me. “I love you.” 
My eyes sting like I just opened a hot oven and I can’t staunch the flow. I sob, “I love you too.” 
Then the urgency returns and he forcibly readjusts me on the couch so that my ass is up in the air, “Good, because now it’s going to feel like I might hate you.” 

I can’t help but laugh. That exact phrase was a pin we’d traded back and forth many times. I don’t have much time to enjoy the comedy of the moment however as he begins spanking my bottom repeatedly. I try not to writhe, but I can’t help it and also scream in agony. Then he pauses and rubs over the hot skin of my ass with his massive palm. 

His breathing is labored now, but he continues on with my left butt cheek until it too is on fire. The wetness check reveals that now I’ve soaked my inner thighs and my tears are still flowing. I’m choking and sobbing and simultaneously hating and enjoying every second. 

When he’s finished caressing my sore bottom, he straddles up and over me and rubs himself up through my crack, over and over, growing hotter and bigger with each stroke. 

He suffocates me with his weight as he guides his cock to my dripping entrance, but he stalls. “I plan on fucking you all night long kitten. When I’m done with you, when I retreat, there will be a hollow place inside your soul that only I can fill.” 
I’m already on the brink of an orgasm, and I mumble through a, “Mmmmmm-huh.” 
His hand comes around my neck and from the front he grips me tightly. “Beg.”

“Inside…” I choke and my eyes blur. My pussy is a twitching mess of need and I can’t think. I arch my back and push against him. Desperation now plays every nerve. I manage to seat just the tip of him at my entrance, but he is strong, much stronger than me, and he stays me. “Please…inside…take me. Please!” 
His voice is thready and I can feel his hips roll as more of him presses into me, “Please what?” 
“Please, Master. I am yours.”

I guess that was all he needed. In the next instant, he slid himself home. My sheath welcomes him as he joins us, completing an ancient pre-destined connection. The electricity is sparking and I can feel him all the way inside me. As if he truly becomes my blood, coursing throughout my system, making himself at home. 

The crisp hairs of his groin rub against my softest folds. His heat and heartbeat fill me up and push against every perception. His strokes are shallow at first, as if he can’t bear the thought of leaving me in any capacity. I lift my ass higher, and I strain to hold the position so he has the best possible access. 

This is what I ached to feel my entire life. Sex with love. Sex with connection and with the person I belong too. He’s finally claimed me as his. I desperately needed him, and now he is here. As much mine as I am his. 

His urgency increases and the loud slapping together of our bodies is the most erotic sound I’ve ever heard. He begins to say, “Fuck...” repeatedly and I am making incoherent sounds of either ecstasy or agony. Only those participating will ever know. 
This. Him. Us.  
The Claiming.

Christmas Morning (Poetry)

Christmas morning

The tall cliffs protect as the ocean beats and flings itself haphazardly against the rocks below. The pillows of fluffy white deceive and the tendrils of rainbows forecast the promise of a sunny day. The veil of sea mist paints the air with tiny frolicking faeries.

I stand tall and still, and soak in the majesty. The mist soaks my cheeks and bleeds into my hair. The roar of the sea quiets my soul.

Sometimes the silence inside awakens when you are most still.

The air is icy and bites. It feels good to be touched. My skin rejoices as my heart is filled. Don’t move, don’t allow distractions. Soak. Absorb. Marinate. Remain still.

All around you is anarchy; disobedient water obeys no master. Headlands jut as time erodes. One cannot contain forever. Crevices give way as water cleanses.

My heart beats and my lungs billow behind my ribs. I remain quiet. My pulse quickens as waves roll and surge. The ground beneath my feet vibrates as water insists, attempting to claim me, reaching ever skyward.

I close my eyes and listen. Amidst the chaos, there is intense peace, a belonging to something deeper and bigger. The lighthouse winks as I once again allow sight to overtake. The rainbow tendrils dance like ribbons of butterfly wings.

~Payne Hawthorne

Mark Scheffer Photography
Mark Scheffer Photography

Photography by: Mark Scheffer

Book Excerpt; The Elysian, Chapter 37

The Elysian, (excerpt).

