She does not know why it is so, only that she likes what she likes.
But "like" is probably the wrong verb.
She needs what she needs, though it is a bit scary to admit it, because it makes manifest that she does not really have a choice.
Accident of genetics, of birth or long lost and removed trauma (although, a decade of Gulf's wars have pretty much taught us that PTSD does not work that way), something decided for her what she wants.
She realized, over time, that it is the same for most people - they like what they like, because. Just because.
Then, some accept it, some reject it, some act, some wimp, some cry - because what they want is, really, a monstrosity and getting it would make them real monsters.
She is lucky... what she wants, only endanger herself, and this is already better than other possibilities, though she does not realize it - she just sees that life was simpler, when all she had to do was getting a man to shag her, mildly annoying as it was.
When she tries to imagine her future, she see herself in chains, in a dark place underground.
Dark, but warm and cosy, under the rule of a master that is both absolute, cruel and - secretly - benevolent.
Freedom from personal choices but for one - whether to be, or not, an owned property of that one, perfect person.
She thought it was going to be easy, reach through Internet and find that man - or maybe woman, she is not so sure - that could make her hir slave.
The internet is full choke of "masters", "doms" - a bit less of "dommes", but she is not really sure that she could "work" with a woman, she just had a small encounter with a woman that made her feel well, but could have been simply a case, an effect of that woman's potent personality.
Or, maybe, that only one was really a Female to Male transexual that still had to realize that, in hir self, he was a man.
The possibility had not been in Her thoughts back then, when they met. It took Her these last few months to discover that what she knew about human sexuality was but a drop of what is really out there. Probably, even what she knows now is still no more than a drop in a bigsea.
"The first sign that you are learning something, is when you realize how little do you know about it."
She had crossed the citation, tossed by one of the less douche of the wannabe masters that she met through the 'net.
The guy lived, literally, on the other side of the planet, in Tasmania... she wasn't ready, yet, to go so far, just for the shadow of a possible match. She still hoped to find someone nearer home, in her same continent at least. She is not so sure any more...
All the guys that she met in real life couldn't meet her needs, which go well beyond the "kinky sex" that they were all too eager to offer.
Sometimes, she thinks that she would be better back into the vanilla fold, or maybe buying an Hitachi.
Will I ever meet her? Probably not, but I wish her luck all the same.
Monday, 22 August 2016
Non Human Entities Active On Earth - Report
Confidential, For Eyes Only.
Object: Non Human Entities Active On Earth
This report is intended to integrate and supplement the Alien Activities Report and the Alien Activities Special Report.
Like the second, this report is devised solely for the necessities of The President of the United States, The Secretary of State, The Secretary of the Army, The Secretary of the Navy and other officers listed in NSPD-179.
If you received this document and are not listed in NSPD-179 as an authorized recipient, stop reading here and contact immediately the NSA Special Hazards office, to signal a protocol violation.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Summary:
Contrarily to what publicly stated by the Anipos Legation offices, it is apparent that the alien invaders of Earth have long lost control of their army of self-replicating robots.
This would be a terrifying existential menace for human life, and the whole biosphere of our planet, if it did not appear that the reason the robots have declared their masters unfit to rule is - precisely - because the Anipos Army Staff directives resulted in an excessive loss of human lives, during the war.
It is evident that, while it still brings up a set of distinctively dangerous scenarios, a robot revolt motivated by the desire to avoid any human death is far from being the worst possible development.
The fact that the Robots do not accept their masters orders signifies, also, that a number of them are continuously operating incognito on Earth, against their masters' directives.
The new DARPA Gravimetric Interferometer Sensor of Sondheim Flats has been able to identify the gravity waves produced by the Anipos Antigravity Systems, with a range proportional to the square root of the mass lifted by a system, multiplied for the acceleration provided by it.
Antigravity is mostly used for on-planet movements, and for up-lift and down-lift, in and out of the planet's gravity well.
Given the still limited sensibility of the G.I.S., Sondheim Flats data only represent a sample of the actual traffic, though some reasonable extrapolations allow to use it as a base to evaluate the actual Earth-Space traffic and the number and class of Robots operating on Earth.
From the available data it has been inferred that at any moment, on Earth, there are at least eight Robots of the ten thousand tonnes class, fifty of the one thousand tonnes class, and up to 300 units in the 200 tonnes class .
This tonnage of battle steel is actually quite higher than the one deployed in active warfare.
