Random scenes Through the Looking Glass

[Sultry_Shade]

Room of Words

The study was an impressive albeit small room crammed floor to ceiling with richly wrapped leather tomes. Alice’s eyes were immediately drawn to the fine decor and elegance in which the room was decorated. It was clear to her that Alethea was a woman of taste as well as wealth; in many ways like the Madame Alice.

She waves off Winslo as she enters the room, her expression one of casual dismissal. He quickly takes his leave, heading back to where he left the bedraggled and confused Hyacinth. Finally alone with her thoughts and the possessions of the woman trapped in the glass, Alice finds herself heavily in thought. Absent mindedly her hands roam over the spines of the books, as if reading their titles by touch.

She knows the journal will make itself known to her in good time. Such things often work in her favor, it had always been so, and she did not anticipate it changing in this instance. Thus she was not disappointed, for as she glanced up to scan more of the titles, she noticed a discoloration in one of the volumes, a hint at perhaps hidden treasures.
Locating a sliding ladder she makes her way up to the book in question, and upon closer inspection finds it to be a false face, just as she suspected.

Leaning out perilously on the shaky ladder, she is suddenly hit with an unexpected force of almost overwhelming intensity; a wave of pure unadulterated lust. She clings to the ladder in efforts to keep her feet, the trembling is slow to subside, and she realizes time is now more of the essence then ever, for Alethea was beginning to accept the roles of Wonderland, beginning to believe the illusions and so become lost to her passions.

Alice could not abide by this, for it would mean her replacement in the lands beyond the glass, and she had yet too much to accomplish there then to relinquish her reign so easily. Grabbing the tattered journal she cautiously climbs down, still a little shaky from such a climactic rush; one she herself had not experienced in quite some time.

Clutching the book to her chest, she makes her way back to Alethea’s suite, to read in comfort, in hopes that the battered diary would contain the answer to this riddle.

 

[Sultry_Shade]

Wonders never cease

As if caught in a time lapse series of photographs, Alethea finds herself on the floor her body still wracked with the left over spasms of her orgasm. On hands and knees her entire being feels bruised within and without. Her mouth is dry and tastes of pennies. She can hear the Rabbit talking, but it’s as if he is speaking backwards and the meaning of the words elude her, like bright fish dashing over her fingertips.

His hands roam her flesh with a familiarity that sparks the old essence of the woman on all fours. Her ire rises but continues on outside of her and beyond her grasp; she can not use it anymore.

There is a taint of dark lust about him and it frightens and lures her simultaneously. The memories of Alethea and the metamorphic beauty swirl like spilled jewels in her mind. Somehow it all falls to the man in the silken top hat, his will.

Exhausted she only wants to sleep, to fall into rest, but those greedy gloveless hands grab and pose her, denying her the sanctuary of slumber. The pale nakedness of his long jagged nailed fingers disturbs her very deeply, but she cannot fathom why. She cries out in frustration, trying to regain the scrambled pieces of her psyche.

Suddenly her head is savagely lifted by long tresses; she strains against the inexorable force that pulls her eyes to the mirror that has appeared before her. “Kool,” his tone demands a response; she knows not what is expected. The images contained within the haunted glass are familiar but the Alethea animal is troubled by them, her brain struggling to know what is supposed to already be known.

The book, a magic book, a bible of secrets, no, no, no, they must not read the passages. There is a lie here, she knows, but which is the lie the scene in the glass or the one she is exists in now? More words spill the White Rabbit’s lips, jangled and befuddling she looks to him confused and angry, but she knows not why.

Then more words only this time they ring true and familiar.
And what will I do if I ever meet such a figure? Will my screams of terrorized pleasure fill the void eggshell white of wonderland with hastily composed colors? What if he brings me to a Technicolor climax that leaves me shaking and loose as a marionette cut from its strings. What then, when he offers me freedom again...?

