Day of the Virgins

[unpredictablebijou]

Alright. I've done it, for better or worse.

Listen, I expect a great deal more effort out of you people than I myself put into this initial Prologue, of which I am deeply ashamed. Deeply, Senna my friend, I assure you. I am going to perform a full Novena about it. But be that as it may, some ideas must be struck while they are fresh from the forge, and this one, cheap as it is, had a serious time limit. It's no good cold, if you know what I'm sayin'.

I'm considering that phrase for my headstone, actually: It's no good cold.

Chaucer didn't invent the chain story. But he did some interesting things with groups of characters trapped together trying to entertain one another, which is how I've begun to perceive this Literotica place on occasion. So: a set of Tales. They do not have to be related. Just like the Canterbury model. Each character is introduced, and each tells a story.

Write a Tale to include in Day of the Virgins. It must have a virgin of some sort in it. Read the Prologue for more info.

Your Tale MUST be in the style of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Pope, Milton or Suess. I shall be strict on this.

If you write a good Tale, I will write a Prologue about you in Chaucerian couplets.

Write it to be read aloud.

I am working very hard already on my particular Tale. And yes, there will be chains in it. But I have, in a completely shameful hour and a half this afternoon, created the Prologue. It follows.

*off to commit seppuku immediately*
bijou

 

[unpredictablebijou]

General Prologue to Day of the Virgins

Day of the Virgins

A poetic “chain story” modeled after the Canterbury Tales

When Winter bares his teeth in northern lands
and Summer comes to wildsweetone's hands
and all the Yule is taken down and burned
and New Year's hangovers are duly earned,
then folk will turn their eyes to competition
and make blank drama their most blind ambition.

In tiny ponds, the catfish look like whales
and perch in plastic castles with the tails
of other writer chums exposed to kiss;
it's quite a feeding frenzy, if you miss
the size of all the fishies fighting this
inconsequential battle for the crown
in puddles where you couldn't even drown
a mouse.
Here in this pond the poets gather
and work themselves into a mellow lather
about the raucous fray across the hall
and whether to participate at all
in such unruly points of pure abstraction,

ironically, when this group's prime attraction
is to the abstract word, like “influence”
and in their delicacy will spend immense
and hardy effort on a single frame
of reference or sound. It's all the same
but in the dark of winter something stirs
and even mellow poets turn to curs
of competition, even as they claim
to be at peace. They can't deny it's lame
to be concerned about the thorny crown
“Best Poet on a Porn Board.”
Settle down,
says Angeline the Kind, and be amused
at how the Others find themselves abused
in tiny dramas over voting fraud
and newbies being sadly overawed
and cliques and alts and virgins voting wild.
We here in oval towers aren't beguiled
by competition so simplistic. So
she says, her peaceful face aglow
with wicked promise, let us form
a competition in the current storm
more suited to our liking. Let it be
an exercise in pointless poesy,
a sweet bouquet of stories like the tales
told by ancient hobos riding rails,
away from plague in Italy, or on quest
to Holy Lands, or like a snowbound guest
might try to entertain. And round this fire
let each one think of his or her desire
regarding Virgins, cyber, flesh or Blessed
whatever type of virgin you love best,
and make a tale to entertain and teach
and chain these tales together out of reach
of mere prose-slingers and their drama'ed fray.
Here in the BFD – excuse-moi,
the PFD, we find our special joi
de vivre in the finer poet's craft
and with dead arts we build our driftwood raft.
Most certainly we poets tell our tales
as well as anyone, but the weak sails
of our depressed, poetic little boats
are filled the best when we can demonstrate
the pointless little tricks that make us great:
our skills with assonance and meter and our way
of making reference to some Pinter play
or Auden line that no one understands
so that expensive journeys in the lands
of academics seem to be worthwhile
though we missed 'education' by a mile.

So let each one now offer gentle story
as pilgrims did on road from Canterbury
or as Decameron was told in flight
from poor hygiene and wicked urban blight.
And if your tale has chains as well as virgin
poor bijou's heart will doubtless need a surgeon
so make it salty, if at all you can,
and humor this, her latest pointless plan.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

bijou's Tale: Andromeda Enchained

I'll just say this one thing about this little activity.

No, it's not “real poetry” and it's nothing you're going to submit to the Atlantic Monthly. It's play. It's an exercise, a workout, a way to make playing scales amusing for an audience. And to use the language of jazz, since there are so many fans here, if you've actually got the chops, something like this should be ridiculously easy. And it will make a drab January ever so much more colorful...



Andromeda Enchained

What motivates a mother no one knows,
some pride, or jealousy, or some great pose
of piety that does more than it should
and does her wretched family no good.
To wit, one Cassiopeia inclined
to boast of the great beauty she'd refined
in Andromeda, her rival – I mean, daughter,
so that the girl was led right to the slaughter.

