Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
For those of you that recall the 6 Act Series written and published by my delightful writing partner @Peony and I, "Journey of a Pain slut ...", you will realise that it is almost 2 years (yes in those Pre-Covid days) when that saga began. Although it continued unabated for over 6 months, it was still so long ago that both @Peony and I felt it was time we wrote together once more. This first post contains a piece from both 'The Guy' and 'The Girl', but from here on in we will each post our own pieces in turn. Who knows what this might grow into, but for now our intention is to create a stand alone tale for your enjoyment. My delightful Little Girl is a busy, busy bee and so responses and additions may not always be quick, but if you enjoy what we do then make sure that you are 'watching' this thread, so that you can be certain not to miss out ...
Historical Note ... Petronilla de Meath was a so-called Irish Witch in the 1300's. Accused of being an accomplice to her mistress, Alice Kyteler, in the death of her four husbands, she was arrested and charged with witchery and black magic. Her trial was one of the first ever to be recorded for Witchcraft and the outcome, following a series of savage floggings, was that she was found guilty and would be burned at the stake ...
A little more reading for those that are interested ... https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Petronilla_de_Meath
KEY WORDS: stalker, student, naked, torment, torture
POSTULATING PETRONILLA ...
The Guy
I need you.
I didn't realise it until I saw you two weeks ago, walking down the street with those eyes. You were a vision, a kind of epiphany for me. I had been alone for so long and I was just fine with everything. Settling in, accepting just being alone.
Then you.
The way your hair moved in the wind and your bright eyes shone. Your hips moving in sweet rhythm, constrained as they were beneath the fabric of your always tight jeans.
Pia is what they called you, and it was easy to find out that stood for Peony … you were named after a beautiful flower, how apt, but I preferred Pia. It’s much more chic … eminently more fuckable.
When I saw you in the library I smiled, but you didn’t even make eye contact, just kept your head down, reading, ignoring, whatever. But it wasn’t you that fuelled my heightened lust, not as such, it was the book that lay unopened by your side, its cover staring up at me. The picture sowed the seed of what I wanted … from you, and quite possibly what you desired from me, though quite frankly, what you wanted was not on my list of priorities in any way, shape or form.
It feels like I have known you forever, but it was only two short weeks, three days, six hours and seventeen minutes since we shared a table in Starbucks on the High Street. I will be forever grateful that there were no empty seats that day and we had to sit together.
“Do you mind …” your smiling face and pleasant voice had asked as your gaze directed itself at the available chair.
Mind? Fuck no, I didn’t mind at all? I would be delighted. But my response was actually limited to a polite nod and a brief “Please, help yourself.”
But you had already made your mark on me, and I spent the rest of that time nursing the dregs of my latte and glancing surreptitiously up at you. Your face, your hair, the tight t-shirt that spread so deliciously across your chest …
That was the first and only time I had engaged with you. For over two weeks I had followed you, learned about your movements. Until the library encounter. A student living alone. Post grad. A Masters girl … maybe. Intellectual … quite possibly.
And that book. The one in the library laying unopened by your side.
‘The First Witch Burned at the Stake’ was its eye-opening title, and the cover picture of a half-naked woman screaming out her agonies as the flames tore away her clothing has remained embedded in my mind’s eye ever since. Well, actually that’s not quite true because, in my imagination, I invariably find the anonymous, figure on the book’s cover replaced by you … Peony, Pia, the girl who might just possibly become turned on by this sort of provocative violence …
Oh, how I hope so.
I had done my research. I knew that the woman on the cover was Petronilla of Meath. A poor innocent from the thirteenth century, accused of witchcraft and stripped, publicly flogged and executed at the burning stake. Was this tome somehow related to your studies or was it waiting to be read in the masturbatory solace of your bed, in a more social setting?
Please let it be the latter.
So now here you are. On your way home from evening study. It’s not late, but it is dark, and you are alone. I slip silently from the shadows so that I can stalk you in a manner that is as casual as I can muster. I don't have a lot of experience in this kind of thing, but it's easy enough, and too dark for you to have semblance of knowing who I am.
Your tight ass sways and arouses my senses as you walk slowly, provoking my desire, and all I have to do is follow a few dozen feet to your rear. I don't even know what I'm nervous about. In the library I was invisible when I stood in front of you with a wide, genuine smile. Why would you see me now, walking slowly behind you expressing nothing but an anticipatory smirk on my lips?
No. You're not going to see me. Especially with this rain, as it begins to fall heavier now. You're not going to feel how hot my blood is … not until my skin is on yours. This is probably what you want. You want to be followed home, have your fantasies forced upon you and be tortured savagely by a nameless, faceless man.
Tonight, you're going to get what you want.
The Girl
It was Emma who brought me here.
Slammerkin and feminism and my female me. And right now she's in the bag over my shoulder along with photocopied pages of Holinshed and Seymour on Irish Witches.
But, in the middle of my dissertation, it's Emma who's really responsible.
And it's Emma who's sent me 'Looking for Petronilla'.
My mind's fixed on that cover in the library and that image. But we don't know her really. Just that she was young and spoke Gaelic and Anglo-Norman and was a poor girl with one white shift, filthy now as she stands chained to her stake, a shift that was a gift from her mistress, Dame Alice Kyteler. Other than that we know nothing about her, but I imagine her to be pretty and dark-haired.
Like me.
And now the rain runs down my forehead and along my nose, dulling my senses, and the dark swallows me and my boots echo on the soaking pavement slabs and somewhere behind me I somehow feel I'm not alone.
Home's near. My room and my bed and my laptop and maybe a message from Esme and maybe we'll meet up later. And maybe not.
