incandescens | owl-eyes

Weekend, thank God. No, it hasn't quite been one of those weeks, but it's been close enough, and I think I haven't quite recovered from Ambercon UK yet. Plus the heat. (You wouldn't believe it was raining for most of today.) Plus an hour-long presentation over the lunch break today, about the "business plan for Corporate Information Services", which consisted of forty-five minutes of boss talking, then her briskly asking if there were any questions. Followed by a drugged silence. Followed by a few eventual questions.

Hm. Reading the classics (as turned up accidentally at secondhand bookshops) brings images which stick. A woman in an owl-mask, seated cross-legged in a stone alcove, skin like bronze or golden stone in the lamplight, eyes huge and wide behind the holes of the mask, still and silent; the owl-mask feathers dappled grey and brown; metal set into her.

---

I really shouldn't get into these conversations with friends; we should be writing poetry together instead, I'm sure it'd be much more respectable . . .

Maya | Ayla slipped the mammoth-hide straps over her breasts. Perhaps later Jondalar would explain the customs of his people, but for the moment she only knew that she had to learn to Pleasure him, just as he Pleasured her. "Where do I hit you with the whip?" she asked.
Deborah | Ayla knelt before Jondalar, blonde hair draping over her breasts. She knew that he liked it so, and it made her feel good to please him. It was her place to please him and it filled her with warmth to serve as was her nature. The whip lay across her lap, limp and a little worn. The whip knew its nature, too. She must please it. "Where, master, shall I hit you?"
Maya | Ayla looked between Jondalar and Ranec. "You are both so beautiful," she said slowly. "You give me such pleasure. But I like it best when you nuzzle each other and mate as do the mammoths of the wild steppes who love their own kind."