She can tell the elegantly dressed man hears the words as well, his eyes gleam with unshed tears, and he speaks more gibberish only now it begins to make sense to her broken hearing.
“Who lufitueab. Did uoy yllear write a notebook that dreamt of this moment? Ro are we wohemos conjuring it up? Look…kool…this way.” She tries to answer him but the words are broken and sound like the mewling of a tiny kitten.

His attention is suddenly drawn away over her shoulder; she twists to see but only finds her own ragged reflection looking back. His eyes widen and a twisted smile paints his features, it sends a fresh set of shivers through her. That cold blue gaze locks back on her and for an infinite moment the madness reigns the Lady Alethea and she is nothing more then a beast.

There is a hint, a glimmer like a mirage on a sweltering day, of freedom. The power to take the offer lapsing into her primitive mind, lost in its chaos. The countdown holds no meaning as her insanity draws her farther down the Rabbit hole. Lucky thirteen flits through the warped holes in her memory and she jumps into darkness.

 

[patrick1]

indefinite article

A.

Words, spoken in his voice, tumble through her, naked in darkness.

A blind dancer A cunt A dream of suffering An electric shock machine A fucktoy A girl in leathers A hussy An innocent abroad A jailbird A kink in the universe A lust made manifest A masochist A nobody An O A pleading victim A quickie A rug A snake A tightrope walker An ulululator A vicegirl A weird and wonderful slave An exhibitionist A yelling torturee A zero An A

Indefinite article. 'An animal,' he says now, and something is keeping her blind, something fastened over her eyes. He has her on her left side, on something soft. He bends back her right arm, and binds her arm to itself with something that feels like bandage, slightly roughened, linen perhaps, so that her fingers touch her shoulder.

And he binds her left arm in the same way, bent in half and back on itself.

And she finds herself puzzling through the list he murmured into her ear. Blind dancer? Nobody? Ulululator? Ha!

And he bends her right leg back, and bandages her thigh to her calf, and does the same to her left leg.

'Up,' he says. Oh and it hurts, he lifts her beneath her belly and her body is forced to balance on her elbows and knees and it really hurts, 'There,' he says, stroking her hair and her back, 'an animal. Or perhaps: a table.'

There's something he places on her back. Then moves. Yes: playing cards. She is a table and he is playing patience. His hand goes to her sex. 'The rule is,' he says, both his hands busy on her, 'you end one phase of suffering by coming to orgasm for me, only to find a new phase of suffering beginning. Of course, that may not be the rule in half an hour; after all, the real rule is, you don't make the rules.' His hands play games upon her. His breathing is loud. His desire betrays him, through the calm delivery of his words.

A table. An animal. A suffering animal. She ululates, with pain. Alethea. Is that still her name, somewhere?

 

[Sultry_Shade]

naughty tale

She finds her way back to Alethea’s suite of rooms the journal almost tingling in her grasp, as if it contained a life of its own. Power calls to power she thinks to herself, and knows that this must be the reason for wonderland’s need to draw in the former lady of this house, but why oust Alice in turn. After all she had become one of the finest most skilled creations in the whole place. The thoughts made her frown deeply; it was quite an irksome quandary.

Lying back in Alethea’s massive feather bed and propping herself up with assorted pillows the Madam Alice begins to read. The text snaking from the pages like a spell of dangerous seduction, twisted and lust filled thoughts of a terribly repressed woman. So much like the Red Queen, Alice could not believe her eyes.

The reasons were becoming abundantly clear with each turn of the page with each and every paragraph. Despite her usual detachment from such things Alice finds herself becoming aroused at the contents of the diary. The descriptions of pain and pleasure spinning a web of seduction in her head, without really being aware of herself, she begins to stroke the now moist folds of her most secret place.

The tension from the reading and the play of her fingers making her hotter and hotter, she summons Winslo and Hyacinth to the bed chamber in hopes of relieving some of this pent up need. Momentarily forgetting the helpless woman trapped behind the magic mirror.

