It was our annual New Year’s Eve party.  A traditional black and white tie affair. The party had been in full swing for at least an hour before I noticed her. The band was playing and the guests were dancing. In hindsight, the fact that she slipped past me without me noticing was unusual. My eyes are like radar at these gatherings, scanning for any new or intriguing faces. Somehow, she slipped past my awareness until the moment she stepped into the grand ballroom.

I was pouring myself a drink, my usual gin and tonic, when I felt the atmosphere shift. It wasn’t just me who noticed; the room seemed to pause as she appeared in the doorway. She wasn’t wearing a dress or a top, or even pants. In fact, she wasn’t wearing anything at all.  She stood around 5 feet 7 inches in height and appeared to be in her early twenties, I’d say. Her dark hair cascaded in wild waves over her shoulders, and her lips were painted a crimson red.  She casually sipped wine from a golden chalice, which she held in her right hand.  She looked like a high-end fashion model of sorts.  Her nude body, a perfectly sculpted work of art, commanded the attention of every person in attendance.  The pearly, firm roundness of her B-cup breasts caught the light just so. Her pink areolas were puckered, and her nipples were erect, pebbled against the cool air of the room, looking as though they yearned to be fondled. Her stomach was toned, her waist dipped in sharply, her hips flaring out suggestively.  Her legs, long and lithe, seemed to go on for miles, terminating in a pair of delicate feet with red-painted toenails.  Each step seemed to be a graceful glide, her bare feet making no sound on the polished wood floors. The lights above caught every curve of her firm, perky B-cup breasts and illuminated the well-maintained patch between her legs. Everyone at the party was captivated by her presence. Even the band stopped playing as each member jostled to get a better look at her.

“Who is she?” I whispered to Greg, who was standing beside me, absently stirring his whiskey with his finger as his eyes tracked her walking into the ballroom.

He blinked at her. “Beats me. You think she’s with Paul?”

Paul was the host, a gregarious type who loved an eclectic guest list. It wouldn’t have been completely out of character for him to invite someone like her on a whim. Still, even Paul usually demanded that his guests wear clothes. After all, this was a formal event, and everyone was dressed in black and white ties and evening gowns.

“She’s just… standing there,” I expressed, sipping my drink to mask my unease. I had to pinch myself. “Am I hallucinating, or is she naked?”  I remarked. The woman tilted her head slightly as though she’d overheard me. Her smile widened, and her green eyes—deep and dark—locked onto mine, as she smiled at me flirtatiously.  I nodded and smiled back at her as she made her way further into the ballroom. 

By now, everyone had zeroed in on the thin, tidy, well-kept, hairy patch between her legs, expertly trimmed and maintained, nestled like a delicately placed landing strip. It was carefully groomed and manicured to perfection. A tiny strip of hair so fine, it looked like spun silk. The moist crevice in the center glistened in the light.  Her every movement was electrifying. The air around her pulsed with erotic energy. The provocative glide of her hips, the roll of her breasts, the seductive sway of her bare ass—all of it served to titillate the entire party.  She continued to steal into the ballroom, her hips swaying like a pendulum. She knew the effect she had on the crowd. She reveled in their stares and relished the power she held over them, knowing exactly what they wanted and what they craved. She would give it to them, but first, she would tease them just a little bit more. Just enough to drive them wild with lust and longing. 

The room itself seemed to pulse with energy, as if every eye in attendance were riveted to her ass, her breasts, or that manicured patch between her legs. Her body magnetized them, drawing them in like moths to a flame. She wanted them to look at her, to desire her. She reveled in their attention, craved it like a drug. And they could not look away, could not tear their gaze from the erotic masterpiece before them. Her hips swayed more provocatively as she crossed the ballroom, her body language screaming for attention, beckoning all who saw her to come hither and worship at her altar.

“I should… uh, say hi,” Greg stammered, though he didn’t move an inch. Before I could respond, she strode toward us with chalice in hand, sipping her wine, her bare feet making no sound against the polished wooden floor. Every step seemed deliberate, a slow unraveling of tension in the room. By the time she stopped in front of us, the grand ballroom had gone completely silent.

“Hello,” she said, her voice low and velvet-smooth. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Interrupting? She might as well have been a meteorite that crashed through the roof.

“Not at all,” I managed to answer her, though my voice came out hoarse. “Uh, what are you drinking? Can I fill your chalice?”

She considered me for a moment, her gaze traveling from my face to the gin and tonic in my hand. 

“What are you drinking?”

“Gin and tonic.”

“I’ll have that,” she grinned, her smile never wavering as she poured out her half-drunken wine into an ice bucket. "Fill me up!"

I took her chalice and busied myself, filling it with my traditional gin and tonic, hyper-aware of her presence. The clink of ice cubes seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet. Greg stood frozen beside me, his usual charm nowhere to be found.  As I handed her the drink, she leaned in closer than necessary. “Thank you,” she sighed, her fingers brushing mine as she took the golden chalice and began drinking. Her skin was cool, almost cold, but it sent a warm jolt through me.

