Writer, artist and musician, Pasha du Valentine, blogs everyday from her studio in the UK.

Tuesday, 10 December 2019

The Pavement by Pasha du Valentine

Yve knew the pavement well. She had grown up here and played hopscotch which scrappy bits of white chalk stolen from the school blackboard. She thought back to the friendships and gymslips and the white numbers scrawled on each paving stone. She rarely saw kids playing hopscotch any more. Those days were longed for now as her expensive court shoes marked how far she had gone in losing her life to the mundane.

There was a drain, old as the street, that had never been levelled to the road in all these years. She had fallen off her brother’s chopper bike once as she skimmed it with the front wheel. She grazed her knees badly and chipped a front tooth. Her brother never let her ride it again. Her mother had been cross and said Yve’s wild side would need to be curbed else there would be trouble. The Chopper days were fun fuelled days of unexpected events. No two the same. Adventures and Enid Blyton thrills. And the boys? Ah yes, the boys, filled with East End promise.

She knew this pavement like the map of her life; the cracks, the moss, the chewing gum and fag ends near the bus stop. Her DNA was in the tarmac.

She looked around. There were some women up ahead on the corner chatting. She turned and walked back on herself. She was looking for clues. Clues that would explain how her life had been so lacklustre, so predictable. Where had all the hopes gone? Her life read like a short story in a magazine, the ones in a doctors’ surgery that you didn’t care if you finished, ones you simply forgot, never thinking of again. There was no story, pages were missing.

A car drove up and a tinted window descended slowly.

A confident-looking man in his thirties looked her up and down and nodded.

Yve carried on walking slowly.

‘You do head?’ asked the man.

Yve stopped and turned to look at him. He was handsome, well dressed and well-spoken, despite the crude request. She checked her watch.

‘Hundred,’ answered Yve.

‘Blimey, you must be good.’

The door unlocked and she got into the vehicle.
She undid the top buttons on her crisp white shirt and edged her red pencil skirt up to reveal her black sheer seamed stockings. Her high heels clipped together as she raised a well-shaped black eyebrow. ‘Shall we get on?’ she said, aware of the time.

The man came quickly and quietly with less mess than Yve had anticipated.

She checked her lipstick in the passenger seat mirror.

The man did up his fly and handed over the hundred pounds.

‘You should ask for it first really,’ he said, ‘I mean, you can’t always trust people.’

‘I trusted you,’ said Yve.

‘Same time next week?’ asked the man.

Yve thought for a moment, going over in her mind if a regular client was practical.

‘Ok,’ she said, opening the door a rearranging her coat.

The man drove off. Yve looked up and down the road. The group of women were still there.

Then another car turned the corner, the Blue Mercedes that belonged to her husband.

Ralph was a good man. They had met twenty years ago through work and had bonded over careers and ambition. But they had both settled into civil servant pen-pushing roles. Children had never happened for various reasons and life together was humdrum and dull. There was love, always love, but nothing exciting happened anymore.

The Mercedes stopped and Yve jumped in.

‘Oh thank you darling, sorry you had to come out, bloody car of mine just packed up, garage says it’ll be another day.’

One of the women from up the road walked past and Yve just heard her say, ‘you’re busy today’.

Ralph kissed Yve’s cheek. ‘Who is that? He asked, ‘looks like a prostitute.’

‘Oh, no idea,’ said Yve, ‘never seen her before.’

© 2019 Pasha du Valentine / Goddamn Media

Cello Collaborations with Pasha du Valentine

2020 will be the year of the cello for me as I try to increase my repertoire and create some new groups and orchestras, oh and the occasional collaboration.

I discover each day how bad I am but I discover how good. This is the curse of all musicians.

If you are a musician and would like to work on something please get in touch.

Particularly I would like to work with producers and arrangers as those are the skills I lack for certain.

In the meantime, I will be working on a series of cello recordings that are largely experimental and fuse ASMR with found digital noise and pure drone as well as more traditional melody.

