I want her to strap it back on and give it to me...I want her in deep as the salmon swim
Sage Sweetwater bringing you the Upper Tier in lesbian erotica...
...Hers is a merchant mill, privately owned, she accepts trade for milling grains. Today I strolled past her waterwheel which powers her mill. I am intrigued by the waterwheel and I watch how it works...
...my sluice gate is open and my juices are flowing. I am wildly coming to the thought of her in a golden shower of grain pouring out orgasm as I watch the waterwheel mounted vertically, shaft running from the bottom to the top of the building...
...built by the Benedictine monks on the Hardscrabble Creek in my farming community, I have been running through the mills since my early girlhood with a crucifix at my throat where I taught myself how to masturbate 38 years ago when I watched the pit wheel turn the smaller gear-wheel, the wallower on the main driveshaft that turns faster than the waterwheel. I would stroke my flesh button at 10 revolutions a minute going at the same speed of the driveshaft, then OH...I came!...I didn't know what it was...so I sneaked Playboys from sources unrevealed and took the hardcopy Bunny with me, running through the mills fucking Hefner's Cottontails! Barbie Benton and Barbara Parkins, the beautiful Peyton Place girl running through the mills with me, my thing on fire looking at Barbara Parkins' dark nipples! DARK!...
...Today, my thing on fire still 38 years later, running through the mills, I run from one mill, Mr. Kilpatrick's, to her adjoining mill, Ms. Ira Perfidy-Finley's...
...Ira is standing at the top stone window opening, the main shaft driving a mechanical sieve turning a wooden drum to wind up a chain to hoist sacks of grain to the top of the millhouse...
..."Hi, Sage, Johnnycake flour mill have you hot again?" she shouts over the loud machinery...
...Ira doesn't do vagina...she stops and makes me look...tits falling out from her two separate foundations in order to prevent the mill machinery from shaking her building apart...
..."One day, Ira," I holler up at her...
..."When wild pink salmon swim in my grain silo," she hollers...then stops the grain elevator, writes out a sign with Black Magic...GET YOUR SALMON HERE!...
..."You're a fucking cunt tease, Ira," I growl...
...My gawd almighty, Sage, at least your fins aren't worn from rubbing into me. Get back to your home river, mountain girl."...
..."One day, Ira."...
...I have watched Ira for quite sometime in her gristmill, separate the bran and the germ from the endosperm and grind the endosperm into white flour. I want her in the concept of the miller's toll gristmill totem, the "bush soul." The miller's toll is a percentage of each farmer's grain set aside for the miller in lieu of wages...
...If a child should be born with teeth, it is a sure sign of a vampire. My teeth gnawed on grits and whole wheat graham flour. I test the excavation under the double foundation in the catacombs under Ira Perfidy-Finley's gristmill where I reside. Ira does not know where I live. I know everything about her, how many pubic hairs she plucks from what I want of hers...she glues the plucked pubic hairs onto a latex plastic vagina she bought from an online sex toy store she does not know I own...Ira doesn't do vagina, just latex fantasy...
...Tonight, from the hole I drilled with a rusty bit my father left to me, I see Ira strap a big latex cock around her shapely hips. She buckles the leather harness tight and fucks the air strutting toward her cheval glass...She starts the gristmill machinery, why, I do not know, it makes such a fucking racket. I have to dig...the dirt walls under the catacombs are flaking off from the vibration..I scoop the loose dirt and pack it in a mound...
...The millstones are turning at 120 rpm. They are laid on top of one another. The bottom stone called the bed, is attached to the floor. The top stone, the runner, is mounted on a spindle, driven by the main shaft...
...My vagina cannot believe I have not been there with her yet. It has been centuries...the grain is falling through a hopper to the stones. Ira is holding the latex vagina in front of the strap-on, I am going mad, fucking mad! She is fucking the vagina, thrusting though the hole like the flow of grain falling through the hole from the sloping trough through the center of the running stone, getting fed down the chute...
...Is it narcissistic to fuck yourself? To fuck yourself with sex toys while you make maize and cornmeal? Is it voyeuristic to watch a witch pleasure herself in her gristmill?...
...Out of the catacombs, I go running through the mills, Mr. Kilpatrick's to her adjoining mill, Ms. Ira Perfidy-Finley's...