Why so many robots spend so much time on Earth is a mystery, as it appears that most of them simply keeps loitering around their descent location, to then jump back to outer space at night, only to be replaced by other robots, often of a different class.
It was not possible to guess any strategic or tactical purpose in their behaviour, which leaves open the worrying possibility that they are, collectively, becoming senile or that we still lack some crucial data.
The sinking of the MiyuMaru research vessel - effectively, an illegal Japanese whaler - has finally confirmed the "Whale Queen" hypothesis.
A number of small - around 30, with a mass up to 1500 tonnes - Battle Robots has been hacked by what seem to be an incredibly clever environmental activist, identified as the Icelandish Corporal Ilene Johanssen. How this 20 years old with light mental issues may have managed to do what the best effort of the NSA and all the Ciber-intelligence organizations of the planet couldn't, still defies any explanation, but it has become evident that she consider herself as the incarnation of the Great Whales' collective conscience.
We suggest that, whether or not this represent the truth, we consider the Corporal Johanssen as an hostile alien power, not dissimilar from the Robots .
CIA assassination attempts, so far, have managed only to show how limited human Counter-intelligence reveals itself, when the opponent is unhampered by human limits. While we commend our colleagues' efforts, we also recommend ceasing these actions, as Johanssen robotic body-guards have demonstrated to be not bound by the Main Robots restraints, in taking human lives.
The destruction of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, clearly showed the risk of continuing, down this route, in antagonizing what is likely the 2nd most powerful army on the planet, after the main Anipos Army.
For the purposes of this report, we have decided include the four Betan women on Earth among the non-human threats.
The Rand group has finally delivered the final report on their analysis on Bridget Monaghan samples and tissues, that the army managed to acquire and preserve during the war. Its conclusions present in a sinister light the Anipos authorities decision to NOT identify an repatriate the three missing sisters of the only super-heroine in service for Earth, and their decision to include a Betan woman in the personnel of their administrative services on-planet.
The key to the Betan`s superpowers seems to be their nuclear-powered mitochondria , endemic in all life forms on that planet.
The mechanisms that allows these mitochondria to directly convert mass in energy are well beyond our science and, as far as it was possible to ascertain, of that of any other human-settled planet.
However, it appears that these mitochondria started their life exactly like the ones in all the rest of the galaxy - as symbiotic bacteria.
And that they are prone to revert to their bacterial activity, when confronted with a not yet colonized host, first occupying the body, then entering the cells and slowly replacing part of the original mitochondria.
In all effects, the Betan superpowers act as an easily transmissible STD with a very long dormant phase, which is the reason why the Anipos actually prohibit to Betans any access to their home system.
This may seem not a great danger.
"Faster Than A Speeding Bullet, Stronger than a Locomotive, Able to Jump Tall Buildings In A Single Bound" seems a lot better than "Kaposi Sarcomas spreading on all the body surface, extreme weight loss, diarrhoea, dehydration, renal failure, death", until one considers the effect on society as a whole.
Even the most severe epidemics, like AIDS in Subsaharian Africa in 21st century, can only strain the social net. Affected individuals may be rejected by the rest of society, out of fear of contagion, but the collective needs of managing the illness will compensate it. Infected often try their best to contain the spread the contagion as much as the rest of the population. And the rejected individuals cannot destroy the rest of society, even when they wished to, as they needed its help.
All of which is inverted in a superpower epidemic.
In a superpowers epidemic, contagion is desired by many non infected and the infected feel no reason to take precautions.
Infected individuals that have started to show significant sides effects feel, and behave, like superior beings.
Trying to isolate them only results in exacerbating their alienation and actively creates a desire for vengeance. As soon as they soon realize that they do not need a societal support to handle most physical needs, the likelihood that they proceed to exact their vengeance grows exponentially.
The not as much hidden as willingly forgotten history of the Beta colony highlights this... between the moments the infected had grown above the 2%, making the contagion manifest and forcing the authorities to actively try to stop its propagation, and the moment they were the majority, the colony became engulfed in a sanguinary sequence of coups and civil wars, with millions of deaths, and the destruction of almost every infrastructure.
Infrastructures that were never rebuilt, because the new, super-powered Betans felt little to no need for trains, aircrafts or even agriculture.
It is our opinion that the reason why the aliens have decided to leave four young, sexually active Betan women free to roam our world, is to replicate this dynamic on our planet.