Please email if you have a proposal or contact me via my website.


Monday, 9 December 2019

Goddamn Words Vol. 1

Here is my new button which enables you to download this month's collection of short stories by Pasha du Valentine for £1.50.

Please enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.


The Election Looms and Artists Despair

In case you are unaware, and I am envious of those who are, the election looms this Thursday.
According to polls, it will be a Tory win so we will have to suffer that buffoon of ignorance that is Boris Johnson.

Of course, he is pretending to be stupid as he has the most appalling manners since Donald Trump and knows he won't endear himself to the fickle floating voter in this tense run-up.

We will fall unceremoniously into Victorian standards of living where the poor are not educated or cared for and I am genuinely scared for the future.

I think of my grandchildren and the disparity between the rich ones and the poor ones and I see this tragic side of Conservative rule at work.

I also see the greed manifest as family and friends who 'have' already too much, are determined to hold onto it for no good reason other than blatant greed.

Artists, by nature on the poor end of the scale, unless they managed to sell a banana stuck to a wall with a bit of masking tape stuck to a wall for £90,000, are in despair over their futures.

The horror does not make for good reading so I will save the political rhetoric for some short stories.

The first issue of my new magazine goes on sale later today. Issue 1 is part of a new series of monthly publications which will be for personal download and will have ten or more short stories and some poetry thrown in for good measure.

I will include the purchase button here shortly.

Now I drink coffee and worry about Thursday's outcome.

#pashaduvalentine #goddamnmedia

Sunday, 8 December 2019

My Facebook ban was lifted....

'I also made a declaration of celibacy while I was away, as I search for spiritual enlightenment through my work. I just felt that my physical relationships were having a negative impact on my art. They were distracting as well as damaging.
I am doing some written articles about it and how and if it impacts on my mental state as well as my creative output. So far I feel so much better. I am avoiding any physical relationships, virtual or otherwise for a year as I seek to make sense of how the internet and contemporary society are affecting our deep and meaningful relations with one another.'

Do follow my FB if you have the inclination as I use it daily even though I despise everything it stands for.
I have lots of accounts of course because I am always being banned for 30 day stretches due to sharing something they don't agree with.

Friday, 6 December 2019

Short Stories by Pasha du Valentine

Here you will find the Tea Cup Shorts by Pasha du Valentine, a series of short tales and pros in bite-size pieces for every tea break.

The stories are also being recorded for Goddamn Radio.

The Market   a Goth love story
The Riverbank   family and death
Sterile   a political sacrifice
Simplicity  a cat lover's tale
Ageing  a poem 
The Enchantment  a witchy poem
Tranquil  an exorcism
The Cafeteria  a tale of changes
Silence  a noisy story
Vintage  a story of misunderstandings
Ambidextrous  a story of expectation and disappointment
Happiness  a poem to uplift

Thursday, 5 December 2019

The Market by Pasha du Valentine

The Market by Pasha du Valentine

Mabel had always known she was odd and so had everyone else. She was born with eyes that wandered in different directions and this seemingly small detail on her face had only had the effect of making her seem even weirder than she was. It alienated her from school friends and added to her overall peculiarity. Furthermore, when she had matured, she had grown buxom with a small shadow above her top lip.

Then there was the issue with communications, or rather her lack of them. Her parents, keen to get Mable to fit in, had sent her to various therapists and life coaches in an attempt to increase her friendship ring. Alas, the friendships remained around level zero. At best people did not like her, thinking her rude, and at worst they were petrified. Sometimes, people crossed the road when they saw her clomping down the street in her 6-inch steel-toed boots with her black hair structured high above her like a pair of bird’s wings.

The piercings and tattoos added to the overall effect of being just kooky.

Mabel liked weird dissonant music, wore bizarre clothes, played satanic ritualistic games, and had been expressing a high level of sexual deviancy since an inappropriately young age. Her mother was forever finding effigies under her bed and the rat skins were the final straw. Mabel had had to move out.