You know the basics: she offends the Gods.
It is Greek tragedy, so hey, what are the odds?
So monsters eat some towns and passers by,
creating the predictable outcry,
and some blind prophet's dragged out of his cave
and schmoozed and fed just long enough to save
the kingdom with his helpful sage advice.
(Hey thanks, Tiresias, it's been a slice,
but please go home before you spill the beans
on any other problematic scenes
like my affairs, or Cass' tendency
to give it up to everyone but me...)

The prophecy is dire: the lovely daughters
of Nereus, the God of ocean waters
have gotten miffed at Cass' bold suggestion
that their superior beauty is in question.
(Poseidon's role in Nereid life's unclear;
they're “often seen together,” so we hear,
this God and all nine Goddesses together.
I bet they make a great deal more than weather.)

The upshot is that virgin daughter Andi
must be offered like a piece of candy
to the monster as a sacrifice.
(Offended Goddesses are rarely nice.)

Fast forward to the doomed appointed day:
a wide shot of the crowds lining the bay
where, they have heard, a nude chick will be chained
by nine hot women to a rock, and pained
by nudity and shame, and hey, who knows,
the Nereids might choose to go sans clothes
as well, and what is more, they've heard the beast
will then appear and very likely feast
on some hot princess entrails. Hell, what schmo
would turn down a free ticket to that show?

Andromeda appears, the crowd goes wild.
Her hair and clothing's virginally styled
in pale and frightened innocence. She's led
by soldiers in their best imperial red
down to the rock where chains have been installed
(the roaring crowd pretends to be appalled).

The eager soldiers move to strip her bare,
and rough hands hold her as she struggles there.
Poor Andromeda, held fast by sweaty hands,
finds that her mind is drawn to strange new lands,
as writhing there, she tears her bridal dress,
and her professional coif's a sexy mess.
Some things are getting moist that shouldn't be,
considering she'll be eaten by the sea-
monster any minute. But before
she's got a chance to understand the core
of this new thought, the crowd goes wild again:
the Nereids are coming, and the men
- and certain Sapphics - find it's true
that Nereids are likely to eschew
all modesty, appearing in the buff
as everyone had hoped. It is enough
to make the crowd hysterical with lust
for blood, or boobies, or whatever, just
so there's some climax to the scene.

Meanwhile, on the rock, the Nereids mean
to simply chain the bitch and get it done
so they can find Poseidon for some fun,
but seeing this young virgin all aroused,
and all her ripe potential sweetly housed
in torn white silk and frightened, doe-like eyes,
they find their interest begins to rise,
and all nine maidens find something to do
with this poor princess, still without a clue
as to why she's dripping at the thought
of heavy chains and nudity. She's hot
for any action now, and so the nine
find various ways to gradually refine
the scene. One chains her ankles in the steel
while two more move up close to cop a feel.
Her dress is in the way. It is removed,
and spanking by two more is quite approved
of by the crowd, now straining to see better
as one wrist, and then the other, gets a fetter,
and spread there, helpless on that rocky point
she finds herself required to anoint
each Goddess with her eager little mouth.

I know, I know: the scene is going south
too far for Poets, so I'll blur the light
now with the great impending hero's flight
of Perseus, our wholesome warrior boy,
vanilla's poster child, as with great joy
he flies to save the princess from her fate
and finds that he is just a bit too late.
The crowd has chosen this more sensuous scene
with nine hot Nereids pretending to be mean
to one quite willing princess, chained and bare.
Poor Perseus finds he's quite unwanted there.
In fact, the crowd gets feral when they sense
that actual rescue efforts might commence.

The tragedies say Perseus gets his maid,
but we know better: Princess girl got laid
and went to sea with nine hot chicks to serve,
and possibly Poseidon too, the perv.
She's happier with that bit in her teeth
than she'd have ever been while underneath
some sweaty, wholesome Hero of the Day:
she gets nine for the price of one this way.
So let this echo through the poets' hall:
Andromeda got lucky. May we all.
.

 

[champagne1982]

A Maiden's Last Sleep

Oh blighted night won't you be gone?
Your chill wind blown, your hollow song,
moan'd in the dark of boreal pines
and echoed in the trickster's whines,
goes long and tedious in the winter eve,
lit by dim fires and wrapped in woolen weave.

She shivered as she paced through rushes strewn
while her thoughts moved on to tomorrow's noon
when, at her father's stern behest, she'll marry
a different blighted knight. Then, cold and wary
be lifted in his arms to bleed her hymen's loss
out onto linen sheets, for display against the moss

that clings to nooks and chinks in granite walls.
Festooned with heraldic bunting hung round, the hall
had never looked so festive as her wedding day rushed near.