 

[Sultry_Shade]

animals and tables lovely taboo

Once was Alethea, the name that is truth. A memory of a great lady in an impressive house, dances illusive then vanishes from her minds eye. Such recollections seeming more and more like the illusions of wonderland and less like the reality she once knew. Yet the knowledge tugs at her even as she tries to escape at the hands of the Master in black evening clothes.

Once she knew his name, it came through like a shout through a loud speaker, but now only the association of Dominance over her submission remains. He molds her like clay, moving her positioning her and the level she receives at this manipulation is more then she has ever felt in her life. More then she could have ever imagined possible, not even amidst the pages of her darkest dreams.

Suffering and sex seems the most natural pace and she yearns to please him despite the core realization that her vulnerabilities are what drive him on. She must not be too brash; something tugs at her mind a name, then a letter. Alethea and the letter is A. His voice cuts through the moment of haziness, a slap of cold water.

“'The rule is,' he says, both his hands busy on her, 'you end one phase of suffering by coming to orgasm for me, only to find a new phase of suffering beginning. Of course, that may not be the rule in half an hour; after all, the real rule is, you don't make the rules.'”

Rules yes, he rules her, she must obey and at that she can feel the tingling in her limbs, the inexorable tickling in her toes as his hand continue to shape her. A toy for his designs, a tool for his pleasure, in turn giving her the forbidden release of her inner most desires.

 

[patrick1]

inferno

Ah, but she must not be damaged. Her ululations, he recognizes suddenly, are painful cries. He unties each arm, then each leg, quickly, albeit a little more slowly than he would like because he is somewhat panicked that he is damaging her.

Her writhing is attractive. But then, that's the thing. As his victim, she is constantly attractive. Isn't she?

He tries to look at her, as if she weren't the object of his desire.

A woman. A naked woman.

It's not possible to imagine them otherwise. She is newly liberated into his toyness, and he is newly imprisoned by his duty to her, and they know each other thus.

A. A.

He's being too kind to her. There isn't enough pain. His inner self notes this to him. The rabbit, as it were.

'I want to brand you.' The fire is, surprisingly, there, beside them. And the iron that says A. He would, he looks at her, free, naked, waiting for his next command and he realizes he really would like, on an experimental basis, to press the hot iron on her belly, while his other hand is at her sex, and find out how she reacts. But she must -

'Do you want me to brand you?' he enquires. His clothing doesn't suit him. He feels naked.

Damage her. Yes. But a brand is different. She would be -

He waits. How. She is. Inferno. This is. How hot.

 

[Sultry_Shade]

Playtime for Alice

Hyacinth and Winslo were both taken aback called into the private chambers of their misplaced Mistress. They had no idea what to expect as the massive mahogany door swung inward to reveal the inner sanctum of Lady Alethea, now usurped by the frail strawberry blond guest. A scent not unfamiliar from the smell of strawberries wafts out to tease their nostrils. An odor that carries an undertone of heat that cannot be explained permeates the air.

As they pass through the giant door it swings shut silently behind them, cutting them off from escape, and luring them deeper into the dimly lit room. Laughter like the tinkle of fine silver bells fills the room, and Winslo feels his head spin. Hyacinth gasps, her face flushed, a thin glaze of moisture on her brow. She loosens the front of her blouse.

Simultaneously two sets of eyes are drawn to the impressive feather bed that dominates the center of the room. Atop the pillows and comforters poised like the Queen of Sheba, lays Alice, no dressed in one of Alethea’s almost transparent night dresses. It drapes and falls around her lithesome frame like a curtain of spider’s silk accenting her delicate frame. Beside her propped up on pillows and open to the middle is the journal so recently acquired.