But Mable wanted love. It was time to find the one, a one just like her, who would eventually help her make another one just like them.

Mable had overheard a conversation between two yummy mummies in the library. Their children, all snotty and hipster white, with those clothes that look like rags but cost a packet, played in the soft play area sharing the germs of the town. Mable thought about plague.

‘Where did you meet your husband?’ asked the one in the linen trousers.

‘At the market, answered the one in the yellow bandana, smugly ‘It was love at first sight.’

Love at first sight was something that excited Mable greatly. Mostly because it would, by definition, avoid the chance of anyone having second thoughts.

The market was abuzz with the activity of buyers and sellers exchanging requests, ideas, deals, and greetings. Mable was not sure how to interact amidst such diverse people as communication had always been difficult and strained. However, she had researched all week in the run-up to market day, how to engage and impress people. She had also swotted up on jargon and definitions of things that may be sold on market stalls. She was prepped and ready for love.

First was the fishmonger stall. Apart from the obvious smells, which may or may not be conducive to love, depending on viewpoint, Mable was unsure if the fish stall would be an inspiring venue to catapult feelings of lust. There was ice though, and Mable liked ice very much indeed.

She edged her way towards the counter pressing her black leather coat hard against it. She spotted a suitable target. Tall with the slightly vacant look some young men wear so well. The only props were fish; and one, a large rainbow trout, with its white eyes still intact and staring at her, seemed to egg her on. It was mouthing ‘go on’ with its pouty lips.

She coughed and stroked the cold wet fish scales making eyes at a young man on her right buying prawns. Then she took her fishy cold finger and licked it with the tip of her tongue from bottom to top whilst staring intently at her victim, both her eyes looking in opposite directions.

‘Fucking freak,’ he shouted, barging past her and mumbling various other expletives as he made good his escape. He didn’t look back.

Not one for ever giving up, Mable made her way to the household stall. With her finger still smelling of the trout she remained hopeful and deduced, as it was a place of domesticity and homewares, it represented family, home and stability. Hoovers, kettles, bed linen, the type of things people gave at weddings. Items filled with hope that couplings would last, that life would be shared, that there was future.

‘Come on, who wants one o these then?’ Shouted a rotund man with a working-class demeanor and a cockney lilt. ‘You won’ get this any cheaper anywhere else my darlins’ he continued.

Mable found herself amidst a small crowd of women all rummaging through their purses for the tenners. The only man at the stall was the fat cockney. He was really not Mabel’s type and, in the panic, Mable bought a pink toaster of Chinese origin. She put it in her black back and hoped no one saw.

The next stall was the vegetable stall. It was a veritable party of colour and texture with every possible variation of phallus imaginable. Mabel's heart skipped a beat. There was a cluster of men of varying heights and widths but one in black drew her attention between the courgettes and the aubergines. It was the most perfect scenario for flirting Mable could have hoped for.

She brushed past the man and grasped a courgette with one hand an aubergine in the other, shouting, 'Which one would you recommend?' The man turned to look at Mabel, but it was not a man, rather a lady of manly styling. The woman raised an eyebrow and licked her lips, remarking, with a Mae West intonation, ‘Well baby, depends how much you can take.’

Mabel dropped the vegetables and hurriedly removed herself from the sniggering group of customers.

By now Mabel was beginning to lose hope. There was one stall left before she would just give up this silly experiment. It was a bad idea after all. Only yummy mummies could find success and everlasting love at the market.

But the last stall filled her with an unexpected anticipation, like surprise foreplay, an emotional aperitif. 
It was a DIY Hardware stall. It was butch. It exhibited hardness and strength. Power. There were tools that looked like guns. There was metal and black. There was oil and grease. There were things that sawed, cut, clasped, pinched, poked and drilled. There were things that would hurt and things that would repair.