“You’re welcome,” I said, my eyes looking her up and down from head to toe. “So, uh… I don’t think we’ve met. I’m—”

“Alex,” she interrupted, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “I know.”

That threw me off. “You know?”

“I know a lot about you, Alex,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “You’re the District Attorney of this city, aren’t you? But let’s not talk about that now.”

Before I could press her, Paul burst into the room, his booming laughter shattering the tension.

“And who is this?” he exclaimed, staring at the woman.

“Olivia. My name is Olivia,” she replied, offering her hand to Paul.

“Paul. I’m Paul,” taking her hand in his.

“Pleased to meet you, Paul,” she said.

Paul grinned—his eyes twinkling. “I didn’t think anyone would be so brave as to ignore the dress code. You know this is a black-and-white tie affair, don’t you?”

She chuckled softly, a sound that sent shivers down my spine. “I know, I’m a little underdressed; I can leave if you like.”

“No… no… Stay, please,” Paul crooned, clearly delighted. “Everyone, this is Olivia,” he announced to the crowd.

Olivia. The name fit her somehow, though it answered none of the questions in my mind: where she had come from, why she was here, and why she was dressed—or rather, undressed—like that.

The band began playing again. “Fly Me to the Moon,” by Frank Sinatra.  Olivia and the rest of the partygoers began to drift into the parlor room, drawn by Paul’s laughter and, undoubtedly, by Olivia herself. She didn’t seem fazed by the growing crowd. If anything, she thrived on the attention, her every gesture and glance captivating those around her.

“Are you a model or something?” Someone asked.

“Something like that,” she replied with a wink.

“Do you know Paul?” Another voice chimed in.

She smiled. “Never met him, but he seems like a nice fellow.”

The questions kept coming, but her answers were always vague, deflecting without revealing anything substantial. It was as if she enjoyed the mystery, the way people hung on her every word.

“Alex,” she said suddenly, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Do you want to show me around?”

I blinked. “Uh, sure. I mean, there’s not much to see, but…”

“Perfect,” she said, handing her half-finished drink to Greg. “Lead the way.”

The crowd parted as she moved toward me, her confidence unshaken. I felt their eyes on us as I led her out of the parlor room and into the hallway.  Olivia's confident stride and mesmerizing curves were impossible to ignore. She moved with a grace that was both commanding and intoxicating.  The hallway seemed to stretch on for miles.  Every time I looked over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of Olivia's breathtaking physique in the corner of my eye. 

“This is Paul’s place, right?” she asked as we walked.

“Yeah,” I said, still trying to wrap my head around her. “You’ve never been here before?”

“Not in this lifetime,” she said with a playful smile.

I frowned. “I thought everybody’s been here?”

She stopped to admire a painting on the wall. “This is beautiful,” she said. “Who painted it?”

“It’s a Monet. An original.  I think Paul picked it up at auction at Sotheby’s,” I said. “He’s got an eye for that sort of thing.”

Olivia tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “An original, hugh. It must be worth a lot.”

“Paul paid 24 million for that piece?” I said, glancing at the painting. 

She seemed impressed by that price tag.  She turned to me, her eyes searching mine. “Do you believe in second chances, Alex?”

The question caught me off guard. “I guess? I mean, everyone makes mistakes, right?”

She smiled faintly. “Yes. Everyone makes mistakes.”

There was something in her tone—sadness, maybe, or regret—that made me want to ask more. But before I could, Paul’s voice boomed from the living room.

“Come on, you two! We’re playing charades!” 

The hallway was quiet, the soft glow of sconces casting long shadows against the walls. “Paul’s place is something of a maze,” I said, trying to fill the silence. “He’s got a little bit of everything—art, antiques, rooms that don’t seem to have any purpose.”

“Like people,” Olivia murmured behind me.

I glanced back at her, startled. She met my gaze with a faint smile but said nothing more.  We passed through the dining room and into the prep kitchen, its polished steel counters gleaming under fluorescent lights. It was an odd space, sterile and utilitarian compared to the decadence of the rest of the house. Olivia’s fingers brushed lightly against a counter as she walked, her movements languid and deliberate.  “This is the kitchen,” I said, gesturing vaguely. “Paul likes to show it off, though I doubt he’s ever used it.”

Olivia chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to echo in the quiet. “A stage for someone else’s performance,” she said, her hand trailing to the edge of a butcher block where a small steak knife lay. Her fingers lingered on the knife for a moment, almost imperceptibly, before she picked it up as if she were examining it and casually hid it behind her hand and forearm.

“Shall we continue?” Olivia gestured.