This is the next title I’d dearly love to produce as an audio book. The cost will be roughly $2000.00. You can help me achieve this goal by contributing here: PATREON or here: PATRONAGE


   It’s around dawn the next morning, and we are pretzeled together. During the night, I woke a few times and made sure some part of me was touching him, and I felt him do the same. It was as if we had to make sure the other was still there, and this whole freakish joining wasn’t just a dream. 
   I kissed his shoulder and he picked up my hand and kissed the inside of my palm. It was a tender kiss and his warm lips sent goose bumps up my arm. “You are a sensitive thing,” he says. 
   “Only to some, to others I seem as dull as a rock. It takes a certain vibration from another, and then I am so alive I can hardly stand it.” 
   “Ahhh, a catalyst?” He questions. 
   I think about it and slowly nod, “Yeah, I guess that’s as good of an explanation as any. I’ve had about twenty different mates, many more lovers. I can fuck just fine even if I’m not in love, although it leaves me feeling really cold and hollow. You know the worst of it? I often feel so dead I go out and find sex. It’s meaningless sex of course, and I do it in hopes of feeling something…”
   “Feeling anything,” he interrupts as he finishes my thought, agreeing with me, “And what started out as a need to feel, ends up in making you feel more alone and empty than when you started.”
   “Exactly! You’d think I’d learn by now, but no…”
   “It’s how you’re made Ellie –created to please. You feel alive when you’re found satisfying to another –of course that’s your – go to,” he again interrupted, then added, “I’ve done it many times –many – many – many times –life is just too hard when you go it alone for too long. For me its connection to something else living –which you know the horses really do help satisfy because they are so sentient –but for you it’s an innate need you have no control over –Elysian females are supposedly created for a specific man –you might be the only woman of your kind to be a free agent.” 
   I wrinkle my nose and wiggle it, “What are the odds?”
   He taps my chin lightly and grins, “I can tell you a few things I know –I actually used to kind of be a fan of your people.” 
   “A fan? What does that mean?” I question.
   “Well, ever since good ole dad told me about the single minded devotion of an Elysian female, I wanted one, so I kinda turned it into a bit of a hobby. Mind you, I was just a fledgling –youngster –hadn’t even learned how to fly yet –but I learned a lot about your kind.” 
   My expression was more than amused and I turned on my side with my head on my hand and winked at him, “Do tell.” 
   He flopped onto his back and spoke to the ceiling, “Let’s see what I can recall. Pointed ears –in your natural state you have small ears with pointy tips.” 
   “Like elves?” 
   He nods, “Yup, like elves. You’re a tall species, leggy,” He dashed a look at me and chomped his teeth, “Love those long legs, and that perfect ass of yours!” I giggled and he reached over and touched my hand, still talking to the ceiling, “Feathers. I knew for sure when I saw that artwork,” He motioned toward the living room and then rested his hand back on mine. “Your world is devoid of birds. Not one on the whole planet. Your people are fascinated with feathers. Consider them as rare and collectable as earthlings feel about gemstones.” His eyes took on a faraway expression and I eagerly listened.  
   Most of my memories were surrounding the mission and the experiment and very little had filtered through of my first life and the customs and rituals of my people. “Your people like a lot of pomp and circumstance, like to show off their wealth. Whenever they have banquets or parties, they decorate themselves with feathers. The women will pale out most of their faces, even pale lipstick, so all you can see are the masks they wear. Usually half face, but always made from feathers of different colors, or if they are high born they wear Hogedon feathers –that’s my race –always black or the same dark navy as my hair. Only our wing feathers, and only from a full grown adult, are tipped in that same silver as you saw on my wings.” He nodded as he recalled, “We must have limited the supply, wish I could remember –but yeah, incredibly rare indeed.”
   I make a sound of amazement and grin, “That explains a lot. I’ve always been fascinated with birds of all kinds. Is that ironic or what?”
   “You mean because I am one?” He asked. 
   “Yeah, exactly!” I confirmed. 
   “My people often traded with yours –we would offer feathers and quills from our adults and down and fluff from the fledglings. You’d be surprised what kind of commodity they can be when your planet has not one avian species.” He turned his head and caught my eye, “A feather from my adult plumage would be considered one of the greatest gifts offered. Just so you know.” He winked and resumed talking to the ceiling. I was thinking about my fascination with feathers and birds, as more puzzle pieces slid into place. “So darlin, if I ever give you one of my plumes, it means you are very special to me. Not only would I have to manifest my wings, which I don’t do very often, but I’d have to inflict a wound that would take months to regenerate.”