Mabel found herself in a place of extreme arousal.

There were things that would electrify, shock, bound and clamp.

It was almost too much and she began to turn to leave.

‘Hi,’ said a gentle voice.

Mabel turned to see a slender soft-faced man of around twenty staring at her with his lips slightly parted. His lips may have quivered, she couldn’t be sure.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked, coyly.

‘Yes,’ said Mable. Gaining inner strength from his fear. ‘If I was to have a date with a man and I wanted to impress him, is there anything you sell here that may swing his favour, you know, persuade him that it was a good idea.’

‘Yes, said the man coughing nervously and throwing shy glances at Mable’s leather coat and boots, there is a lot I can provide you with, Madam.

The man was more beautiful than any man Mable had ever seen.
He was as vulnerable as a baby rabbit. His wide eyes were green like pools of glass and she wondered how he would cry. He began collecting things from the stall and putting them in a pile in front of Mable.

He started with a large roll of black gaffer tape, then pliers, sandpaper, candle wax, a pole and finally an industrial tub of petroleum jelly.

‘That should be about perfect for a first date, with the right person, of course, if you have found him.’

‘Oh Yes,’ said Mable, ‘I found him right here in the market.’

© 2019 Pasha du Valentine / Goddamn Media

Wednesday, 4 December 2019

Sterile, Audio Book by Pasha du Valentine

Sterile by Pasha du Valentine

Hopelands was a conurbation that had developed after the Tech Wars. It was a beautiful zone, though sterile in creative terms. It possessed a geometric gratification that combined form and function perfectly. It was robust and lasting, a patriarchal success.

The gardens and homes matched each other perfectly, a jigsaw of hope where there was no room for disagreement or rebellion. It had taken much sacrifice during the Tech Wars to reach this glorious equilibrium. The old world was flattened and the new order rebuilt a clean-lined and refined world where freedom of expression was discouraged. Architectural Conservatism, they had called it, and it filtered down into all aspects of contemporary living. Everyone had a place and it was defined at birth.

Libra was born of second-generation Hopelanders who were middle professionals, a category that encompassed teachers and civil servants of the First Tier. To move to Second Tier categorisation was rare, but a test at eleven would pick out a few of the New Worlder offspring who would be primed for a more gifted path. There were higher tiers again for government officials and top-level business personnel who were funding the New World and were leading lights in the new Conservative Democratic Party, known generally as the C.D.P.

Libra was eighteen now and awaited her surgery with excitement. It had been decided at a meeting that Libra was attractive and amusing and would make a good pleasure partner for her own tier, rather than a reproducer. The life of a reproducer required a great level of commitment as well as a multitude of regular medical examinations. Also, reproducers were expected to produce at least six offspring from any single coupling. The pay was excellent but for a girl as high spirited as Libra, it was decided by the panel to make her a Sterile.

Steriles were a valuable asset to the continuation of the New Worlders.

They were paid well and cared for by clinics that ensured their sexual and mental health from eighteen years old to death. This was a baseline, enough even to just about live on if you were not keen on a career. Steriles were well respected in the community and were expected to be open to many partners, even if they had a favourite. It was illegal to be possessive of a sterile and there were harsh punishments for behaviours that put in jeopardy a Sterile’s freedom to have sexual relations with whom she pleased.

Libra was making her way to the clinic on the fast train. It ripped through the towns and satellite townships at a rate of knots which was something of a disappointment to the curious young woman. The visuals through the glass sides of the high-speed train were blurred and there was no sense of being there.

But an hour before arrival, the train suddenly stopped, screeching on the overhead cables as well as the underground tracking. An announcement was made about a technical issue that would be quickly attended to.

Libra glanced out of the window and took in the surprising detail of what looked like wildlands. She had seen old paintings with this sort of scenery, but for the most part, she had thought them ridiculous fantasies. There were trees and foliage that were growing without restriction. There was even a rabbit. Animals were never seen in the townships as they brought germs and unpredictability. No none was allowed to keep pets anymore.