I nodded, leading her out of the kitchen. She followed close behind, her nude body a constant tease on my senses. I was so enthralled by her presence, I hadn't noticed that the steak knife was no longer on the counter.  Olivia's emerald green eyes sparkled with mischief as she gestured towards the grand staircase, her fingers lingering on my arm. I nodded and led her up the grand stairs to the second floor.

“This is the master bedroom,” I said as we reached the top of the stairs. I pushed open the double doors, revealing an opulent space with heavy drapes, a king-sized bed, and a balcony that overlooked the garden below.

Olivia stepped inside, her eyes scanning the room with quiet curiosity. “It’s beautiful,” she said, moving toward the bed in the center of the room. Her voice had taken on a softer, more intimate quality, and I felt my pulse quicken.

“It’s Paul’s favorite room,” I said, my voice faltering. “He says it’s where he feels most himself.”

“And you?” Olivia asked, turning to face me. Her green eyes locked onto mine, her expression unreadable. “Where do you feel most yourself, Alex?”

The question caught me off guard. “I... I don’t know,” I admitted.

She stepped closer, her movements slow and deliberate. “Maybe here,” she purred, her breasts pressing against my body. “With me.”

I put my arms around her, the space between us shrinking with every breath. “Olivia…”

She placed a finger against my lips, silencing me. “Don’t think,” she whispered. “Just feel.”

Her lips found mine, soft and insistent, and the world seemed to dissolve around us. I gave in, my hands finding her waist as she pressed against me. Her touch was electric, her movements deliberate, as though she were guiding me into some ancient and sacred ritual. I took one of her nipples into my mouth and rolled it between my teeth gently. She moaned loudly at the sensation, arching her back.  "Oh God, Alex," she cried out as my mouth enveloped her nipple. She led me to the bed, her body pressing against mine as we sank into the sheets. Her every touch, every whisper, seemed designed to pull me further under her spell. Her movements were deliberate, meant to drive me wild with pleasure and desire for more.  I was lost, my mind drowning in the sensations she offered.  She was driving me out of my mind!

And then, a sharp pain pierced my throat.  I gasped, my hands moving to the source of the pain. Blood poured between my fingers as I stared up at Olivia, her face calm and detached, the steak knife gleaming in her hand.  "For my father," she said softly, her voice steady and devoid of remorse. "You destroyed him; you were the D.A. that put him behind bars, and now he's rotting away in federal prison because of you."  I tried to speak, but the words gurgled in my throat, drowned by the blood that poured out of me. Olivia leaned in close, her lips brushing against my ear.  "Goodbye, Alex," she whispered.  She stood up, leaving me sprawled on the bed as my vision began to blur. I watched her walk to the balcony doors, her steps unhurried, her figure framed by the moonlight that beamed through the windows.  She grabbed the door handles and threw both doors open, letting in the cool night air.  It was almost like watching an actress in a play; every movement was so precise and calculated, as though she were fully in control of this whole scenario.  Without hesitation, she climbed onto the railing, her arms spreading wide like wings. She turned her head, her gaze meeting mine one final time.

“For freedom,” she screamed, and then she leaped.

The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was Olivia’s body plunging toward the water fountain below.

There is nothing noble in a tamed man.

I have stared into the mirror of society and seen not faces, but masks—smooth, hollow, interchangeable. I have watched as individuals, once shimmering with peculiar radiance, surrender their edges for the approval of the mob. They speak not their own truths but repeat those which will not cost them anything. They suppress hunger in favor of harmony, passion in favor of politeness, and then, confused by their own anemia, blame the world for being dull.

I do not want harmony. I want the discordant cry of the individual unchained. I want the feral howl of a man who has remembered that he is not furniture in a drawing room, but a creature of muscle, blood, mind, and desire. I want to see the beast that crouches beneath the velvet etiquette of civilization—and I want to see it rise.

We are told from birth that to be wild is to be wrong. That to hunger is to be guilty. That to be unapologetically oneself is to be selfish, narcissistic, dangerous. The words change depending on the century—“sinner,” “degenerate,” “non-conformist,” “dissident”—but the message is the same: Obey or be devoured.

But what they never admit is this: the self, fully realized, is not a danger to the world—the self is a danger to the system.

To claim one's individuality, one's hungers, one's peculiarities, is to expose the great lie upon which all order rests—that we must all be the same. The same manners. The same smiles. The same ambitions. The same fears. But sameness is not peace. It is rot. It is a slow, odorless death masquerading as safety.

And I would rather be torn apart by my own longings than be embalmed by conformity.

The beast within me—oh yes, it is there—it does not gnash its teeth for blood but for authenticity. It does not crave destruction but expression. I want not to murder but to awaken. To scream when silence is demanded. To f**k when shame is whispered. To cry in front of men who were taught to bite their tongues until they bled. To speak when it is forbidden. To desire what has been demonized. To be, fully and completely, myself—unrepentant, raw, seething with contradictions and shining truths.