The recommended course of action would be to identify and contain all the infected, starting with the four Betans, if it was at all possible.
The conditional is due, because it appears that the data released on the Galaxy net on the "Betan Riot Gun" were grossly distorted: the prototypes built by the Special Weapons Department of the FBI have proven completely ineffective against both Xanthippe Xeyos and her erstwhile lover, the former French DRM agent Marie Lasalle.
Whereas Ms. Xeyos limited herself to fly away, the not-flying Lasalle managed to escape capture by subduing handily every member of the covert ops team sent to apprehend her. The very fact that she managed to do so without the need of doing any bodily harm to any of them only highlights - once again - the limits of human forces when confronting post-human threats.
This has only been compelled by the Bagley accident, were the 3/5 Darkhorse Marines Battalion has been completely destroyed by what we suspect is yet another non-human force at play on the planet
The entity named "Non-Human 4" has been identified analysing the movement patterns and actions of the other known non-human factions, and it was inferred that Bagley was a central node of its activities.
After the Lasalle fiasco, a decision was made to use a whole battalion of Marines with full battle gear, to subdue whatever may be found in the Entity nexus. The unit chosen had just completed the transition to the new Fully Robotized Heavy Armor Gear (FRHAG) and was, thus, the most powerfully armed tactical group available at the time.
Of the 998 men and women of the 3/5 Marines, only five women survived the ambush at the Farm at The Lake.
Their experience confirms that the entity that operated the farm is not aligned with the other known Non-human threats, as its behaviour didn't collate with that of any the others.
This entity is a far greater and more immediate danger than any other alien threat, and investigation on its nature, goals and resources should take precedence over our efforts to contain the Betans or track the Robots.
Neither of these seems to be actively planning to overthrow our civilization, the way this last entity is.
---
"Actively planning to overthrow our civilization" - the intruder smiled coldly - "isn't this a bit too harsh? I assure you, I do not give a fig about Earth's current civilization. I will simply create some of my owns, in due time."
The shortish brute in leather jacket smiled again, sending shivers down Jane Mullet's spine.
The 63rd president of the United States of America, she had never thought to see a scene like this.
The oval office was littered by the bodies of the dead - the monster had been swift and merciless.
"If you think that killing me will achieve anything... " - she didn't continue; She had worked her whole life, to get there; At 55, admitting that her dream wasn't really worth anything was a bit too much, even for a callous cynic like Jane.
"I know, I know... the true form of the U.S. government nowadays is a hereditary bureaucracy, and the president is just a figurehead with severely reduced powers, whereas the congress is simply a battlefield for corporation lobbism. But, really, I'd hate to have to redo this in the kitchen of every CEO of the Corporate States of America, which is what you will graciously convey them, for me..."
The monster sighed, more bored than annoyed "... because, you know, even if I have some ten thousand bodies, I would rather employ them in better, more pleasant ways. But if I have to exterminate every single senator, general, CEO of this country - it would take me a month or so, but I will do it."
He scribbled five names on a piece of paper, that he gave her, telling her that those were the guy to talk about their current predicament.
The names didn't mean much for her - "Who are they?"
"The true owners of the seven corporations that control the whole media system in the U.S. - if they decide so, a news just cease to exist. And I'd like to keep not existing."
"Do you want that I make pressure on them, to gag news about you?"
that was preposterous.
"No, I'd like you agree with them over some plan. I already have convinced each of them... they just need to know that they are all on board."
The thing smiled, and was gone.
Jane finally managed to exit the office, and saw her assistant, Lindsay. What was left of her.
Lindsay was 28 and cute, and the monster had entertained itself with her.
The horror of the sight made Jane swear vengeance against him.
"Your daughter will envy her, if you guys keep coming for me" - something whispered in her ear, probably a micro-drone.
And just like that, Jane knew it was true.
Object: Non Human Entities Active On Earth
This report is intended to integrate and supplement the Alien Activities Report and the Alien Activities Special Report.
Like the second, this report is devised solely for the necessities of The President of the United States, The Secretary of State, The Secretary of the Army, The Secretary of the Navy and other officers listed in NSPD-179.
If you received this document and are not listed in NSPD-179 as an authorized recipient, stop reading here and contact immediately the NSA Special Hazards office, to signal a protocol violation.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Summary:
Contrarily to what publicly stated by the Anipos Legation offices, it is apparent that the alien invaders of Earth have long lost control of their army of self-replicating robots.