Suddenly a dark figure leapt against the window and Libra jumped, letting out a gasp.

It was a man in unkempt clothes, the like of which she had never seen before. He had buttons and other paraphernalia strapped to himself. He began banging on the window with both hands.

Libra froze, in fear that the glass would break. Then there was another figure and then another. Suddenly there were tens of them, all banging and shouting. The soundproofing made it hard to hear but it sounded like ‘you decide, you can be free!’

Libra looked around the carriage for support. There were around twenty other girls en route to the sterilisation clinic and everyone was screaming and running to the other side of the cabin away from the marauding group beyond the glass.

The electric engines stirred and the train came to life. An announcement declared that something had been removed from the track and that there was no need for panic.

One of the protesters stared at Libra and mouthed something, over and over, repeating the words.

And then they were gone, the train speeding off and leaving the rabble behind.

There was another apology announcement on the tannoy and all the young women looked relieved.

The girl opposite spoke.

‘Scary people,’ she said.

‘Who were they?’ Asked Libra.

‘They were Whore Brats, I think, from the outskirts.’ said the young woman, who was clearly more knowledgeable than Libra.

Libra had never ventured out of the township she had grown up in. There was no need and the CDP internet facility provided all the virtual experiences necessary to make a well-rounded adult.

‘Who are they, what are they?’ asked Libra, confused and curious in equal measure.

‘No one really knows who they are,’ said the young woman, with streetwise assertiveness. ‘They say they are illegitimate, bastards from whores who reject the sterilisation. But one thing that is sure, they are growing in numbers and beginning to be a problem for the authorities. There is talk of extinguishing them completely, but no one is sure how big the problem really is. There could be hundreds of thousands. They form gangs apparently and have anarchic tendencies. They reproduce without government approval and operate under the radar of social strategy.

Libra was shocked. She had never heard of anything as bizarre as a woman who would have sexual relations and give birth without procedural formality.

‘They are beautiful are they not?’ said the woman, smiling.

Libra blushed. 'How does it happen?’

‘Us New Worlders are inbred, turning out freaks really and we all look the same. That's why they have to keep everything so sterile, we are vulnerable to infections. It's the genes, there's no fresh input. They keep choosing the same type of reproducers. These wild people though, are as beguiling as Adonis’ Gypsies. It’s the genetic melting pot. I heard they have beautiful genitals too, length and girth!’ The young woman giggled.

Libra gasped.

‘Shall I tell you what he said to you?’ said the woman, still smiling.

Libra nodded.

‘He said, ‘have my child.’’

Libra missed a heartbeat and blushed again.

The train arrived and the young women were herded onto the moving sidewalk which took them directly to the door of the C.D.P Sterilisation Facility.

Everyone was friendly and the staff was maternal and helpful in a reassuring way. One or two of the girls on the train had been nervous about the procedure.

‘Will it hurt?’ one had asked.

‘Will I be scarred?’ another.

The nurses were reassuring and offered refreshments in the foyer and there were some beautiful boutique outlets selling designer fashions and makeup. All Steriles were issued with a voucher after surgery which would allow for a great many purchases. There was a frenzy of excitement.

Libra was prepped for her keyhole surgery.

Her fallopian tubes would be removed and she would no longer have periods so as not to interfere with her pleasure giving. Her womb would remain until she was twenty-five in case of any future surrogacy deals from a government-approved couple. After that, it too would be removed to avoid any future health risks and hospital and government financial liability. All Steriles could look forward to healthy reproductive ageing as part of their existence in the New World.

But suddenly, without warning, Libra was drowning in a wave of doubt.

This fear that swamped her was not the fear of pain or discomfort. It was a terrible angst. A leaden darkness. Like Hell perhaps. What had she done? What terrible choice had she made?