And should the herd recoil at my scent—then let them stampede away from me.

The individual, dear reader, is not some quaint soul meant to be slotted into a spreadsheet or seated politely at a wedding table. No. The individual is a living cathedral of flesh and thought and fire. A unique chaos. A singular cosmos. We are not meant to be polished stones smoothed by the hands of teachers, bosses, priests, and politicians. We are meant to be jagged, cut from the bedrock of existence, difficult to hold, impossible to place, but undeniably real.

And so I say this to every youth who feels the tremor in their bones when asked to smile for the family portrait: you are not broken—you are still alive.

To every woman who hungers for something more than marriage and manners: you are not a scandal—you are sacred.

To every man who weeps and loves and rebels and dances: you are not weak—you are not theirs.

And to those who do not fit in—who never did, never could, and never will: you are free. And you are enough.

There is a beast inside me. It licks its wounds in the dark corners of my mind. It waits, not to maul, but to sing—to sing the song of the Self that no one else can compose. And when I unleash it, I do not apologize.

I open my arms.

And I run with it, naked and wild, into the forest of what I was always meant to be.

They call freedom a virtue when it conforms to their paper-thin values—when it is neat, bloodless, and contained within the fence of legality. They whisper it proudly in textbooks and speeches, but only so far as it marches to the rhythm of the state, the family, and the church. The moment freedom becomes wild and uncompromising, it ceases to be a virtue and becomes, in their trembling mouths, a vice.

I, with unrepentant lips, declare: yes. It is a vice, and it is divine.

To me, freedom is not a prize to be awarded for good behavior. It is not a virtue to be earned by being agreeable or obedient. It is a vice, voluptuous and brutal, that one must be willing to bleed for. I would rather bathe in my defiance than drink the stagnant wine of respectability. I would rather lose everything than become one of their neutered saints, choking on the incense of conformity.

When I speak of freedom, I do not speak of ballots or borders or the right to choose between one tyrant and another. I speak of the sovereignty of the self—that wild, terrible force that begins in the marrow and rises like smoke into every thought and action. True freedom is the ability to want what you want without shame, to act without begging permission, and to live without apology.

They fear this kind of freedom because it cannot be bought, cannot be governed, and cannot be institutionalized. It is feral. It walks naked into the world and dares to say, “Here I am. I do not ask for your blessing.”

I exalt that freedom. I kneel before it, not in submission but in reverence. I am its priest and its disciple, its philosopher and its w***e. Every time I spit in the face of propriety, I offer a psalm. Every time I choose pleasure over prudence, I light a candle in its name. Every time I speak a forbidden truth, I ring its church bells.

They ask, “But what of morality?”I answer, “Morality is the chastity belt of the mind.”

It is a chain forged by frightened men, passed down like a rusted heirloom, clamped upon each new generation by those too timid to taste life. I do not reject morality because I am cruel—I reject it because it is insufficient. This is because it was never designed for beings like me, who burn too brightly, engage in pleasure too freely, and think too deeply to be constrained by commandments written in dead languages.

No moral code can accommodate the complexity of desire. No doctrine can account for the thrill of contradiction, for the ache of forbidden pleasure, or the joy of transgression. Morality demands that I flatten myself to fit its frail frame. But I will not shrink. I will grow monstrously if I must.

Freedom, the genuine, excruciating form of liberty I advocate, carries inherent risks. It topples thrones and dissolves marriages. It exposes hypocrisies and undresses lies. It dares you to say yes when the world screams no. When you lie awake at night, it whispers the ancient, seductive truth: "You do not belong to them." You never did.”

I did not come to this world to behave. I came to taste, to break, to defile, to create.

I came to live.

So I offer this blasphemy wrapped in black velvet and blood: freedom is not a virtue—it is a sacred vice. And I, in all my shameless devotion, am a worshipper at its altar.

Let them build their statues to restraint. I will dance in ruins with the goddess of liberty herself, nude and laughing, wild with ecstasy, while the pious gnash their teeth behind locked doors.

Inspired by the painting “A Summer Day” (1927) by Gerda Wegener

Here I am, sprawled out on a blanket with my two lovers, having an afternoon picnic by the wild, untamed shores of this Scottish loch, its dark waters reflecting the afternoon light. Loch an Eilein, set amidst the ancient pines that tower like silent guardians around us, and the island in the middle of the loch where lie the ruins of a small 14th-century castle. The LSD is kicking in hard, and the water looks like it's breathing, rippling with secrets.

I, Lillian Fletcher, recline here in glorious nudity, my skin kissed by the crisp Highland breeze that teases my nipples to pert defiance. With me are my two lovers, Abigail and Dahlia, all of us English roses transplanted to this wild Scottish bank. We've shed our clothes like old skins, our bodies free under the vast sky. Our picnic basket is spilling over with strawberries, cheese, crackers, and a bottle of wine that tastes more like liquid stars right now. The air is cool on my skin, but inside, everything's on fire—colors swirling, thoughts expanding. We're diving deep today. Deep into the mystery of life. It’s the universe in motion, and I’m feeling super groovy.