Maybe I'll write up my notes and I know what I'll be thinking. I know where my fingers will drift and the picture that will not go away and I know I won't want it to.
There really is someone following me, I'm sure ...
To Be Continued ...
Footnote - The 'Emma' referred to by 'The Girl', is Emma Donoghue, the writer who wrote the novel 'Slammerkin'.
Historical Note ... Petronilla de Meath was a so-called Irish Witch in the 1300's. Accused of being an accomplice to her mistress, Alice Kyteler, in the death of her four husbands, she was arrested and charged with witchery and black magic. Her trial was one of the first ever to be recorded for Witchcraft and the outcome, following a series of savage floggings, was that she was found guilty and would be burned at the stake ...
A little more reading for those that are interested ... https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Petronilla_de_Meath
KEY WORDS: stalker, student, naked, torment, torture
POSTULATING PETRONILLA ...
The Guy
I need you.
I didn't realise it until I saw you two weeks ago, walking down the street with those eyes. You were a vision, a kind of epiphany for me. I had been alone for so long and I was just fine with everything. Settling in, accepting just being alone.
Then you.
The way your hair moved in the wind and your bright eyes shone. Your hips moving in sweet rhythm, constrained as they were beneath the fabric of your always tight jeans.
Pia is what they called you, and it was easy to find out that stood for Peony … you were named after a beautiful flower, how apt, but I preferred Pia. It’s much more chic … eminently more fuckable.
When I saw you in the library I smiled, but you didn’t even make eye contact, just kept your head down, reading, ignoring, whatever. But it wasn’t you that fuelled my heightened lust, not as such, it was the book that lay unopened by your side, its cover staring up at me. The picture sowed the seed of what I wanted … from you, and quite possibly what you desired from me, though quite frankly, what you wanted was not on my list of priorities in any way, shape or form.
It feels like I have known you forever, but it was only two short weeks, three days, six hours and seventeen minutes since we shared a table in Starbucks on the High Street. I will be forever grateful that there were no empty seats that day and we had to sit together.
“Do you mind …” your smiling face and pleasant voice had asked as your gaze directed itself at the available chair.
Mind? Fuck no, I didn’t mind at all? I would be delighted. But my response was actually limited to a polite nod and a brief “Please, help yourself.”
But you had already made your mark on me, and I spent the rest of that time nursing the dregs of my latte and glancing surreptitiously up at you. Your face, your hair, the tight t-shirt that spread so deliciously across your chest …
That was the first and only time I had engaged with you. For over two weeks I had followed you, learned about your movements. Until the library encounter. A student living alone. Post grad. A Masters girl … maybe. Intellectual … quite possibly.
And that book. The one in the library laying unopened by your side.
‘The First Witch Burned at the Stake’ was its eye-opening title, and the cover picture of a half-naked woman screaming out her agonies as the flames tore away her clothing has remained embedded in my mind’s eye ever since. Well, actually that’s not quite true because, in my imagination, I invariably find the anonymous, figure on the book’s cover replaced by you … Peony, Pia, the girl who might just possibly become turned on by this sort of provocative violence …
Oh, how I hope so.
I had done my research. I knew that the woman on the cover was Petronilla of Meath. A poor innocent from the thirteenth century, accused of witchcraft and stripped, publicly flogged and executed at the burning stake. Was this tome somehow related to your studies or was it waiting to be read in the masturbatory solace of your bed, in a more social setting?
Please let it be the latter.
So now here you are. On your way home from evening study. It’s not late, but it is dark, and you are alone. I slip silently from the shadows so that I can stalk you in a manner that is as casual as I can muster. I don't have a lot of experience in this kind of thing, but it's easy enough, and too dark for you to have semblance of knowing who I am.
Your tight ass sways and arouses my senses as you walk slowly, provoking my desire, and all I have to do is follow a few dozen feet to your rear. I don't even know what I'm nervous about. In the library I was invisible when I stood in front of you with a wide, genuine smile. Why would you see me now, walking slowly behind you expressing nothing but an anticipatory smirk on my lips?
No. You're not going to see me. Especially with this rain, as it begins to fall heavier now. You're not going to feel how hot my blood is … not until my skin is on yours. This is probably what you want. You want to be followed home, have your fantasies forced upon you and be tortured savagely by a nameless, faceless man.
Tonight, you're going to get what you want.
The Girl
It was Emma who brought me here.
Slammerkin and feminism and my female me. And right now she's in the bag over my shoulder along with photocopied pages of Holinshed and Seymour on Irish Witches.
But, in the middle of my dissertation, it's Emma who's really responsible.
And it's Emma who's sent me 'Looking for Petronilla'.
My mind's fixed on that cover in the library and that image. But we don't know her really. Just that she was young and spoke Gaelic and Anglo-Norman and was a poor girl with one white shift, filthy now as she stands chained to her stake, a shift that was a gift from her mistress, Dame Alice Kyteler. Other than that we know nothing about her, but I imagine her to be pretty and dark-haired.
Like me.
And now the rain runs down my forehead and along my nose, dulling my senses, and the dark swallows me and my boots echo on the soaking pavement slabs and somewhere behind me I somehow feel I'm not alone.
Home's near. My room and my bed and my laptop and maybe a message from Esme and maybe we'll meet up later. And maybe not.
Maybe I'll write up my notes and I know what I'll be thinking. I know where my fingers will drift and the picture that will not go away and I know I won't want it to.
There really is someone following me, I'm sure ...
To Be Continued ...
Footnote - The 'Emma' referred to by 'The Girl', is Emma Donoghue, the writer who wrote the novel 'Slammerkin'.
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There’s another new word.. yesterday’s was “bustlebondage” 
as for ghosts lurking in texts, yes please, more of that!