The nurse came to prep Libra.

‘I changed my mind.’ Libra took off her hair net and began to remove the cannula in her hand. A drop of watery red blood hit the white tiled floor, then another.

‘I need to leave, NOW!’

The nurse looked grave, and whispered aggressively,

‘Look, don’t cause trouble. They won’t let you leave. You don’t have choices here.’

‘Please, I can’t go through with this,’ said Libra panicking.

‘Look, if they suspect anything, they with put you under now. Do as I say. I will tell them what they need to hear but you have to shut up. Go along with it, you will be ok, I promise.’

Libra was crying. There seemed no option but to do as she was told. She was at the mercy of anyone’s God or nobody.

In her dreams, she died over and over. There were babies in piles being eaten by wolves, their mothers screaming from pits, left to eat their dead sisters. There were rivers of blood running downwards to golden castles.

Libra woke with a start.

She sat up. The streetwise girl from the train was in the room with her, already awake.

‘I’m Scarlett by the way. Look,’ she said pulling at the plasters and gauzes on her belly, ‘no holes. Keep them on. We need to find out what the next step is.’

Libra tried to shake off the anaesthetic. She was groggy. Then adrenalin kicked in.

‘They didn’t do us?’ she asked. I don’t understand.’

‘They look for people with spirit, we have been chosen by the sisterhood. We don’t ever have to go back....that’s if you want your freedom of course. Or did you want to spend your life as a Sterile.

Libra shook her head feeling more determined.

The nurse led Scarlett and Libra down a labyrinth of corridors and tunnels. They had been given bags with food and water and medical provisions as well as suitable clothes. They were soldiers of freedom, to lead the way in the rebellion against the C.D.P.

The door to the underworld was unlocked and the moon shone on unknown terrain. There was a truck waiting. In the moonlight and with the light from the open door, Libra could just make out a man who she had seen before; an Adonis Gypsy from the future.

© 2019 Pasha du Valentine / Goddamn Media

#feminist #feministliterature #feministauthors generalelection #votelabour #antiestablishment #pashaduvalentine #goddamnmedia

Tuesday, 3 December 2019

Tattoos and Scars

I am of course a mature woman not ashamed of my body parts and flashing the good bits whenever possible.

My body positivity, however, falls short at the area between my naval and my lady bits which has been savaged over the years by childbirth, a hernia, a hysterectomy, and appendectomy and of course cancer.

I have decided that, even at the ripe old age of 57, the time has come to improve things with tattoos.

You will be able to follow my journey here on the blog.

Birds and flowers are the way forward for the saggy bits as there are no straight lines. The scar tissue, there is a fair bit, will not be covered itself, but surrounded by pretty colourful drawings in a freehand style.

I have not been able to look at my stomach for years and as I age I want to have the confidence to not feel revolting.

I think it is really sad that so many young girls also feel the same so I hope to prove that even I can find some confidence after the mess my body is in.

Just doing a few sit-ups in preparation!

Here are some ideas of how successful a few choice tats can be at disguising damage and scars for my childbirth and other surgeries.

I must thank the models, it takes a lot of courage to show the scars and even more to have them tattooed! I am splitting my own into four sittings and using a numbing cream. I confess I am petrified! But I know I will live the results.

Goddamn Granny and the Wig

I am just about to start today's short story which has literally been burning a hole in my head all night.
Officially Goddamn Media is closed for the holidays, at least the gallery is. The books are still being written and the radio station is alive and well so expect all sorts of lovely audiobooks right through the Christmas period.

Goddamn Granny is my live diary about consumer issues and the life and times of the mature lady. I am focusing on fashion this week. The shows are also available through YouTube for the time being.

I am keen to find other contributors for the TV channels so if you are a budding filmmaker or have friends who are using the medium in an unusual or interesting way, please spread the word.

My Blog is attracting a lot of attention particularly in the USA so I would like to welcome everyone from across the oceans.