"Oh god, Lillian, look at the loch," Dahlia points to the shimmering water. “It's like a giant... well, you know. It’s like a giant glass eye, and it’s looking right at us.”

I laugh, popping a strawberry into my mouth, the juice bursting onto my tongue. The world is tilting a bit, trees waving like they're in on the joke. "By god, Dahlia, you're right! I see it too! “The loch does indeed look like a gigantic eye watching us, and here we are, naked as the day we were born. Do you think the Loch is checking us out?”

We all burst into hilarious laughter.

Abigail, sitting cross-legged, giggles, her hand holding a wildflower, as she lazily traces circles on Dahlia's bare thigh. Dahlia’s got that dreamy look, eyes wide as saucers from the acid. Abigail presses the wildflower to Dahlia’s lips and twirls it around.

“Do you hear that?” Dahlia whispers, pushing the wildflower away.

“What?” I ask.

“The castle. It’s whispering.”

We listen.

At first, it’s only a breeze. Then we hear what sounds like someone reciting a poem in Gaelic. The acid heightens every sensation, turning the loch's glassy surface into a swirling kaleidoscope that mirrors the depths of our explorations. The walls of the castle on the island in the center of the loch appear to shimmer like they’re breathing. The grass prickles against my bare thighs, a thousand tiny tongues licking at my skin, but I don’t dare move. I feel as though I am rooted, immobile, as if I’ve merged with the grass that grows here. We’re all a constellation, a living rune, and if I shift even an inch, I’ll shatter the shape we’ve melted into. The acid has me wired to the marrow, every sensation dialed up to a scream, every thought a neon thread weaving through my skull. An indigo blue-colored dragonfly hovers over the picnic basket. It looks like a stained-glass flying crystal. Dahlia sits up and stares at the dragonfly, her perky, round breasts bouncing gently, their creamy fullness crowned by rosy nipples that pucker in the crisp air, drawing admiring glances from Abigail and me. The acid turns everything around us into a living painting; the pines' green hues swirl into emeralds, the dragonfly's bright colors dance over the picnic basket, and the castle's ruins pulse with ghostly auras.

"Oh, Dahlia, those breasts of yours are perfection—so firm and inviting, like ripe fruits begging to be savored," Abigail purrs, reaching out to cup one, her thumb circling the hardened peak. The LSD makes them seem to glow, auras of pink and gold dancing around the curves. “My breasts are heavier and more pendulous in comparison. They seem to sway with every breath I take. Feel the difference, Dahlia? Yours defy gravity, so buoyant and youthful, while mine speak of abundance, weighing down with sensual promise. Lillian, yours are somewhere in between—pert but soft.” I lean forward, my breasts brushing against Dahlia’s thigh as I trace the underside of hers, marveling at the smooth, taut skin. Abigail presses her fuller breasts against Dahlia’s perky ones, feeling the contrast in texture and firmness.

We are in a peculiar state of mind, for we have all partaken of the divine sacrament, a small bottle of liquid LSD-25, which unfurls the veils of perception, revealing the raw, pulsating truth of existence. The world, once mundane, now shimmers before us with an iridescent glow, each blade of grass a vibrant emerald, each drop of water a glistening sapphire. Our senses, heightened to an almost unbearable intensity, absorb every nuance. The gentle lapping of Loch an Eilein against the shore becomes a rhythmic symphony. Our bodies, liberated from the confining shrouds of cloth, entwine in casual caresses as we move closer to each other, knees parting in curious invitation. It's a moment of profound admiration—gazing upon each other's most intimate of places, taking in the secret gardens between our legs, and observing the lovely variations that make each one unique. The differences fascinate us—shapes, colors, textures—all amplified by the acid. Berries and wine lie scattered, forgotten as we lose ourselves in this shared discovery.

"Oh, darlings, spread wide and admire," Abigail suggests, her voice a husky murmur as she positions herself on her knees. With an almost deliberate elegance, her thighs splay open, revealing the intimate landscape between. Her vagina, framed by soft curls of dark hair, reveals her plump outer lips that resemble the delicate petals of a wild rose, a deeper hue of dusky pink underneath, with an inner labia that protrudes slightly, an exquisite asymmetrical curve, warm and inviting.

"Look at mine," Dahlia cheers, settling back on her heels, knees spread wide. The brown nest of soft curls frames her love mound like a portrait, her plump outer lips full and flushed, inner petals peeking through—slightly uneven, slick with arousal, catching what little light is filtering through the Highland mist. "See mine? It's bold, isn't it?”

“It looks like it's breathing,” Abigail giggles.

“How about yours, Lillian? Let’s see yours,” Dahlia urges.