This would be a terrifying existential menace for human life, and the whole biosphere of our planet, if it did not appear that the reason the robots have declared their masters unfit to rule is - precisely - because the Anipos Army Staff directives resulted in an excessive loss of human lives, during the war.
It is evident that, while it still brings up a set of distinctively dangerous scenarios, a robot revolt motivated by the desire to avoid any human death is far from being the worst possible development.
The fact that the Robots do not accept their masters orders signifies, also, that a number of them are continuously operating incognito on Earth, against their masters' directives.
The new DARPA Gravimetric Interferometer Sensor of Sondheim Flats has been able to identify the gravity waves produced by the Anipos Antigravity Systems, with a range proportional to the square root of the mass lifted by a system, multiplied for the acceleration provided by it.
Antigravity is mostly used for on-planet movements, and for up-lift and down-lift, in and out of the planet's gravity well.
Given the still limited sensibility of the G.I.S., Sondheim Flats data only represent a sample of the actual traffic, though some reasonable extrapolations allow to use it as a base to evaluate the actual Earth-Space traffic and the number and class of Robots operating on Earth.
From the available data it has been inferred that at any moment, on Earth, there are at least eight Robots of the ten thousand tonnes class, fifty of the one thousand tonnes class, and up to 300 units in the 200 tonnes class .
This tonnage of battle steel is actually quite higher than the one deployed in active warfare.
Why so many robots spend so much time on Earth is a mystery, as it appears that most of them simply keeps loitering around their descent location, to then jump back to outer space at night, only to be replaced by other robots, often of a different class.
It was not possible to guess any strategic or tactical purpose in their behaviour, which leaves open the worrying possibility that they are, collectively, becoming senile or that we still lack some crucial data.
The sinking of the MiyuMaru research vessel - effectively, an illegal Japanese whaler - has finally confirmed the "Whale Queen" hypothesis.
A number of small - around 30, with a mass up to 1500 tonnes - Battle Robots has been hacked by what seem to be an incredibly clever environmental activist, identified as the Icelandish Corporal Ilene Johanssen. How this 20 years old with light mental issues may have managed to do what the best effort of the NSA and all the Ciber-intelligence organizations of the planet couldn't, still defies any explanation, but it has become evident that she consider herself as the incarnation of the Great Whales' collective conscience.
We suggest that, whether or not this represent the truth, we consider the Corporal Johanssen as an hostile alien power, not dissimilar from the Robots .
CIA assassination attempts, so far, have managed only to show how limited human Counter-intelligence reveals itself, when the opponent is unhampered by human limits. While we commend our colleagues' efforts, we also recommend ceasing these actions, as Johanssen robotic body-guards have demonstrated to be not bound by the Main Robots restraints, in taking human lives.
The destruction of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, clearly showed the risk of continuing, down this route, in antagonizing what is likely the 2nd most powerful army on the planet, after the main Anipos Army.
For the purposes of this report, we have decided include the four Betan women on Earth among the non-human threats.
The Rand group has finally delivered the final report on their analysis on Bridget Monaghan samples and tissues, that the army managed to acquire and preserve during the war. Its conclusions present in a sinister light the Anipos authorities decision to NOT identify an repatriate the three missing sisters of the only super-heroine in service for Earth, and their decision to include a Betan woman in the personnel of their administrative services on-planet.
The key to the Betan`s superpowers seems to be their nuclear-powered mitochondria , endemic in all life forms on that planet.
The mechanisms that allows these mitochondria to directly convert mass in energy are well beyond our science and, as far as it was possible to ascertain, of that of any other human-settled planet.
However, it appears that these mitochondria started their life exactly like the ones in all the rest of the galaxy - as symbiotic bacteria.
And that they are prone to revert to their bacterial activity, when confronted with a not yet colonized host, first occupying the body, then entering the cells and slowly replacing part of the original mitochondria.
In all effects, the Betan superpowers act as an easily transmissible STD with a very long dormant phase, which is the reason why the Anipos actually prohibit to Betans any access to their home system.
This may seem not a great danger.
"Faster Than A Speeding Bullet, Stronger than a Locomotive, Able to Jump Tall Buildings In A Single Bound" seems a lot better than "Kaposi Sarcomas spreading on all the body surface, extreme weight loss, diarrhoea, dehydration, renal failure, death", until one considers the effect on society as a whole.