Her heart sinks as if pushed into the evening's pall
and she wonders if her groom is kind and if she, in love will fall
as the rush of time goes on and makes his presence dear

to this girl that to woman comes with morning light.
Her dolls hold no solace on this her final night
of chaste gowns and maiden's dreams. She cannot speculate
on how it will feel to have him sunder her. Her fate
shared with the filly who held still, stands beneath the stud
to take his girth inside and in that moment gift him the blood

of childhood lost. With a sigh she lies down to sleep
disdaining as sheer folly the desire she has to weep
for she is not alone. Her heart is still her's to give,
her thoughts to share, her life, though still in youth, to live.
So, now in her virgin bed she slumbers through the past
waiting for the wedding day to dawn and praying love will last.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Champie, you RAWK. Your prologue is on its way. I'm going to take some time with it so it will actually be sorta good.

bj

 

[UnderYourSpell]

A spell must make when she is under him
To fill his rod and cast forth full of vim.
He knows not where this road may lead
When ventures he to spill his seed
Into not a maidens loins his first desire
But older matron leads him to his fire.
Young blood she welcomes him within
Still virginal he burgeons to this sin.
Let not her first command unto her breast
Leave him unable to fulfil this test
Nor lose his seeding far too soon
But see this coupling as a precious boon
She leads .. he seeks as only boyhood can
And rises to the dawn as he becomes a man.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

ooo nice, underyourspell!

your prologue is now being created....

bj

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Prologue to Champagne's Tale

Champagne was e'er an innocent, she claimed,
avoiding limelight. She was never blamed
for conflict or for anything but peace
and cookie recipes. It's said her fleece
was white as snow, and everywhere she went
she left a virginal, angelic scent.

But most importantly, her poetry
was central skill and oft ambitiously
she'd gunfight and compete and prove the best
iin poetastic grace above the rest.
She dabbled in most every kind of verse,
for which her rivals often proved the worse.
In every field most delicate and bright,
no matter what the form, she got it right,
and with great grace and modesty refined,
in triumph she was generous and kind.
Her bubbly, sparkly charm was proof enough
that she was pure as driven snow, and stuff.

But in her prose there was another side
exuberantly kinky, where the stride
of lover on the stair might not be plain
het vanilla love, but bear the stain
of something of entirely other flavor:
a big thick horny cop demands a favor,
or phantoms manifest from lighted screens
indulging in the wildest little scenes,
or people find themselves in public places
doing things that really have no traces
of virginity or purity
or even basic cleanliness. When she
is out of poets' eyes and all away
from this straight-laced encampment where we play,
she is a kinky girl, a thorny rose
all filled with scarlet thoughts and purple prose
and naughty things that throb and bind and steam
and stuff from your most vivid kinky dream
(that one you didn't tell your shrink about).
She's got a twisted side, please have no doubt.

So as you read her sweetly sumptuous tale,
be not deceived by this young virgin, frail
and sensitive and painted with pure light
(you should've seen her later on that night.)
It is a testimony of her wit
that you'll think virgin white a perfect fit
for both the character and the chanteuse
'cause all that purity is just a ruse
and underneath, volcanic passion chills
like sparkling wine from France's luscious hills
plucked in the sun, distilled to crystal clear
and bubbling with potential for good cheer
until they're shaken by some passing hand
and that protective little golden band
is loosen'd to allow the lusty burst
of passion to escape and quench the thirst
with seaborn foam that fizzes over all
and soaks the masses with the virgin's fall.




well, that's another couple of novenas for me.

 

[champagne1982]

Modified Virgin Sonnet
Poem or her? The poet will never tell.

She blushed not in modesty
but in truth found out
her cheeks aflame, for travesty
is what the wild men shout
as her virtue fails the test
and her innocence athwart
the keel she stutters lest
the master spanks her ass to smart
the skin as pink as virgin rose
or as transparent as the silk
nightgown that she wears for those
nights she manly men will bilk
with her clever ruse of sweet
innocence when next they meet.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

There now.

You see what I mean?

 

[unpredictablebijou]

UnderYourSpell, do you think you could change your name to something more... I dunno... iambic?

*struggling*

bj

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Well the names Annie but I will answer to most thing i.e sexy etc but deffo not oii you/girly or blondie !!!! I've smacked noses for less

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Well the names Annie but I will answer to most thing i.e sexy etc but deffo not oii you/girly or blondie !!!! I've smacked noses for less

never, never would I call you any of that. Noses are not a good thing to have smacked.

well, Annie's not really iambic either (a lovely name, to be sure, but not iambic) but I'll do what I can. patience...

bj

 

[UnderYourSpell]

In my other life away from here for reasons too boring to explain I get called Annya or Annier if thats any help (oh all right if you insist the 'R' is part of my Aol Screenie and stands for my second name Rosemary ... hence Annier which has prgressed onto Annya)