   “I have it in storage, but you’d be shocked to see my mask collection.” I say victoriously. Then add, “If you ever gave me one of your feathers I would cherish it beyond any other –I’d consider it one of my greatest possessions.” I declare. Then I ask, “Do your people mate outside of your race?” 
   He grinned and asked, “The masks—all feathers?” 
   I nod and lift one eyebrow, “What are the odds? Right?”
   He answers my question, “Rarely, but yeah, it happens. We’re a passionate species. Much more so than your people.” 
   “What do you mean?” 
   He chuckled, “When I first saw Star Trek, I thought they modeled Spock after Elysians’ and Kirk after Taninians’. Polar opposites –one is intellectual and all mind, the other is all heart and emotions.”
   I nibbled my lower lip in thought before answering, “I’ve changed though –I’ve grown feelings –emotions –I feel everything deeper than I remember feeling before.” 
   Iain turned again to face me and he cupped my jaw, “You darlin are the most unique entity in all the galaxies –I can’t believe we found each other.” He kisses each of my fingertips, “I could devour all of you. I haven’t felt this way about a woman ever. You and me baby, damn we’re good together.” 
   “We are each other’s catalyst maybe?” I say in a tiny voice, thinking about how odd it is to be with another stranded alien. 
   He reads my thoughts and asks, “I been meaning to ask you, are you stranded or are they extracting you at some point?” 
   I grimace, “I think I’m supposed to be here for two thousand years, so that gives me a handful over seven hundred more to go.” 
   He is silent for so long I think he has nothing more to say on the matter. When he does speak I momentarily jump at his voice. He hugs me in tighter, “Sorry darlin, I was thinking about leaving with you –I was so resigned to my fate –so certain there was no escape for me, I refused to let myself consider it.” 
   “And now?” I ask
   He bends his head down and grins at me, “Well my sweet little sex toy, seven hundred years is a long time. If you’ve not grown bored with me and we’re still together, I’ll consider it.” 
   “You know I’m not sure the mission is even on track anymore. I think both Gabriel and Doyle are either locked up in a Fae sithen or they don’t know they are, and time is speeding by out here –whatever it is, I think Doyle lost control –so I really have no clue. I’m trying to live as if this is my existence and there is no extraction –ever.” 
   He nods and hugs me tighter, dragging most of my body up onto his chest. My breasts push against his hard pecks and he palms my ass, jiggling me and rubbing himself against my belly, “You know what sweet cheeks?” 
   “What? My holy hardness.” 
   “Who really cares if we get to leave or not? Right now, in this moment, with you, I would trade an eternity of adventure to stay here – so fuck em all!” He announces. 
   I bite my lip and nod in thought, “You know what bird boy? I would agree one hundred percent –fuck em all!”
   We laugh and roll around in the bed, and play seduction and tease as he grows rigid and I grow wet and slick. I groan and roll away, “I can’t right now, even if my body is telling you, yes, –it’s a fucking liar! I don’t want too –not yet –you’re so big and I’m really sore. Can we just lay together? Can you be hard and me wet and nothing happen?”
   His hand reaches between my legs and he grumbles out his need, “Ahhh babe –maybe it’s your brain that’s the liar? Your sweet little cunt seems more than eager.” 
   I hear him lick his fingers after his quick, internal delve, and his sounds of pure delight momentarily give me pause. He is entirely correct, I would suffer if it meant pleasing my partner. That old familiar question rises up inside, is it good or bad that I would suffer to please him?
   “It’s neither lover, it’s you.” He says in response to my unspoken thoughts. I sigh, but say nothing. I am also completely okay with his intrusion into my private mind, that too is part of his penetration into my being, and I like it. My thoughts prompted a question from him, “You’re empathic then? No telepathy?”
   “I can feel your emotional grid, but only if you let me. You are the most powerful person I’ve been around since, Doyle, in Iceland. But yeah, I feel you baby! But no, it’s rare for me to hear words –again though, I did with Doyle. And a few times I think I’ve heard your thoughts.” I honestly reply.
   I feel him nod as he rubs my back. My hair has lifted and twined itself entirely around any part of him it can reach, which he told me he loves. He offers, “I’m both –empathic and telepathic –and! If I really work at it I can implant thoughts at a subconscious level –I’m out of practice though, I don’t work that psychic muscle too much, unless I’m with the horses, but they are so receptive it really takes nothing.” 
   I offer a sound of agreement. “I went so long I thought I’d lost even the empathic ability. I swear I’ve gone through phases where I wondered if I was entirely human –nothing special here people, move it along.” 
   “It’s a fetal race babe, and I hate how the lowest common denominator always wins. Don’t let the turkeys tell you, you are anything but an eagle –I know though –its very tuff here to feel anything but average.” 
   I giggle at the irony of his words and mumble, “And you are an eagle. A silver, raven haired, glowing alien raptor.”
Excerpt from THE ELYSIAN 
The adventures and loves of Faith Elysian. An immortal alien trapped on Earth for twelve hundred years. 

