John Light as Oberon and Matthew Tennyson as Puck, in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Globe. Directed by Dominic Dromgoole.
I always had a thing for Puck… dem tricksters are so sexy!
Man in Basement
When you teach them to depend on each other.
Oh god those eyes… those pecs… I’m in love!
When you check out the merchandise up for auction.
I love that hard, determined stare. ;)
Dancers Photography by Ludovic Florent
” Poussière d’étoiles” is a series realized by French photographer Ludovic Florent. He gives pride of place to dancers full of grace by adding flour. Sand grains highlight the majestic movement effect of their dance. More photos in the next part of the article.
As many of you may have gathered from “A Most Tasteful Olde Ballade In Which the Goode John Bertromme FUCKES The Queene,” I have a penchant for writing very silly erotica sometimes just for fun. Like many others I loved the Thor movies and developed a newfound appreciation for Nordic mythology, so I decided to write this little piece based on one of the most infamous romantic encounters of Loki’s that unfortunately is not publishable (you’re about to see why). Behold, the Birth of Sleipnir!
High in their towers the Asgardians watched. On the base of their grand peak, far off in the distance, a lonely figure climbed up the mountain. Behind him followed a workhorse: strong and stout and black as midnight. The man hefted an enormous basket of stones on his back, large enough that three men together couldn’t encircle their arms around it. Strapped to the workhorse was a sled, the rocks and mortar piled atop was tall enough that five men standing on another’s shoulders could have barely reached its height.
Odin stroked his beard, his ancient brow furrowed in frustration. “What do you see, old friend?”
Heimdall’s eyes were black as the night sky, filled with pinpricks of starlight. It was said that those who locked gazes with him could see the cosmos in their entirety, but none were mad enough to try. He who could see and hear all across the Nine Realms shook his head in disgust. “The great wall about Valhalla is nearing completion, All-Father. The entrance of the fortification is all that remains. Within three days Freya will be lost to us, and the Sun and Moon shall be forfeit.”
Upon hearing her name the goddess placed a hand on her ample breast, her milky skin becoming paler as the blood drained from her face. Those full lips, plump and moist as springtime buds, parted in shock.
“This is Loki’s doing! We have been ruined by him!” Dellingr cried, “What are we to do with our new home cloaked in eternal darkness, without even the beauty of Freya to console us?!”
“I will gut him myself and strangle the boy with his innards!” Tyr snarled, unsheathing his blade.
“That is much too easy a death,” wise Ullr grumbled bitterly, “Break his hands and feet then work the way up, cutting and cauterizing to keep him alive through it all.”
“Sew him between two unscraped hides infested with maggots, and lay him near a warm fire. Let the worms have their feast!” said Vili.
Fair Forseti tapped the pommel of his blade in stern disapproval, “No. Bury him alive in mortar and bricks, that which led us to this calamity in the first place.”
The All-Father listened patiently, turning his gaze to each one who spoke in turn. When the arrayed gods finished offering their recommended punishments he pondered the case, and then nodded, “It is true. Loki is at fault for our ruin, and he must pay the price.”
Loki trembled, surrounded by the furious Asgardians. The jury had spoken, the judge had agreed. All that was left was the executioner.
“Um… can I say something?” the young prince offered timorously.
“YOU MAY NOT!” Odin pounded his fist against the stone, “Who was it who claimed that even with the aid of a single horse the builder couldn’t possibly complete the great hall?! Who was it that drove us to this mad wager?!”
“Just because I make an- an offhand comment doesn’t mean I seriously believe it! And why the Hel do you have advisors if you’re just gonna rest everything on what I say?!”
“SILENCE, TRICKSTER!” Thor boomed, “The All-Father has spoken! You will remedy this with whatever it takes!”
“BROTHER OR NO I SWEAR BY THE HANDLE OF MY HAMMER IF YOU DO NOT REMEDY THIS I WILL CRUSH YOUR SKULL WITH MJOLNIR MYSELF!!!”