...The Black Magic, the sign, GET YOUR SALMON HERE...Ira loaded with esoteric magic and transmutation of matter with her devices of sexual alchemy and the philosopher's stone, transforms her grain silo into a salmon hatchery, the grain hopper into a cauldron...the occult has long been proved a road to self-knowledge...
...Wild pink salmon swim in her grain silo..."The wind has fallen, it is night and a full moon, Sage...I have heard the owl many nights drive me to hunger and longing...come to me, Sage," Ira motions. I zero in on the pentagram tattoo on her neck...mmm...I eat tonight...
...the wild pink salmon swim ceasely in circles in the silo. Hooked jawed and aggressive, I eat Ira's vagina, "There she is, now go for her!" Ira cries, watching the female salmon, "Does it really taste like fish, Sage?"...
...We fuck quite noisily. I want her to strap it back on and give it to me...I want her in deep as the salmon swim. For us, it is an artform. The lesbian's feeding journey, the hallmark of gristmill and salmon spawning...
...Ira straps her cock back on and walks to her cheval glass mirror. She holds the latex vagina out in front of her and fucks it through the center...
..."You're a fucking cunt tease, Ira." I watch her pentagram tattooed on her neck drip with blood...I ate tonight...
...Hers is a merchant mill, privately owned. She accepts trade for milling grains. I pick up my bag of flour, running through the mills...
Is it an admission of wild narcissism to suggest dear Ira might want to just strap me on and allow me to share in the gristmill action?
Certainly, I wouldn't want to intervene in another's natural impulses, but to stand aside and be a mere spectator to such carnal glory might be more than enough to blow me a gasket!
I love your style, Sage, which is always mingled with precise and in-depth technical know-how.
Boy, am I glad I wandered in, even if I am over a year late. But salmon swims are timeless.
What a singular style you have, the metaphoric construction of this piece is simultaneously sensual and intellectual, engaging the reader at multiple levels. The imagery, the inclusion of sound and sweat, of touch and thought allows for total immersion within the story. I was lost quickly, although I came back up for air a number of times in order to reread certain passages and marvel at your wordsmithery. Amazing, Sage. love your work.
Hi Sage, loved the metaphor of the mill in this darn good write of yours, and - the other ideas: bush soul, (white robes) of Benedictine monks, a crucifix, the vampire imagery, Black magic, occult, pentagram, pink salmon, mounds, owl, for art - tricky business you are! But I see some balancing of light and dark in the mix of these symbols...I'm sure I see little, but there is 'ira furor brevis est', buried, I think, at least twice! The underlying frustration and the 'growl' there is, is good energy for the piece, narrative wise – and she teases, that Ira, but you leave some questions too -
'Is it narcisstic to fuck yourself? To fuck yourself with sex toys while you make maize and cornmeal? Is it voyeuristic to watch a witch pleasure herself in her gristmill?...'
Yes. If I can exchange the idea voyeur, for solipsist, looking at what is before the eyes – then we have the human brain/mind idea. Narcissistic? If self analysis is to be called that, if hermetic mind is a solipsist one. The human is both qualities, as well as the opening quality that connects it to every other mind -call it collective un/conscious/ness, Gaia, light, God, or found in, or perhaps between, the tension of the diatomic atoms of the two pillars of Ira's - from her two separate foundations - in order to prevent the mill machinery from shaking her building apart... perhaps there springs the 'transmutation' you mention, and what is buried in the mound, the eggs of frustration being fight/flee; or something saved, protected; a cultural reference of yours too may be. The regeneration in the Salmon, a cultural reference of yours again, myth? That's some of what I saw, but I am being narcissistic I think!!! I've been burying toxic waste, Rage – my perennial poems, i thought not shown, not spat – but surfacing nevertheless in a recent write of mine :Oo Your write is a great read, an adventure and enjoyable. Take it easy Sage, here is a poem, old, has something of this idea I'm on about in it, but I would write it differently now, :o) because, 'ira foror brevis est' - 'anger is a brief madness' these days; less ambivalent, less toxic little art vampire, Nicky x
oh and i forgot this little gem:
· "Hope has two beautiful daughters. Their names are anger and courage; anger at the way things are, and courage to see that they do not remain the way they are." St Augustine
During the 1960's a young soldier struggles with basic training, a bully sergeant and his own inner demons. A tale of struggle, redemption and survival.
Just a simple gathering of the Gay & Lesbian Activist Association of New Birch and Sipsboror (GLAABS) and we plunge down a hilarious ride to perdition.