Have a great day,
Pasha du Valentine

#feminist #feministliterature #feministauthors generalelection #votelabour #antiestablishment #pashaduvalentine #goddamnmedia

Monday, 2 December 2019

Simplicity (A Cat Lover's Tale) by Pasha du Valentine

Short Audio Books Where to Buy Pasha du Valentine

You can hear the newest short stories via the Goddamn Media App and of course through our affiliates, iTunes, Spreaker, Google Play, et al.
These platforms will have advertising as a way to fund the site but the good news is, you can buy them from Goddamn Media as singles and albums without the ads and for your personal library.
I will keep you informed as the process is time-consuming so it will take a week or so to update as the Library of Pasha du Valentine books is growing quickly.

Poems too will be available in collections.

I am keeping the shorts, short, as it were, so as they stay affordable and can be used for schools and performances easily.

Wife TV is on hold as things progress but you can watch the archives as always.

Have a great week Goddamners
Countess Pasha de la Mare du Valentine



Who is Pasha du Valentine

Pasha du Valentine (birth name Sarnia de la Mare) is a British artist, filmmaker, and author.
Pasha founded Goddamn Media, and alternative multimedia online publishing platform, in 2005.

Pasha du Valentine works from her studio along the UK's south coast producing film and video for Goddamn TV including the feminist channel Wife TV.
She also paints and writes poetry and short stories for Goddamn Radio.


Audio Books by Pasha du Valentine

Countess of Brighton and Hackney Diaries

Ageing by Pasha du Valentine


Where does it start

From the heart?

Smells of butter

Loins a flutter

A fumble in a shed

Or with love instead?

A bang

A plan

A life ahead

And then you’re


With years to spend

Rich in dreams

Hopes unseen

Fresh skin

So it begins

But not for long

Spring has gone

You are ageing

Forever changing

Your body lags

Skin sags

Nothing’s pert

Everywhere hurts

Mind slows

Everything goes

The time has come

You are done

Just a soul

And a piece of coal

© 2019 Pasha du Valentine / Goddamn Media
#feminist #feministliterature #feministauthors #generalelection #votelabour #antiestablishment #pashaduvalentine #goddamnmedia

PASHA DU VALENTINE Countess of Brighton and Hackney: The Enchantment

PASHA DU VALENTINE Countess of Brighton and Hackney: The Enchantment: I was only walking, a slow meander Not even talking Simple thinkings That fateful night he passed me by There was a scent The one w...

The Enchantment by Pasha du Valentine

I was only walking, a slow meander
Not even talking
Simple thinkings
That fateful night he passed me by

There was a scent
The one we know, the scent of man that touches souls
It made me stop and turn
Twas from then on I yearned

Like a child was I
Enchanted see, a dream box opened
Loins sharpened
From then on, I watched him
Dreamed him
Every day
His manly ways
Filled with flutters fair
Was I
His skin like baby leather, sun-drenched
Smelt of heather
It drove me mad it did

His thighs were hard
Poetry on motions
The simplest things
Like angel’s wings

And then I yearned
This power to grow
A shard
To stab my heart, my open soft desire
His weapon wild to take the child
That still remained in me

He knew not what he did, what strength he had
Despite my mission
My blind submission

It drove me mad
Fair made me sad

And so it was I saw the Witch
The Witch was black of heart
Her dreams and hopes had powered her you see
She kept them free
And saved herself
For higher things

This Enchantment,
She had said
You will need a spell to make it less
If you so desire it gone
It will ne'er compare to what will come
You are ruined now for others

Do it!
Said I to the wise Witch
Make it go
The rivers in my underclothes
Are far beyond a wizard’s joke
I cannot cope with such desires
For a man with thighs of steel and eyes like fires

And so the black Witch cast her spell
And lust was gone
Once again I carried on
To search forevermore
A desire as strong

© 2019 Pasha du Valentine / Goddamn Media

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