This is the next title I'm hoping to make into an Audio book. Please see my PATREON and PATRONAGE pages for info on helping me achieve this goal. 

elysianteaserdwarfdog elysianteasersoicanfeel elysianwallowwithyou mywritingmypastwasnothing elysianteaserfeathersandquills elysianteaserififallinlove Elysianteasermomoaelicitshivers elysianteaserpornographic

Weekly Erotica. READY.

“I want you ready.”

He knew what ready meant, and answered with a salute in his voice, “Yes mistress. My pleasure.”

He finished the dinner preparations and put the lasagna in the oven. Then he took a shower and shaved himself clean. His owner enjoyed quite a bit of oral. Reciprocally, she was the best he’d ever experienced and over the years he’d learned the art of cuntilingus. 

He found it ironic he’d bow, scrape, and literally serve and service a dominatrix. He wasn’t a submissive, at least not by pathology, but he’d now protect, defend, and yes even kill, for the female who claimed him as hers. He’d certainly endure pain, and he thoroughly enjoyed pleasing her. 

Sometimes she let him take over, sometimes she liked him to assert, but he was never certain where her cravings would lead. She was a sadist after all, and being in control, or the illusion of control, was what she most desired. He was not a sadist, and before would not have identified with the heading of, masochist. He could however take quite a bit of pain and over the years learned how to harness, turn it, and use it. 

Perhaps now he was changed enough to say he was a masochistic submissive. His role wasn’t as populated with men as it was with petite, helpless females, but in the world of fetishes, bondage, sadists, dominants and submissives, nothing was off limits, and all the roles were celebrated. 

After all, one cannot flourish without the other. 

What he never anticipated, and if told, wouldn’t have believed, was the amount of power the submissive actually held. It was an indescribable dynamic within this anything-but-vanilla relationship. For all appearances, it was her who held all the cards and wielded the whip, literally. But as the one enduring, and pleasing, and surrendering, it was he who was exalted, praised, and almost worshipped. She continually commended him for his strengths and fortitude. He was her second, her other, her best friend, protector and lover. 

Their communication was always therapeutic, never mundane. They were more open with each other than a therapist and patient, and it went both directions. She never belittled him for his role, and years into the maturity of their pairing, she still praised him for everything he did to make her life easier; never once taking him for granted or growing bored with him.

In return, she gave him immense pleasure, one could even say, ecstasy was her game, and pleasing her quickly turned into his favorite sport. 