I blush under the intensity of their gazes, but the acid dissolves any shyness, replacing it with wonder. I part my legs wider, exposing my own smoother beaver, with minimal hair, the outer lips forming a tidy slit that conceals the delicate, lighter pink inner petals until aroused. It's more compact, with a subtle hood over the clit that conceals the hidden gem underneath. The loch's breeze teases it, sending ripples of sensation that the acid turns into waves of color. "Mine's like a secret garden, all hidden. No man has ever pierced this hood!” I boast.

Dahlia laughs softly, lying back and drawing her knees up in the air, fully displaying herself. Her vagina is a vision of splendor. A fuller outer labia in a warm alabaster-beige tone, with longer, ruffled inner lips that extend beyond, wavy and textured like ocean waves, and a richer crimson flushing through as she shifts her weight. “Touch mine, both of you; feel the differences.” Dahlia commands. “Doesn't it make you think? Each vagina's unique existential signature—mine's chaotic and expansive, like this loch's wild depths, while yours, Abigail, is welcoming and enchanting, like that castle over there. Lillian, yours is like a secret treasure, waiting to be discovered.”

Abigail reaches out first, her fingers gently tracing Dahlia’s ruffled edges, marveling at the texture. "Mmm, so soft, like velvet waves. Yours feels smoother and more padded than mine. I can feel the difference!"

Dahlia guides Abigail’s hand to her moist opening, pressing Abigail’s fingers against the plump outer lips. "See? It's cushioned, almost protective, hiding the sensitivity beneath. But yours, Abigail, it looks so vulnerable. Lillian, join in—compare yours to ours. Your tidy slit is like a locked jewelry box, with all its potential waiting to be opened."

Dahlia turns to me. “Lillian, press your fingers into me.” I oblige, my digits plunging into Dahlia’s warm, welcoming void, her slickness coating my fingers. “Mmm…” Dahlia lets out a soft moan. I trace a finger along Dahlia’s plushness, where the sunlight dances upon her exposed folds like a lover's whisper—warm, yielding, the prominent inner pink adding a quirky charm—then moving to Abigail’s, where the extended labia feel like silken petals, responsive to the lightest touch. Finally, I touch my own for contrast, the compact lips feeling restrained yet brimming with potential. In this sublime haze, I behold our c***s not as mere vessels of carnal delight, but as the very essence of being—abysses that swallow the soul and bring forth pleasure.

We continue this intimate examination for what seems like an eternity, hands and eyes wandering in reverent curiosity. In this nude, trippy communion, admiration turns to profound connection, the differences not dividing but uniting us in the grand tapestry of creation.

The loch's waters ebb and flow nearby, as if envious of our intimacies.

"Abigail, join me. Let your tongue explore the depths of my existential chasm.”

Abigail chuckles, her mouth descending upon me with voracious hunger, her tongue a serpent uncoiling in my depths between my lap. Abigail, her face buried in my mound, lifts her head, her face slick with my juices.

“Does it not taste like eternity's sweet nectar?” I muse.

“Indeed,” Abigail replies. “Like ambrosia from the gods.”

Dahlia laughs, a high-pitched sound that echoes across the loch, her hand slipping between Abigail’s legs in a bold, unapologetic stroke. "Behold this sacred crevice," she declares, parting Abigail's nether lips with deliberate slowness, exposing the glistening pink to the open air. "It is no mere hole, no passive receptacle for man's fleeting rod. Nay, it is a vortex of creation and destruction.”

Abigail moves closer to Dahlia, her lips meeting Dahlia's in a kiss flavored with my arousal fluids, their tongues circling, exploring each other’s mouths with a sensual slowness. They break away, breathless.

Under the LSD's influence, I see fractal geometric shapes blooming from our clits. Our c***s are a maelstrom of psychedelic patterns expanding and contracting. Colors swirl around our pubes like auras of otherworldly radiance.

"Oh, my libertine sisters! Let us embrace fully now!” I declare as we form a chain of c***s and mouths, a daisy chain of absurd debauchery. We dissolve into a tangle of limbs and lips, the picnic forgotten amid grapes crushed under our heaving bodies. The Scottish loch bears witness to our gay revelry. We are not women, we are goddesses of the absurd, picnicking nude by this loch to proclaim that meaning resides not in the stars and planets, but in the slick folds between our thighs.

I do not begin with an apology, nor do I descend to the infantile realm of justification. I spit upon the altar of virtue, and in its place I offer only one thing: my unshackled will.

From the moment of my first breath, the world conspired to domesticate me. Swaddled in white cloth, kissed by the sour milk of expectation, I was offered a cradle of obedience and told it was love. I remember—though none do recall it with me—the cold gleam in the eyes of those who cooed above my head, already plotting to bind me in the invisible ropes of "goodness."