Both the servants are instantly captivated and as they make their way cross the room, the walls seem to breath and the bed bares more and more a resemblance to a giant toadstool. Atop it the mirror’s reject poised for passions she has not indulged in for at least ten years, but the book has inspired her more then she could have ever anticipated. Shards of wonderland splash from the power being expelled by Alice as she ensorcells the hapless pair.

 

[Sultry_Shade]

running animal

Bound, unbound, ropes then none, free and chained, she is lost in confusion. An unsettling sense of self begins to filter back into the cowering animal at the White Rabbit’s feet. She watches as he summons the fire, the brand still resting within its glowing grasp; a flaming hot claw clutching an angled stick marked with A.

The words slew through her brain as he speaks to her, “'I want to brand you”. Many a long moment elapses as she tries to understand, brand. Pain the word leaps to mind and her eyes dilate, huge black pupils swallowing up the rim of green. She swallows heavily and begins to slowly ever so slowly shift, testing her freedom. A name lingers in her head, Alice, but is it hers.

He motions as if to touch her, but stops short of actual contact, then gestures to the rod still crouching in the red coals. “Do you want me to brand you?” His voice quavers ever so slightly and she jumps as if already seared, eyes rolling madly. Not Alice, no Alice is gone outside looking in. She was another, another Lady A.

In this second, of briefest recollection, she jumps to her feet, startling the Rabbit; he had not expected her to stand on two legs after becoming such a lovely animal. She bares her teeth at him snarling unintelligibly, and then turns, sharp and quick. Her feet slipping slightly, naked soles on the glassy surface; she hisses like a scalded cat.

The pivot takes her momentarily out of reach of the Rabbit, and she begins to run as if the blaze of hell were upon her heels. Hither and thon into darkness, she has no bearing, no idea who she is, only that she is terribly, terribly afraid.

 

[Sultry_Shade]

Carnal Contortions

Winslo is the first to reach the bedside, and is amazed at the transformation that has taken place over the slip of girl he’d help to find Alethea’s private study only hours before. Where once there was a cool reserved demeanor, there was now a raging hot need rolling from her like steam from the glowing coals in a sauna. Her indigo eyes flashing in the lamplight, she motions them both closer.

Hyacinth follows tentatively behind the kitchen boy, confused, curious and incredibly aroused. Such a foreign sensation, this desire to feel another woman’s flesh, she tries to shake herself free of it, but only succeeds in exciting herself further. Alice had become the symbol of all seduction, centered like an exotic gift wrapped in cellophane amidst a mountain of pillows.

As the lovers stand side by side next to the bed, the mystical sorceress raises her eyes, staring long into each face. Then with deliberate motion like the machinations of a spell she draws both upon the vast the mattress. Hands nimble and soft lay upon sweat dampened skin, and clothes fall away leaves shed from trees in the fall.

Alice presses her supple pouting lips to Hyacinths quivering mouth as Winslo eases his steely length between her parted thighs. The thrill of feeling a man so deep within her once again after so long is mind expanding for the former looking glass captive. Her screams of ecstasy reverberate throughout the manse, as she presses the maid’s hungry mouth down to her taught pink nipples.

Three, a triad of sinful connections, pale and beautiful, they thrash a knot of sexual power, tangling for release. In these moments of passion Wonderland is a nightmare to scare children, and the Lady Alethea is momentarily forgotten, lost to the mythology.

 

[patrick1]

a tea party

'Poor thing. You poor poor thing.'

'Ow! No!'

'Fiddle-ee-dee fiddle-ee-dee.'

'Leave the dormouse alone, Hattie...'

I'm not the dormouse, Alethea wants to say. But stops herself. For the woman in short skirt and high heels may look frightening, in her garish make-up and enormous floppy ears, but she is being so kind. She has plucked Alethea, nude and frightened, out of the darkness and wrapped her in - well, yes, a sort of white stole. Furry white pants. White shoes like - well, yes, paws.

'You want tea, honey? Or a little heroin?'

'Oh tea,' says Alethea, quickly, 'yes please, tea.'

