2014 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here's an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 570 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 10 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

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Erotic Advent by Stephen Richards

Here’s my contribution to Erotic Advent, hosted by the fabulous SJ Warner!

I hope you enjoy…

S.J's Blog

Erotic Advent

Some women have a thing for firemen, some for male models in sharp suits. For assistant district attorney Kelly Pomelo, it was Santa Claus. She didn’t care if the guy in the costume was old and fat (as most of them were), or young and fit (rarely so, but occasionally…), hell she didn’t even care if they were good looking or not – as long as they wore the costume while they fucked her that’s all she needed.

A psychologist could’ve told her that this festive fetish probably stemmed from a childhood incident, no doubt something she’d rather forget, or that maybe she had ‘Daddy issues…’ but it wasn’t any of that crap – she just got off on fucking Santa!

She liked to think of herself as spreading a little Christmas cheer – along with her legs; kind of a Ho! Ho! – ‘ho you could say, Santa’s hot…

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Vale of Tears

She had lain back for him and spread herself, opening her legs wide for her first man, showing him her most precious self; her secret soul… the thing that made her female.

And he’d entered her.

Taken her.

Impaled her with his lance and penetrated her to her very core.

The primal act of flesh within flesh.

They made love, her cries a perfect counterpoint to his groans; their passion joined as were their sexes. Finally, he’d spilled his seed deep within her fecund belly where it took root and grew. She cried afterwards, hot tears for the thing she’d lost and the thing she’d gained. Gone was the chaste girl, her place taken by a woman no longer innocent of the world.

So she continued to weep.

She cried again the day the cruel world took her man from her, his life lost in some far off country. Her hand over her swollen womb she felt the only part of him that remained to her, as the bitter tears fell.

She cried the day she bore the fruit that had been planted all those months ago. Hot tears of pain and blessed relief, of loss and fulfilment, as the child she’d carried within herself found its way into the world, both ruining and completing her.

As they lay her baby against her chest, her gaze ran into the future revealing a life of great joy and despair; of pain and pleasure, success and failure, happiness and heartache; everything that makes life worth living…

And for this she wept anew.

©Steve Richards 2014

Pending Release

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She knows what she possesses and dresses to impress.
Yet she is afraid… afraid of the passions she excites in others…

In men.

Dirty, disgusting men whose only thoughts are centred on abusing her and taking their pleasure in the use of her.

She can feel their lust for her as she walks, hear their depraved minds salivating over her. She can feel their calloused hands mauling her soft body, pawing at her tender breasts, roughly parting her thighs.

She knows exactly what they want to do to her with their swollen flesh, those thick, hard, unyielding rods that they want to push inside her. They want to tear her apart, fill every hole with their filthy outpourings.

They want to sullie her – everywhere…

Every last one of them…

It’s all they ever want.

She can see it in their eyes, a pale unhealthy gleam. She knows that light well.

She saw it in her father’s eyes the night he came into her bedroom all those years ago… the night he hurt her. She saw it again in her uncle’s eyes when he visited her too. She even saw it in her brother’s eyes when he came as well, to show her how much he loved her.

Love!

Love they called it!

Night after night of love, again and again until she lost count!

Love…

What do they know of love? What does any man…?

She’d finally returned their love the night she crept into their bedrooms, one by one, climbing into their beds and mounting them as she’d been taught.
“I love you baby…” they’d moaned as she rode them to completion, their sighs turning to screams as she put out their eyes – extinguishing that terrible light with a carving knife.

She silenced them forever by driving the blade up through their jaws to trap their lying tongues and then used it to slice off their invading flesh.

She still had their shrunken members, threaded on a string that she wore around her neck, the withered husks rubbing against her breasts.

A constant reminder of their love…

She turned and entered a dark alleyway, the sound of heavy footsteps following her, as she knew they would.

As they always did.

Her fear peaked and she was once again that little girl, afraid in the dark, not ready yet to become a woman. Her hand closed around the handle of the knife in her bag and the fear fled, replaced by a serene calm.

She stopped, allowing the footsteps to come closer until they halted right behind her.

They think she’s weak, pliant, something to be used and discarded.

Powerless.

But she’s not. She has strength. She has power! The thing that they obsses over between her legs gives her that power!

Power over them…

She felt his hands encircle her small waist, his fingers trembling in their eagerness to claim his prize.

She turned to face him with a beatific smile, her eyes bright with excitement as she gently draped one hand around his neck.

“I’m ready now, father…”

©Steve Richards 2014
Picture sourced from Pinterest

Name change

Hi peeps!

I’ve decided to give my blog a new name.

Instead of “Non Angelicus Musings 18+ Only NSFW”, I’m now sporting the title “Musings From Under The Beret (18+ Only NSFW)”

This won’t make any difference to previously published links to my blog as the actual web address is still http://www.opushadraniel.com

It’s only the site title which has changed.

Later dahlings! Mwah! 😉

Street Life

Rough sleeper
Homeless
Beggar
Bum
This is not
How your life was begun
Not what was planned
For your mother’s son
What path do you follow
On life’s winding track
Your only possessions
The clothes on your back
Huddled in doorways
Prey to the cold
Your face lined and wrinkled
Though not all that old
Now night has ended
Forgetfulness gone
A new day of struggle
As you must
Move on

(Street life in a Welsh city)

©opusangelicus 2014

#TreatWeek by Stephen Richards

Here’s my contribution to the excellent Treat Week hosted by the talented SJ Warner.

S.J's Blog

The Canvas

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She spotted him the second he entered the club. A tall, elegantly dressed, powerfully built man who radiated an unmistakeable aura of danger. The mere sight of him always made her insanely wet and ache with desire for him.

She’d scened with most of the guys at the club and quite a few women too and although she’d almost always had a good time, she found that she orgasmed hardest when she knew he was watching…

He’d been coming in for a few weeks now, keeping himself apart, never participating in any scenes or engaging in conversation with others, but always watching her intently whenever she played. He seemed to be studying her, almost as if he was judging her worth.

She lay on the saltire, her wrists and ankles shackled, as the young man laboured with a flogger. Bless him… he tried his best, in fact he…

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Ages

Mewling babe
At mother’s breast
For her child
She wants the best

Skinny girl
With tiny waist
Boyish hips
Thoughts so chaste

Too soon all grown up
Lithe and strong
Pose for photos
Nothing on

Drinking cocktails
Dance the night
Coming home
At dawns first light

Suitors come
And make her sigh
A special one
That caught her eye

Raise a family
Struggle to cope
Happy days
Yet always broke

Kids moved on
Re-educate
learn new skills
Never too late

Painting pictures
Write a book
Throw dinner parties
Fabulous cook

Sail the ocean
Fly a kite
Middle aged
But full of life

Ride a Harley
Drive a car
Visit countries
Travel far

Climb a mountain
Tame a horse
Dote on grandkids
In due course

Lost one husband
Gained another
Been wife mother
Healer lover

A whirlwind life
With so much done
So much sorrow
So much fun

That old lady
In the street
Frail and shuffling
Slippered feet

Hold no contempt
Respect you give
You might be young
But she has lived!

©opusangelicus 2014