Decorum. That delicate word—the crown jewel of every trembling coward—how often it is whispered with pride by those who have never dared to think a thought that might cost them comfort. "Be polite," they say. "Mind your manners," they preach. "Respect your elders," they insist, as though age alone confers wisdom. But what, I ask you, is this etiquette but a refined leash tied to the post of collective submission?

I learned early, with brutal clarity, that civilization is not built upon courage, but rather on cowardice. Obedience is not a virtue—it is a mechanism. A design meant to file down the claws of the individual, to dull the fangs of desire, and to turn wolves into lapdogs. We are raised to fear ourselves. To polish ourselves, we must prune and hush ourselves until we resemble the bland wax figure of a “citizen.”

And yet—I resist.

Even as a child, I feel it in my blood, that pulse that beats too loudly, too violently to be ignored. The hunger to speak when silence is commanded, to act when obedience is expected, to desire when abstinence is praised. I commit my earliest transgressions not in shadow but under the sun, staring directly into the eyes of my would-be wardens and daring them to strike me down. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t, and instead retreat behind frowns and rules and tight smiles, unable to understand why their scorn leaves me unmoved.

They call me unruly. Difficult. Dangerous.

It is here that I first begin to understand the truth—the doctrine I now live and breathe and write into every letter of this libertine gospel: that freedom is not given—it is taken. It must be seized from the hands of the dead and dying who dare call themselves moral. It must be pried from the grip of traditions, wrestled loose from pulpits and parliament, from kitchen tables and lecture halls. It must be stolen from the lips of every simpering fool who dares tell you how to live, how to love, how to touch, how to scream.

Do you hear them? Do you smell the stench of their pretense?

The priests and the professors, the judges and the bureaucrats—they all speak in the same language. They dress in robes or suits, speak in calm voices, and cloak their cowardice in the polished language of civility. But beneath their borrowed dignity are caged animals, long since starved into submission. They preach obedience not because it is right, but because they have already lost the strength to disobey. They no longer feel the flame. They fear it.

They cling to decorum like a widow to her husband’s rotting corpse, dressing it up, perfuming it, propping it at the dinner table and calling it tradition.

I burn the corpse. I strike the match with a smile and inhale the smoke like incense.

Understand me: I do not rebel for the sake of rebellion. I do not shout for attention or transgress to feel novel. I rebel because I must. Because the fire that lives inside me will not dim at command, will not kneel to custom. Because to obey when I can disobey is to betray my nature, my body, my very soul.

There is something sacred in disobedience, something divine. It is the act of tearing away the veil and laughing at the nothing behind it. It is the refusal to play dead while still breathing. I have seen what happens to those who worship decorum: they wither. They go silent in rooms where they long to scream. They nod when they ache to disagree. They undress only in the dark, make love only by permission, and die only when told it is time.

I choose another path.

I walk a different path, indeed. I scandalize. I am accused of impropriety, of arrogance. Better to be called a monster while alive than praised as a saint once buried.

I write this article as both a confession and a declaration. I do not hide behind masks. I do not bend my voice to be more palatable. I am not concerned with your approval. I offer you only this: the raw, unvarnished truth of my liberty.

“I exalt freedom above obedience and decorum, and the feral hunger of the individual above the anaemic morality of the herd.”

Should that freedom offend you, then perhaps—sweet reader—it is you who should be offended more often.

The morning air was crisp, caressing my skin like a lover’s embrace, but I, Lady Godiva, felt none of its chill. That morning, I rode through the cobblestone streets of Coventry naked, my exposed skin crawling with the weight of a thousand unseen eyes. The streets of Coventry were deserted. Not a single person in sight.

My husband, Leofric, the Earl of Mercia—his cruel dare echoing in my mind like a dirty prayer: "Ride, Godiva. Ride naked through the town square, and I shall grant your wish," Leofric mocked one night, his voice laced with venomous challenge, thinking his words would silence me. Little did he know, they only kindled a fire within my soul.

My wish was for him to reduce the heavy taxes imposed on the citizens of Coventry. He couldn't just grant me my wish. No. He would have me humiliate myself. But oh, how I’d show him. I’d show them all. Does he think I won't do it? If this is what I must do, then so be it.

My fingers trembled as I untied the laces of my gown, the fabric sliding off my shoulders like a soft sigh. My gown fell at my feet, leaving me bare to the merciless dawn. My nipples hardened instantly, pebbling against the cool air. My skin was pale as moonlight, save for the faint blush of embarrassment creeping down my face and chest.

As dawn broke over Coventry, a sense of eerie calm had settled over its streets. The townsfolk, adhering to my request for privacy, barred their windows and doors, casting their gazes downward. I stepped into the morning clad in nothing but my convictions, my body veiled only by my cascading hair, which shimmered like woven strands of gold in the gentle sunlight.