Even the most severe epidemics, like AIDS in Subsaharian Africa in 21st century, can only strain the social net. Affected individuals may be rejected by the rest of society, out of fear of contagion, but the collective needs of managing the illness will compensate it. Infected often try their best to contain the spread the contagion as much as the rest of the population. And the rejected individuals cannot destroy the rest of society, even when they wished to, as they needed its help.
All of which is inverted in a superpower epidemic.
In a superpowers epidemic, contagion is desired by many non infected and the infected feel no reason to take precautions.
Infected individuals that have started to show significant sides effects feel, and behave, like superior beings.
Trying to isolate them only results in exacerbating their alienation and actively creates a desire for vengeance. As soon as they soon realize that they do not need a societal support to handle most physical needs, the likelihood that they proceed to exact their vengeance grows exponentially.
The not as much hidden as willingly forgotten history of the Beta colony highlights this... between the moments the infected had grown above the 2%, making the contagion manifest and forcing the authorities to actively try to stop its propagation, and the moment they were the majority, the colony became engulfed in a sanguinary sequence of coups and civil wars, with millions of deaths, and the destruction of almost every infrastructure.
Infrastructures that were never rebuilt, because the new, super-powered Betans felt little to no need for trains, aircrafts or even agriculture.
It is our opinion that the reason why the aliens have decided to leave four young, sexually active Betan women free to roam our world, is to replicate this dynamic on our planet.
The recommended course of action would be to identify and contain all the infected, starting with the four Betans, if it was at all possible.
The conditional is due, because it appears that the data released on the Galaxy net on the "Betan Riot Gun" were grossly distorted: the prototypes built by the Special Weapons Department of the FBI have proven completely ineffective against both Xanthippe Xeyos and her erstwhile lover, the former French DRM agent Marie Lasalle.
Whereas Ms. Xeyos limited herself to fly away, the not-flying Lasalle managed to escape capture by subduing handily every member of the covert ops team sent to apprehend her. The very fact that she managed to do so without the need of doing any bodily harm to any of them only highlights - once again - the limits of human forces when confronting post-human threats.
This has only been compelled by the Bagley accident, were the 3/5 Darkhorse Marines Battalion has been completely destroyed by what we suspect is yet another non-human force at play on the planet
The entity named "Non-Human 4" has been identified analysing the movement patterns and actions of the other known non-human factions, and it was inferred that Bagley was a central node of its activities.
After the Lasalle fiasco, a decision was made to use a whole battalion of Marines with full battle gear, to subdue whatever may be found in the Entity nexus. The unit chosen had just completed the transition to the new Fully Robotized Heavy Armor Gear (FRHAG) and was, thus, the most powerfully armed tactical group available at the time.
Of the 998 men and women of the 3/5 Marines, only five women survived the ambush at the Farm at The Lake.
Their experience confirms that the entity that operated the farm is not aligned with the other known Non-human threats, as its behaviour didn't collate with that of any the others.
This entity is a far greater and more immediate danger than any other alien threat, and investigation on its nature, goals and resources should take precedence over our efforts to contain the Betans or track the Robots.
Neither of these seems to be actively planning to overthrow our civilization, the way this last entity is.
---
"Actively planning to overthrow our civilization" - the intruder smiled coldly - "isn't this a bit too harsh? I assure you, I do not give a fig about Earth's current civilization. I will simply create some of my owns, in due time."
The shortish brute in leather jacket smiled again, sending shivers down Jane Mullet's spine.
The 63rd president of the United States of America, she had never thought to see a scene like this.
The oval office was littered by the bodies of the dead - the monster had been swift and merciless.
"If you think that killing me will achieve anything... " - she didn't continue; She had worked her whole life, to get there; At 55, admitting that her dream wasn't really worth anything was a bit too much, even for a callous cynic like Jane.
"I know, I know... the true form of the U.S. government nowadays is a hereditary bureaucracy, and the president is just a figurehead with severely reduced powers, whereas the congress is simply a battlefield for corporation lobbism. But, really, I'd hate to have to redo this in the kitchen of every CEO of the Corporate States of America, which is what you will graciously convey them, for me..."
The monster sighed, more bored than annoyed "... because, you know, even if I have some ten thousand bodies, I would rather employ them in better, more pleasant ways. But if I have to exterminate every single senator, general, CEO of this country - it would take me a month or so, but I will do it."
