The Erotic Tales of Bucephalus by Christopher of Detroit
SPIRITUAL ODYSSEY, TABOO SEX, & DREAM MAGIC!
What does it mean to be human?
“The Erotic Tales of Bucephalus” tells the story of a beast who experiences sexuality through a man’s body inside a spectral hotel lost in time. Alexander the Great’s mighty steed, Bucephalus, dies in battle near the River Hydaspes within the Persian Empire. Banners gambol on the horizon and witches drink the blood of the dead, smearing gore upon their naked bodies, as the warhorse’s vision fades into death.
In an eerie hotel room, Bucephalus awakens in a human body with an insatiable sex drive. From the shadows, a phantasm appears with wings sprouting from a nebulous head and a shimmering body of starless fire. Morpheus, the deliverer of dreams, sends Bucephalus on an erotic journey through a time-shifting netherworld with each dream offering sexual transgressions both sensual yet depraved.
Haunted by an elusive room-hopping nymph, Bucephalus struggles with his beastly nature by indulging in licentious encounters with the hotel’s occupants: an unnamed pythoness who adores oral copulation, three masked lesbians in a voyeuristic sex party, two alluring sirens wielding straight razors and shibari knots, a macabre priestess gang-banged by loyal sycophants, and an unforgiving dominatrix’s Arab strap training day.
From a decadent orgy in a sixteenth-century Italian ballroom to an evocative sex-magic ritual in the jungles of Siam, Bucephalus explores the limits of eroticism, diving into a turbulent world of sexual corruption and self-reflection.
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TwitterAbout the author:
Christopher of Detroit writes sincere explorations of the counter-culture in fiction, short stories, and poetry. His work blends the genres of autobiography, fable, spirituality, erotica, and pulp serial. Inside his fantasy worlds, Christopher examines philosophical dualities, transitions of the psyche, alternate realities, and spiritual revelations. Christopher is also an exhibiting painter and book artist. He publishes artist books, paperbacks, and e-books under the imprint Sublimation Pressworks. His print and e-book publications are available on several book-selling platforms. His limited edition artist books and paintings appear in collections in the United States, South Korea, and Vietnam. A constant traveler, Christopher considers himself an international resident with no permanent home. Although, he still loves his birthplace of Detroit, and considers Thailand his spiritual residence.
What inspired you to write your book?
Many people inspired me to write this book.
First, a cuckoo in the dark…. A love who shall remain nameless.
Second, Georges Bataille for his constant inspiration. Over the years, his work has shown me that the difference between the beautiful and the grotesque remains a distinction in need of elaboration.
Lastly, the anonymous authors of "The Romance of Lust, or Early Experiences" and "The Lustful Turk, or Lascivious Scenes from a Harem" for showing a teenager that Victorian erotica always has a sense of humor even when it’s lascivious as hell.
Here is a short sample from the book:
Dreams come. Dreams go.
As always, our lovemaking begins in a dark place lost in time eternal.
We’ve done this before. Where? When? I’m not sure, but like the other times, I watch her as she preens. She loves the tension … the delay … the anticipation … the sensuousness unfolding. Her eyes hold a Cimmerian darkness, a barbarity of delights. Her tummy bulges over her black patch. A depression in the geography, the belly button acts as a beguiling sinkhole waiting to engulf the universe, and me with it. The muted blue light creates a purplish cast to her iron skin. Her nature evokes obscene enchantments like a she-witch in heat. Her aura tears me to shreds and she knows it.
Like all things erotic and terrible, her gestures are sacrifices. She guards herself, and even with surrender she keeps watch. Thin arms conceal breasts creating a barrier of self-imposed chastity. She doesn’t give up her charms easily. She never does, but her eyes speak otherwise. Her abstinence is short-lived because I know her game. The rules are easy. I must play and wait, but I always do.
She faces the only furnishing within the room—an old mirror. She presents her body to the looking glass like she’s doing it a favor, as if the mirror represents some leering suitor. In the surface, standing behind her, my reflection carries innocence. At this moment, I have no way of knowing if this is my true likeness, but I suspect I’ll don many faces throughout the dream.
Dramatically, she turns with a flourish and studies me like a familiar meal.
A long moment passes.
Her eyes say, “Molest me.”
She waits a while longer.
Her body says, “Take me.”
I sigh like an unbeliever.
Her sex says, “Fuck me.”
Still longer, she waits.
Finally, she makes her move and I believe.
With confidence, she lowers her arms as if surrendering this battle. However, I know better—she always wins the war. Her heart is a force of nature, complex, but awe-inspiring. This is no mere woman. This is the mystery—the eternal feminine—and she’s dangerous.
Her hands meet. Fingers entwine like fangs. A perfect fit. Head tilts. Eyes captivate. Shoulders pause. A moment of weakness appears, a moment of love for me. Her gaze returns to the mirror regaining control. Cautious, but with purpose, she edges closer to the looking glass. Her reflection moves like a wild animal she’s trying to tame. Shadows obscure the monument of her back and the inset of her eyes. Her bottom tempts me, tumultuous and full, attractive yet dangerous. Her flesh can wound me—an enemy everlasting.
Reading my intentions, she rises from her chair causing me to falter. Like a pornographic cobra, she sways, back and forth. Her body makes hypnotic s-patterns. Her hair moves like smoke filmed and played backwards. She leans forward with come-hither attitude. Her hot exhalations fog the reflective surface. She touches her lips to the glass and pulls away, leaving lip prints like lesions. A lifeline of spittle connects the steel doppelgänger with the flesh counterpart. Which image of her is colder? Which image is more real? As if sensing my questions, she smiles with certainty, eternally fuckable, a daimones of my dreams, my lover.
Finally, it begins.
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