I mounted my steed with the grace of a goddess, my bare bottom pressing against the saddle, the leather biting into my skin with the horse’s every step. My long, golden hair cascaded down my back like a curtain. My breasts and the moist, slightly parted crevice of my most intimate area were bared for all to see if anyone dared look. I arranged my thick, long golden hair to cover my exposed breasts, but the morning breeze tousled it, lifting strands to uncover them. It was as if nature conspired against me, trying to expose me further to the curious masses. My backside was slightly covered—the curve of my spine, the swell of my hips, my bare bottom.

Mounted upon my steed, I felt every eye averted, every shuttered window adding weight to the solitude of my protest. The cobblestones clicked and clacked under the horse's hooves. The breeze whispered across my skin, and yet, a flame of liberation burned bright within me, illuminating the shadows of my mind with stark reflections on the nature of freedom and the illusions of modesty.

I could feel the world watching even though no one was looking. Every shuttered window felt like a spotlight, every locked door a judgment. In this moment of rebellion and defiance, I was empowered yet vulnerable. Empowered by the impact my nude form had on the people around me. They were forced to turn their heads away as I bore witness to their reactions and judgments. I was vulnerable in knowing that any misstep or random act could lead to humiliation or something far worse. Such conduct was most unbecoming of a noblewoman and could be considered an act of blasphemy. I could be dragged off my horse and put to death. I dare not even think about it. I straightened my back and held my head high with pride as I continued toward the town square. I am a noblewoman, I thought to myself. No one can touch me.

So I rode onward, driven by an inner fire that refused to be quenched by fear or shame. For in this act of rebellion lay not just my own freedom but the liberation of all those who dared to challenge authority and societal expectations.

As I rode past busy market stalls and houses adorned with ornate tapestries, I saw glimpses of myself in each face that turned away in shock or disgust. In their hidden desires and suppressed fantasies lay the seeds of rebellion—of shaking off the shackles of tradition and societal expectations

The cobblestones were hard and rough beneath my horse’s hooves, each clatter echoing in the silence like a drumbeat. I gripped the reins tighter, my breath coming in shallow gasps. The wind whispered over my body like a gentle caress, making my nipples ache. I wanted to scream, cover myself, and flee, but I couldn’t. No, I wouldn’t. This was my protest, my rebellion, and I’d see it through.

As I rode, I contemplated the chains that bind us—not just the iron of tyranny, but the subtler, silken threads of propriety and decorum. Each hoofbeat was a cry for justice, each wisp of the wind an echo of defiance. In the privacy of shuttered gazes, I was both the spectacle and the spectator, the dominator and the subjugated.

The only betrayal of this pact of privacy was from Tom, the tailor—a simple man whose curiosity proved his undoing. From a crack in his window, he peered out, driven by a primal urge to witness the forbidden. I felt it—his gaze. A single, searing gaze burning through the crack in a window. Tom, the tailor. The miserable lad just couldn’t resist. I saw him in my mind’s eye, his face pressed to the glass, his tongue practically hanging out as he drank in the sight of my bare flesh. My body reacted instantly, my cheeks flushing hotter, my intimate area between my legs growing slick with a shameful wetness. I wanted to scream at him, to claw his eyes out, but I didn’t. I remained silent and rode on, my back straight as an arrow, my breasts bouncing with every step of my horse. God help me—I liked it. I enjoyed the sensation of exposure and the voyeurism it evoked. I could feel the wetness between my thighs, and I could smell my arousal mingling with the morning air.

My ride culminated in the heart of the town square, under the towering shadow of the abbey, where I dismounted with a grace that belied my trembling limbs. I stood there, bared not just in body but in soul, confronting the multitudes in their hidden alcoves, challenging them to reflect on the visage of their freedoms and fetters. I sat atop the horse, naked and unashamed, and for the first time in my life, I experienced a profound sense of freedom. Freedom to be seen. Freedom to be desired. Free to be worshipped.

Leofric, watching from the shadows, saw not just a wife in rebellion but a mirror reflecting his tyrannical visage. The taxes were lifted, not out of love or respect, but out of fear—fear of the power wielded by one unafraid to bear her truth before the world. He’d thought to break me with his cruelty, but he’d only awakened something wild and untamed. As he stared at my nude body, he felt the weight of his powerlessness. I was no longer his to control. I belonged to myself now.

As I lay bare the threads of my tale, I weave a broader discourse on the nature of power, submission, and the sensual dance between voyeur and exhibitionist. In the story of my ride, draped in light and shadow, the actual nakedness was not of my body but of Coventry’s soul, stripped of pretense and laid bare in the raw light of day.

In the retelling of my tale, I observe a curious mix of admiration and admonition, a sensual celebration of rebellion interwoven with the stark critique of societal norms. As the Marquis de Sade would muse, "It is in our basest desires that we uncover the seeds of our loftiest aspirations." My ride, though immortalized in legend, speaks less of the power of a woman naked and more of the power of a soul unshackled.