He scribbled five names on a piece of paper, that he gave her, telling her that those were the guy to talk about their current predicament.
The names didn't mean much for her - "Who are they?"
"The true owners of the seven corporations that control the whole media system in the U.S. - if they decide so, a news just cease to exist. And I'd like to keep not existing."
"Do you want that I make pressure on them, to gag news about you?"
that was preposterous.
"No, I'd like you agree with them over some plan. I already have convinced each of them... they just need to know that they are all on board."
The thing smiled, and was gone.
Jane finally managed to exit the office, and saw her assistant, Lindsay. What was left of her.
Lindsay was 28 and cute, and the monster had entertained itself with her.
The horror of the sight made Jane swear vengeance against him.
"Your daughter will envy her, if you guys keep coming for me" - something whispered in her ear, probably a micro-drone.
And just like that, Jane knew it was true.
Saturday, 20 August 2016
Late Adolescencies
It may happens that you recognize yourself in this. God knows that I do. Do not take it badly, please...
If you are among those that dare get their nose out of the internet, and into a a "Local BDSM Group", you may have noticed some strange dynamics at play.
On one side there may be persons in their 40s that shows all the signs of going through a late adolescence crisis, on the other there may be 20 years old that are planning to move away, in a more congenial area, to explore their kinky side without having to cave in to the pressures of their surrounding, the family, the.. whatsoever. That are, in all effect, acting more maturely than the forty years old.
In other words, the physical and social ages are all over the place.
In many ways, this is inevitable.
For one millennial that has grown with internet and started seeing odd stuff in her twelves, and by now has learned to filter out the crap and look for what she really likes, there is someone in her late 30s or early 40s that has finally been able to put a name to the reason why she has never had an orgasm since she has married - only because she stumbled in a BDSM site, perusing the internet history of her teen daughter..
In many ways, understanding one's own BDSM nature in later age is akin to a pretty terrifying second adolescence.
Many of the rules of the "vanilla game", that required their share of work to acquire, back in one's youth, doesn't really seem to work all that well now - like, mixing sex and alcohol.
In classic vanilla life it was tolerated to mix the two (less and less, as time goes by), to the point that for some it was almost mandatory (as the only way they have to loosen up a bit their inhibitions), in a BDSM context it is considered reckless imprudence, malpractice, and a big ethical NO-No.
The rules of engagement are also a little different (not so much, really... treat the girls nicely until she asks you otherwise, but be ready to spank her well if she wants/needs it), and sex is different.
In all, the late BDSM bloomer feels hirself as insecure as he was in his 15s but, to worsen things, hardly anybody around them is passing through something similar.
At least, adolescents goes through their crisis among groups of friends that share age and similar issues.
Going through the same in one's 40s ... you go at it alone, and out of shape... after some fifteen years of marriage, for example, nobody really remembers how things were done before.
"Crazy" choices that could be made in one's 20s are also often beyond reach, in one's 40s... like, as mentioned before, steer one's life to accommodate a nice, happy, kinky inclination.
The girl in her 20s can go to Copenhagen for a better paid work and spending the week end afternoons in that city's Shibari dojo.
A mother of two daughters, in her 40s, can's do the same - not without upsetting the life of at least the daughters, her parents (who are the grandfathers of the kids) and possibly the [ex] husband (OK, who cares about the guy?).
She can only see her 25 years old colleague going away, and sigh - because she knows that she would pretty much need to do the same, but also feels that she really can't.
Of course, BDSM groups can hardly afford the luxury of being segregated by age, so it is only natural that persons from all the age spectrum (above legal age) meet there.
Which can be jarring at time, for us old-timer in a late adolescence crisis... because it shows us all too well how fucked up we have been, and we still are.
If you are among those that dare get their nose out of the internet, and into a a "Local BDSM Group", you may have noticed some strange dynamics at play.
On one side there may be persons in their 40s that shows all the signs of going through a late adolescence crisis, on the other there may be 20 years old that are planning to move away, in a more congenial area, to explore their kinky side without having to cave in to the pressures of their surrounding, the family, the.. whatsoever. That are, in all effect, acting more maturely than the forty years old.
In other words, the physical and social ages are all over the place.
In many ways, this is inevitable.
For one millennial that has grown with internet and started seeing odd stuff in her twelves, and by now has learned to filter out the crap and look for what she really likes, there is someone in her late 30s or early 40s that has finally been able to put a name to the reason why she has never had an orgasm since she has married - only because she stumbled in a BDSM site, perusing the internet history of her teen daughter..