It's a sort of party - 'Ouch!' - she supposes. They're in a corner of some vast underground bar, at some indeterminate hour of the night or day, who knows? There's no natural light. There are dirty glasses, overflowing ashtrays everywhere. And yet somebody has cleaned up their little corner so they can have - 'Ouch!' - a tea party.

'Stop hitting the dormouse, Hattie!'

The third of their party is a man in drag and a top hat. He doesn't seem to approve of what's going on at all. Every time the floppy-eared woman's back is turned, he tries to lash Alethea with a flogger he keeps concealed inside his waistcoat. Now, though, he's pretending butter wouldn't melt, while the woman pours the tea. 'Sure you wouldn't like a little cocaine, honey?'

'No, tea, please, tea.'

It's Earl Grey: scented with bergamot. After one sip she feels sooooooo sleepy. The kindly woman strokes her back. 'Just rest your head on the table, hun, and go to sleep. I'll keep the mad one at bay.'

The mad one. Ahhhhhhhh. It's only as she closes her eyes that Alethea understands who the triad of them almost are. There's herself, not, as she thought, an almost-Alice, but an almost-dormouse; and....oh, it's hard to keep awake to think about this...there's the floppy-eared woman in a short skirt, she must be the March Whore; and is that Mad Hattie or the Mad Hitter that even now is probably planning his next flogging manoeuvre? She can't decide, and the woman is stroking her so gently, and a new, more blissful darkness, the comfort of sleep, washes over her....

 

[Sultry_Shade]

Tea anyone?

The run through chaos still playing bright and contaminated in her minds eye, Alethea finds herself to be, momentarily alone, pondering her new location bewildered. The White Rabbit, now a fractured figment of a lust soaked nightmare. She is no longer sure of anything.

The slatternly garbed floppy eared woman appears as if out of a magic hat, a hat akin to the one her compatriot has perched atop his/her head. All of this, so familiar, yet indistinct, she finds herself wishing for the company of the White Rabbit, despite his off and on cruelty.

The room is a jangled mess, a true party has been in full swing from all appearances, and she can tell these unlikely two must have definitely been among the revelers. Showing no shock at Alethea’s indecent condition, the floppy eared lady produces an odd assortment of garments and wraps the shivering lost one within their fuzzy warm folds. So curious this costume, for that must be what it is, a costume. No one would actually dress like this outside a masquerade would they?

Her confused state deepens as they call her Door Mouse and the Dragged out Hatter attempts to flog her repeatedly behind the mini skirt clad woman’s back. They ask her questions that only increase her bafflement. Cocaine, Heroine, or tea; honestly what sort of tea party would this be? She blinks and stammers her response, “Just tea, only tea, simply tea.” They seem to be smirking behind their cups, she knows they are laughing at her, but all she can do is sit and sip the hot drink placed before her.

It is bitter, making her nose wrinkle perhaps a little like a door mouse. Through bleary eyes she stares at them, mad, mad characters from a haunted dream. She hears a voice not her own inside her head muttering names that seem right, but not really. The Mad Hitter and the March Whore. Alice, where was she, not here only Alethea a make shift mouse in a sugar pot.

Sleep steals her vision, yet her ears continue to pick up the insanity a few long minutes past her heavy lids drifting shut, but nothing makes sense and what of the Rabbit. Would he come for her, or had she already become part of his past. She shivers at this last thought of her captor, his touch, its pain and pleasure so closely entwined. Then oblivion lays claim to her.

 

[Sultry_Shade]

Realizations a revelation

Flushed and aflame the trio rise and fall together like an alien tide pulling the shore towards the sea. Flesh to flesh, souls laid bare to the sorceress Alice, her reserves fill with their lusty couplings. The walls breath, the floor runs alternately a carpet of moss and a corrugated shuffling of bones. It is the gathering of energy she needed to give her the realization of how to retake Wonderland. The journal had truly been the key.

