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About the author:
I’ll soon be publishing a series of short stories, The Erotic Primer and a novel, Confessions of a Race Dominatrix about a woman who played Dominatrix to the F1 and Indy Car auto racing world. Maybe, I’ll dig out those old Readers Digest stories too!
What inspired you to write your book?
A short short story I wrote in the ’80’s
Here is a short sample from the book:
With a longing inside him that ran rampant and wild, each day
Brother Lyons De pauillac passed the exquisite woman of stone. He only knew that long ago she’d been the mistress of the great Chateau. Had he lived then, Lyons knew he would have loved her. Each day as he gathered water at her well, he imagined new ways she would have loved him. Unlike the beautiful statue, the chateau, ravaged by time, quietly crumpled in the center of town. The land on which its foundation rested had long since turned to dust; aged, barren and unwanted except for the well of clear, pure crystal water at the lady’s feet. The well was deep and endless and supplied the Brothers with all the water they could ever need.
Thirty of his forty-three years had been spent in the Order of Surein. How many times had he gazed at the goddess of stone, marveling at the folds of rock and wondering how they could so softly caress the roundness of her body. Did this woman stand before the artist who carved the beads encircling her waist?
Tassels hung from a crusted belt and curved into the indentation of a feminine hipbone. Their hardened strings forever rested on the mound of Venus hidden beneath her robe.
An ageless daydream mesmerized him as he filled the water sacks. His eyes would wander from her eyes to the sensual mouth, then down her beautiful neck, finally resting on the peaks of her chest. At times he would imagine his fingers parting the belt’s tassels and pushing deep inside her to explore the wet warmth of a woman. This was something he’d never known in his life.
Each day he would feel his organ rise as he filled the sacks with water. This stone woman was his only release and link to a sexuality forbidden to enter his thoughts.
For all who took the vows of Surein were celibate; cloaked day and night, winter and summer in cumbersome robes as rough as the statue’s garments and as bleak as the seeds rotting in their loins. This uniform was meant to stifle and to ensure they would be forever void of intimacy. Mirrors were forbidden as was eye contact with anything but heaven and the statues that adorned their world. Brothers of Surein bathed in darkness using sponges in both hands, minimizing the temptation to touch their bodies. They shaved by touch and only cut their hair an inch at a time when atoning for an impure thought. Lyons did not cut his hair every time he returned from the well. There were times of deep shame, endless prayer and fitful remorse when he would savagely pull his hair to his knife and cut. As the inches of golden brown locks fell, he would feel his penis shrink and retreat inside himself. He had no idea of how often his fellow monks cut their hair or if he was alone in his impurity.
It was impossible to know the thoughts of another. Their sins were hidden beneath hoods that covered and fell to their foreheads.
For two days and nights the rain pelted the village. Ordained monks were forbidden to feel the tickling raindrops. During these times, young Felix gathered water and Lyons’s heart would be heavy with a jealousy that ate at him like hungry monsters. His mind raged with thoughts of someone else looking at his lady. For solace he made his way to the only sanctuary he’d ever known.
As a young boy, confused and lonely, he would take refuge in the bowels of the monastery. Deep inside the ancient deserted tunnels was an abandoned room filled with the remnants of an opulent bedchamber. A small brass plate on the desk read, “The Most Reverend Lyons Polseus”. Finding this oasis and knowing he was as good as a namesake to this Lord of the church gave him comfort and eased his pain.
Every chance he got he would make his ways to the dusty bedroom, curl up in the musty satin coverlet and fantasize about the family he missed and the life he would never know. As a child, mirrors were not yet forbidden to him, so for hours he would stare through his reflection in the discolored glass. He would pretend it was someone else, a brother or a friend… anyone to share his emptiness.
It had been twenty-seven years since he’d clung to the corridors he was now groping by candle light. When he pushed open the heavy wooden door a feeling of peace washed over him like a mother’s loving arms. In front of him was the mirror and all the personalities of a reflection he no longer recognized. He rubbed the dirt from the glass with the shredding coverlet. Without remorse he pulled the hood from his head and slowly raised his eyes to the mirror seeing his adult face for the first time.
There was a recollection in his blue eyes but the angles of his face had changed. His boyhood reflection had grown into a firm square jaw, fine sculpted cheekbones and deep-set eyes enhanced with tiny lines of maturity. Lyons touched his hair cropped to his chin by his betrayal. He thought of his mother’s hand as he felt its thickness. Moving candles closer to the mirror,he pulled his fingers through it so the strands caught the light.
“Still the color of wet sand, mama.”
With trembling hands he unhooked the robe fasteners. It fell open to reveal his chest, now blanketed with golden hairs. It seemed a lifetime ago he’d touched himself. His fingers explored the bumps of his nipples, the firmness of his shoulders and marveled at the tautness of his stomach. The robe fell to his feet and only the cotton cloth covering his genitals remained between himself and his body. Lyons’s hands were large and strong with long tapering fingers. Like a lover they lightly brushed his organ through the cloth. A chill passed through his body as a sign and acknowledgment of his feelings of need. The sight behind the cloth astonished him. Many times he’d known the feeling of his swelling penis as it throbbed to its ebb and released itself in an uncontrollable flow. The sight of it hard and thrust forward filled him with wonder. He was amazed at the look of its length and girth. Drops of moisture trickled from its tip, making it glisten like a strong new rod. Gently he squeezed his round, swollen scrotum curling the coarse hair in his fingertips. Spreading his legs in a wide stance, he held his arms above his head.
Befriending his long lost body and gazing at the sheer beauty of the muscles in his limbs became the most spiritual experience of his life. He moved the mirror directly in front of the old bed and slowly lowered himself onto the worn mattress. His legs felt tight against the cold, frail sheets. Its folds caressed his buttocks and the blades of his shoulders. It was difficult seeing himself in that position so he sat up on his knees. The tips of his fingers felt the silky hairs under his arms, traveled through the hollows of his stomach and settled around his stiff organ. Lyons’s mind became a servant to his senses as each new sensation became a path to his awakening. His body shook as his hand caught the semen pulsing from his organ.
Thunder echoed in the bowels of the monastery. The endless rains, taunting and baiting him, challenged his intensity. His seed, splashed and drying in front of him, had to live beyond this fiery awakening. In his mind he was already deep inside his fantasy.
So like himself, the beautiful statue was cheated out of flesh and blood. He understood her lonely empty eyes. They touched his heart and mind. Who else could he love? Quickly he dressed. The scratchy fibers of his robe were now almost unbearable against his body. He shut the door of the little room and ran to the end of the tunnels. There was a drain he used to crawl through to the street. For a brief moment he feared he couldn’t find it but sounds of rushing water guided his racing heart. Water mingled with streaks of daylight made a path to his freedom. The waters rushed against his robe, giving him every chance to turn back and salvage at least one of his sacred vows. A microscopic hell of slimy walls and drowned rats warned him to stop. With all his strengths he pushed the heavy drain cap away and crawled up and out into freedom.
Brother Lyons could not recall the last time he had smelled the freshness or experienced the strange guilt of a warm summer rain. There wasn’t time to savor the feelings. He had to run to the well and hope not to be discovered by anyone in the village. They all knew the vows of Surein. Someone would tell and he would not be able to deny his sin. The torrent of water exploded from the heavens. It soaked through his robes and pelted his back with the force of a lash. The streets were empty and still his heart pounded. Lyons felt the rapture of the angels as tempestuous hands caressed his naked form with each shift of his wet woolen bondage.