In many ways, understanding one's own BDSM nature in later age is akin to a pretty terrifying second adolescence.
Many of the rules of the "vanilla game", that required their share of work to acquire, back in one's youth, doesn't really seem to work all that well now - like, mixing sex and alcohol.
In classic vanilla life it was tolerated to mix the two (less and less, as time goes by), to the point that for some it was almost mandatory (as the only way they have to loosen up a bit their inhibitions), in a BDSM context it is considered reckless imprudence, malpractice, and a big ethical NO-No.
The rules of engagement are also a little different (not so much, really... treat the girls nicely until she asks you otherwise, but be ready to spank her well if she wants/needs it), and sex is different.
In all, the late BDSM bloomer feels hirself as insecure as he was in his 15s but, to worsen things, hardly anybody around them is passing through something similar.
At least, adolescents goes through their crisis among groups of friends that share age and similar issues.
Going through the same in one's 40s ... you go at it alone, and out of shape... after some fifteen years of marriage, for example, nobody really remembers how things were done before.
"Crazy" choices that could be made in one's 20s are also often beyond reach, in one's 40s... like, as mentioned before, steer one's life to accommodate a nice, happy, kinky inclination.
The girl in her 20s can go to Copenhagen for a better paid work and spending the week end afternoons in that city's Shibari dojo.
A mother of two daughters, in her 40s, can's do the same - not without upsetting the life of at least the daughters, her parents (who are the grandfathers of the kids) and possibly the [ex] husband (OK, who cares about the guy?).
She can only see her 25 years old colleague going away, and sigh - because she knows that she would pretty much need to do the same, but also feels that she really can't.
Of course, BDSM groups can hardly afford the luxury of being segregated by age, so it is only natural that persons from all the age spectrum (above legal age) meet there.
Which can be jarring at time, for us old-timer in a late adolescence crisis... because it shows us all too well how fucked up we have been, and we still are.
Friday, 19 August 2016
Robot Whores
We all know it... in the end, automation is going to eat our jobs away.
Then, we will all starve to death, as there is no sign of our societies turning in any "socialist" direction.
And then, someone will find a new way to present things well, and the "Cut-Throat Capitlaism" that the readers of Forbes seems to be so fond of - because they are the capitalists in it - will go the way it went the late XIX century cut-throat capitalism - with capitalists throats ripped by angry mobs that discovers that the right to private possession exists, as all rights, only as long as societies deems them necessary and worth of being respected.
Chances are, if you were a secretary before the 2008 crisis, your old job has long gone, replaced by two or three apps in your former chief's smart phone, and now you manage to make ends meet in some way.... maybe.
It is the nature of progress in our era; Even the fabled Chinese workers are replaced by robots, in China.
One of the lasts - or maybe not - jobs that will be automatized will be, ahem, prostitution.
This piece of mines is prompted by another one that I read in The Register, some time ago, reporting the opinion of one Kathleen Richardson, Ph.D., about the need to ban robot whores, as their diffusion would make the situation of human whores even worse.
Of course, the gentle doctor tries to frame the issue along the usual lines of "Prostitution is based upon the ability of using another person as an object, and having objects posing as persons would make things worse".
Maybe she is right...
One could argue a much more direct cause of concern for prostitutes, should a robotic competition to them ever arise: if (when?) the robots were credible, whores would be - like it happened to typists, not so long ago - out of work, awfully fast.
In reality, the problem of prostitution, for society, is simply that it undermines one of the cardinal points on which it structured itself: to have SEX, males must perform above some standards defined by the community of females.
This, of course, is no human novelty at all - sixty million yeas before some ape took the divergent path that lead to humans, the Tyrannosaurus Rex male had to bust his ass to impress Tyrannosaurus females and have some sex.
If, by any chance, this limits to male access to sex is removed, males have little to no incentives to do anything.
We all know it... and it is simple to see these dynamics in action, in those contexts where a significant abundance of women makes easier - "cheaper" - for men to have sex.
They back off from commitment, from work or family, because - brutally said - it is not worth the effort.
In the long term, unless our technological development stalls (everything can happen, and the end of Gordon Moore's era migth be near) "robot whores" are going to appear, and make this the average pattern.