In most respects the situation worked out perfectly. He’d learned how to become a bit of a domestic emperor and in return she provided them with enough financial security they lived well. He drove a Tesla and they ate like kings. He wanted for nothing and for the first time in his thirty plus years, he was sexually satisfied. Sometimes, more than. 

He was provided time to work on his physique and follow his passion of becoming a fitness model. Well-honed male bodies, rippling eight packs and tight V lats were all the rage. Women were finally granted permission to objectify the male gender in the same way’s they’d endured. The only thing was, men loved it. He loved it. 

He was now exactly as nature intended. A sex slave and physically perfect specimen able to keep up with his mistress’s needs. If he’d lived the traditional dynamic and worked like all the other mundane men, he’d never have had the passion, energy or desire to fuck for hours on end. 

The cooking classes were a gift, but soon turned into a new talent. When the mistress closed her eyes and moaned around a mouthful of something he’d created, he realized it was yet another way of making love and giving pleasure. Now he was quite the culinary expert and he knew what was simmering away in the oven, was one of her favorites. He’d paired it with a Syrah from the cellar and was expectant for their meal later. No doubt it would be eaten after the first round of activities, and no doubt they’d partake naked, she might even ask him to feed her, which he loved doing. 

He double checked his scrotum for any wayward stubble and then quickly finished his bathroom ablutions. She would be home soon, and he needed to be in the dungeon, and ready. She often surprised him, enjoying the foreplay and fluffing required to get him to full hardness, but tonight her sparse communication was all he needed to know she didn’t feel like preparing him. 

He left the dungeon door open and spent a few minutes waking up his muscles. He did push-ups, squats and a few pull ups before planking for five minutes. Then he went to work on his cock. 

When she first approached him, she had no idea he was so well endowed. Their first encounter was as vanilla as they come, apart from her being the aggressor and asking him out. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Modern women were like that and he’d been approached before. He was a very attractive man.

Once on this first date, he’d played the traditional male role. At least at the beginning of the night it was that way. She’d appeared somewhat aloof during dinner, and then over desert, she’d confessed her predilections. He’d initially laughed, but then considered when she mentioned some of her cravings. 

She might have been a few years his senior, but she was a stunning female. They’d gone dancing, and he could, which impressed her further. 
By the end of the evening, she’d let down her guard, and they’d ended up back at his place. 

Her tone had been dominant, not pleading. “I need you in my mouth.” 

Who was he to argue with that request? Most of the women/girls he’d been with, hadn’t liked or even offered; not that most of them could get in more than the tip in anyway. 

She’d insisted on undressing him, taking her time as if she were unwrapping a gift. He’d been in perfect shape back then, but his body had yet to harden into the kind of maturity he now possessed. She’d left his boxers till the last, admiring all of his other attributes before. He still remembers the look on her face when she freed him. He’d been statue erect and throbbing ready. His crown had glistened and his balls had felt like heavy weights.
“Oh dear lord. You are him.” 

He hadn’t fully comprehended her meaning until a few weeks later. In the interim, she pursued him with a vigor to rival the hungriest of men. She was a potent female and she always got what she wanted, and she’d decided on him. Despite the protests that he was his own man, and had no desire to belong to a female, let alone in a non-traditional role such as she was requesting, she never faltered. 

His friends warned him, and yes she did appear a bit obsessive, but they didn’t see the whole picture. It was when they were together and alone that he saw the truth. She wasn’t mentally ill, bi-polar, OCD, or a stalker like his friends all perceived. No, she was genuine and simply had a much larger appetite than the average human; man or woman, it didn’t matter. She was more than everyone else in all situations, and she required someone willing to sate her insatiable appetite. 

Apparently he could. God knows, at that point, he was more than willing. Never before had he been with a female who wanted to fuck more than even himself. 

She’d licked her lips and begun slowly. She paused long enough to insist on a moment of eye contact. “You do not have permission to come. Is that understood?” 