The unnamed builder grunted, sweating as he rested his basket on the ground. He knuckled his back, spine creaking as he proudly looked upward at his work. Truly, nothing was more satisfying than seeing the fruits of one’s labor. The high walls climbed the night sky, seeming to force the stars to dodge around the graceful parapets. The stone would be impregnable even against the hurled boulders of Jotun slingers, and the heavy gates themselves would take a hundred able-bodied men to open.
“Ah, faithful Svadilfari,” the builder said to his horse as they descended for more stone, “We shall rest an hour and wash our sweat in the fjord, and then take up one more load. That shall be just enough stone to complete the entrance. Soon the lovely Freya will be my bride with the Sun and Moon to guide our way, and we shall live together as man and wife and horse.”
Just then, a great whinny sounded from the forest.
It was a supple and melodic sound, like a springtime gust about the trees. It was sonorous and beautiful, a grand sound that resonated passion from the deep fields and forests of Midgard and up, up, up to the light-dappled peaks of Alfheim. It carried with it the dewy sweetness of newborn buds, of crisp afternoons with warm sun and soothing rains. The sound echoed: coy and flirtatious, hinting at primal desire and wild delight.
Loki pranced from the woods in the form of a mare, with a nut-brown coat and eyes bright as stars. Nervously he clopped forth on his shiny hooves, flicking his freshly brushed tail. With some effort he pushed the threats of gruesome death from his mind. He had to focus if this was to work. Several plans had come to mind, and while this had been the surest for success it has also been the most drastic.
“H-hey there big stallion,” Loki said in as sultry a voice as he could manage. He spoke all the languages of animals, from the chittering brogue of ants to the crooning tongue of owls. The speech of the horny mare was expressed in sight and sound and scent.
Loki pranced around, grass crunching beneath his hooves, “Look at me, I’m here. All nice and moist and equine just for you.”
He turned around, hoisting those hindquarters into the air. That great wedge of flesh was warm and pulsed with dripping need.
With a scary-ass horse scream Svadilfari reared, the scent of passion in his nostrils, slavering at the perfume of Loki’s heat. The tackle tore apart into flinders as he charged. Months of toil with little relief had left the workhorse mad with the desire to mount.
Screaming, Loki fled back into the woods as Svadilfari gave chase. The workhorse’s arousal was already extended: longer and thicker about than a blacksmith’s forearm, dappled like marble and flared at the tip. It spilled the juices of his need, flapping behind him like a beautiful mane as he galloped.
The builder pursued after the two, his panicked cries echoing unanswered in the night.
Loki ran circles in the woods, panicked, sobbing, panting in terror. The builder had given up and passed out against an old pine long ago, but Svadilfari was so filled with virile horse-energy that he would not cease until he had mounted the trickster-god.
When the moon was high in the night the beautiful sounds of equine passion filled the air.
Loki’s screams echoed through the nursery.
While he had felt sick the morning following his great ordeal, vomiting throughout the day and aching in his belly, Loki had been certain it was simply from his own horror and disgust at such dealings as he had that night. Yet three months later he’d felt the kicking of eight little hoofed feet.
Loki lay trembling, anemic, face pale as chalk and clammy with sweat. His birthing gown was soaked with fluids he’d rather forget about, and his hair was frazzled and matted, eyes bloodshot. They hadn’t even bothered to change his sheets yet… none of the Asgardians paid much heed to him at the moment.
Instead they all stood around Odin who held aloft the newborn foal, eight legs twitching, still damp with afterbirth. The newly-named Sleipnir licked the wrinkled forehead of the All-Father. Thor looked on with a broad grin: fists at his hips, chest thrust out in pride.
“Truly,” Odin declared in a voice like thunder, “This is the finest horse among all the gods and men!”
Loki gripped the sheets, and the only words he could manage came out in a low croak that went unheard in the happy commotion.
“Seriously… fuck you guys.”
Page 1 of 6