As they fall to the side, exhausted the couple drifts into a deep slumber, lost in the down folds of the Lady Alethea’s bed. Their bedmate and conjuror slowly extracts her self from the entanglement of pillows and comforters. With a smile she departs the room with one last glance back at the sleeping lovers, so like children left to dream.

As she draws the large mahogany door closed behind her, she is once again hit with a force beyond herself, a link to the glass world. The smell of smoke and sweat is unmistakable and the voice so cutting could be no other. So Alethea had escaped the Rabbit, only instead of finding her way closer to freedom, she had become further immersed in the looking glass illusions. A mad tea party, Alice, had plans to crash, suffused with lust and new found power.

 

[patrick1]

Darkness. The white rabbit has somehow consigned himself to the darkness of the burrow. Where are the mirrors of yesteryear? They are now only walls of earth. Where is his humanity of what seems only a moment ago? He feels his animal nature returnign to him, like fur.

There's an iron. A metal prong with a handle at one end and an A at the other. What was that for?

There was desire. He remembers a woman. Her flesh was like mushrooms. Her fear was a scent in his nostrils, intoxicating, like inhaling a drug. Her fear was strangely like her desire. Who was she?

He rouses himself. Perhaps she is lost to him. But perhaps the days are not altogether gone: when before an uninvited audience he might perform magic; might produce a human out of his top hat.

He slumps. No. Don't give up. There's the ticking of a watch. Laughter. Rouse yourself. Someone searching for you.

He's like wounded prey, only the wound is invisible, somewhere within. He lifts his head. His eyes glitter again. He begins to move towards a woman's smell.

 

[Sultry_Shade]

Sleep perchance to wake

Alethea in dreams, she moves the slow motion crawl of the deeply drugged or highly sleep deprived. The world around her pulses with familiar energy only it is not familiar, the walls shimmer like glass. Outside her slumber she can feel hands pulling and propping her, positioning her like a puppet, the sensation is unwanted, but the sleep will not relinquish its hold for her to do anything about it.

Images cavort a gay nightmare of characters fill each scene, they seem to recognize her but she no longer recognizes herself. Her body burns a cross of forbidden desires, she sees a man so handsome it is almost painful to look upon him. His hat cocked right, his eyes gleam bright, something about him calls to her, and she to him. Words float by, While Robby, they are wrong but close, she cannot fathom and then they are gone along with the man.

The dreams surface shifts an oil slick, dangerous and contaminated. She struggles valiantly to regain consciousness, she can hear several voices engaged in mad laughter, and something about the physical realm suggests she is very uncomfortable. Slowly like the resurrection from death, her eyes flutter, green orbs of witch fire flash blue like the azure skies of paradise. Another stirs within her, the other woman with strawberry hair whose name escapes but should be fresh on Alethea’s lips.

Two minds battle to control as the truth of her situation settles in. She has been bound wrapped round like a toy over the edges of the tea table. Her fur ensemble now hangs in tatters, rags in strips barely covering her nakedness. She struggles against her bonds, and the voice she now knows is Alice chastises her for partaking in anything from the mad ones. For the moment their laughter is distant and she knows for all intensive purposes she has been left alone, their pleasures temporarily satiated whilst she was unconscious.

Now the true trick, how to work herself free.

 

[Sultry_Shade]

shifty venues

Alice enters the grand ballroom once more, her body clad solely in some fragment of clothing taken from the bed. A silken robe that hangs to her dainty ankles. She approaches the mirror her indigo eyes flashing crimson as her body courses with the fire of recent passions.

She pushes her will into the shiny reflection reaching beyond the shimmering glass, into the world she must return to.

“Alethea hear me!” her summons is undeniable, but there is something muffling the call. Damn those tea partiers, she grimaces angrily. “There are more then one way to skin a cat,” she murmurs to the empty room and reshapes her focus.