Again he’d chuckled, thinking she’d have a difficult time getting him too. The only curse of such a large dick was the extended time it took to actually find release. He’d nodded and grinned and then jerked his throbbing organ until it tapped against his groin. He’d inadvertently dared her, something he later discovered you never do with a Sadist Dominant. “Good luck. Takes more than a lick to get me off.” 

It was a rare moment for his usually stoic mistress when she grinned and lifted her eyebrows, obviously accepting his unintentional challenge. There were no words after that, at least not that he could remember. She took control in a way he’d never imagined, and within a few minutes his knees were shaking and he feared falling down. 

Her hand massaged his balls as her mouth, her luscious, cavernous, wet, warm insistent mouth, took and plead and played him like an instrument. She was a musician of the highest order and she took all of him. She slid those luscious lips ever farther to the base, amazing him as she seated him deeply down her throat. Playing him with her muscles and vibrating the tendon with her tongue until he screamed in anguish, trying his hardest stop the rapidly approaching ejaculation. 

He’d never practiced holding it back. All the girls he’d ever been with had either not been able to take all of him, or had grown sore and tired before he could complete. Now though? Oh my god, now this alien woman was paradoxically insisting he give her his seed, but had yet to grant permission. Her left hand gripped his ass firmly, digging in her nails and insisting he stay there with her nose buried in his groin. Her lips, her mouth, her tongue and her throat all persisted in extricating the one thing he’d been ordered not to do. 

Thinking back, he realized even then he’d felt a kind of surrender to her. A need to obey and please. He was her soldier and she his general. She was right, he was meant for her. He just needed to be taught, and she was more than happy to oblige. 

He stayed himself as long as he could, and then strained through the confession. “I…I can’t hold it!” 

She’d increased her sucking, stroking and massaging. Almost angrily, but she’d not stopped, and when he tried to pull away, she’d hurt him with her nails, insisting he come in her throat. When he did, she swallowed him as if he were the cure. But then, as he was uselessly twitching through the biggest release of his life, she freed him from her mouth and bit his inner thigh until the skin broke. That was the first time he realized what pain could do to his body. 

He’d fallen to the floor, screaming in agony and attempting to push her away. She was strong and skilled and he was useless against her onslaught. She pinned his arms under her knees and then bit his right nipple, even harder, again leaving broken places. “Bad boy. You disobeyed.” 

“FUCK!” He screamed. 

She laughed and then pulled off her dress in one fluid motion, revealing her utter nakedness. He was still harder than he could ever remember being, let alone after already coming like a fire hydrant. “Now I’ll fuck you and this time you do not come until I say.” 

He yelled again when she sat on him, sheathing all of him in one fluid roll of her hips. He could feel where he filled her up and where he hit her cervix, but she loved it. Taking every inch of him and throwing her head back in abandoned, rapturous bliss. She rode him hard, pumping her sex over him and rolling her hips as he gave into the act. Within seconds and he was more than a willing participant. 

“Harder! Harder!” She keened. 

He grabbed her at the swell of hips and thrust himself as viciously as he’d never been permitted to do. Over and over he punished her with his huge, hard cock, and she only asked for more. Her body tightened around his, squeezing him as she flushed bright pink and her nipples tightened down to tight little nubs. 

She clutched his chin, again insisting on eye contact. “Come for me.” The words caught and stuttered out of her mouth as she seized. Then she slapped him, hard, hard enough to startle, but still he didn’t come. He couldn’t. He had to watch her. It was as if a goddess had chosen him, a lowly mortal, and he had no choice but to watch her ascend. 

She was in control enough to slap him again and the look she leveled him with seemed to travel directly to his throbbing shaft. He came again, and then again and by the time he was finished, he was certain his legs had vanished.
It always worked. He was more than ready now. He stood as per protocol. Fully erect, legs spread and hands behind his back. His cock throbbed in anticipation. Delicious scents wafted from the kitchen. The staccato of her heals down the marble hall was his only warning. 

“Hello my love. I see you’re ready. You please me immensely.”

~Too be continued. 

Flash erotica fiction from ~Payne Hawthorne