Of course, I think that they'll arrive after "robot truck drivers" (banally, trucks that drive themselves), "Robot taxis", "robotic warehouses", "robot nurses", "robot policemen" etc... so, the big question will likely be:
"Who the hell has the money to pay for their services, anyway?"
The answer will be , nobody.
Yes, if they will ever be built, probably these contraption will be banned.
But it would be nice, if the people that will push for the ban - starting with the ineffable Kathleen Richardson - admitted that the problem is not that "the 'bots teach males to treat women as object".
Much of the traditional ways of life did and still do the same, far more effectively - simply because it is functional to maximize chances of reproduction, which was fundamental for societies that had little medicine to keep in check infant mortality rates, and no automation to alleviate the need for a vast workforce.
The fact that in our modern societies men are permitted the luxury of thinking about women as human beings (or even, to admit that they like other kind of human beings) is a side effect of the increasing levels of automation, a positive effect, whereas the abysmally low birthrate is a less positive one...
A society that, globally, does not feel the need for the replacement of its workforce - most of which is already supernumerary - does not make much effort to have any new workforce born, leaving women exposed to a wide set of non-reproduction pressures.
It is funny that the same political forces that are often at the core of establishing this pattern, for the economical interests of their patrons, then blame women as a category for simply acting like the kind of rational economic actor - in most cases, an idealization not dissimilar from the invisible pink unicorn - that those same patrons allegedly worship.
Nor the problem is that "The robots will make the condition of whores worse".
Nobody really cares about the prostitutes - they are women who broke the solidarity pact of their gender and allowed men sex for almost free, anyway - but every woman with a brain can see the menace, if the robots do a decent job at simulating a living person.
Robotic whores may arrive, one day.
They will effectively put out of business`most of the low strata of the "profession", those that effectively only sell little more than their body (often, in countries where prostitution is not a legal, legitimate profession, forced by criminal gangs).
This , in itself, would not be such a terrible outcome.
What is more worrying, for many , these machines could put out of business the whole low strata of WOMEN, those that had little more to offer, to men, than sex.
This will be the real reason why these robots will be banned, if they ever menace to become a widespread reality.
Some women will fear that, some day, men will say the same that I heard, a week ago, from a female friend of mines:
"Ever since I bought my Sybian, I do not feel the need for men - they are so underwhelming, in bed."
- Yep, mechanic gigolos are already stealing our chances; robot whores would just even the playfield.
Then, we will all starve to death, as there is no sign of our societies turning in any "socialist" direction.
And then, someone will find a new way to present things well, and the "Cut-Throat Capitlaism" that the readers of Forbes seems to be so fond of - because they are the capitalists in it - will go the way it went the late XIX century cut-throat capitalism - with capitalists throats ripped by angry mobs that discovers that the right to private possession exists, as all rights, only as long as societies deems them necessary and worth of being respected.
Chances are, if you were a secretary before the 2008 crisis, your old job has long gone, replaced by two or three apps in your former chief's smart phone, and now you manage to make ends meet in some way.... maybe.
It is the nature of progress in our era; Even the fabled Chinese workers are replaced by robots, in China.
One of the lasts - or maybe not - jobs that will be automatized will be, ahem, prostitution.
This piece of mines is prompted by another one that I read in The Register, some time ago, reporting the opinion of one Kathleen Richardson, Ph.D., about the need to ban robot whores, as their diffusion would make the situation of human whores even worse.
Of course, the gentle doctor tries to frame the issue along the usual lines of "Prostitution is based upon the ability of using another person as an object, and having objects posing as persons would make things worse".
Maybe she is right...
One could argue a much more direct cause of concern for prostitutes, should a robotic competition to them ever arise: if (when?) the robots were credible, whores would be - like it happened to typists, not so long ago - out of work, awfully fast.
In reality, the problem of prostitution, for society, is simply that it undermines one of the cardinal points on which it structured itself: to have SEX, males must perform above some standards defined by the community of females.
This, of course, is no human novelty at all - sixty million yeas before some ape took the divergent path that lead to humans, the Tyrannosaurus Rex male had to bust his ass to impress Tyrannosaurus females and have some sex.
If, by any chance, this limits to male access to sex is removed, males have little to no incentives to do anything.
We all know it... and it is simple to see these dynamics in action, in those contexts where a significant abundance of women makes easier - "cheaper" - for men to have sex.
They back off from commitment, from work or family, because - brutally said - it is not worth the effort.
In the long term, unless our technological development stalls (everything can happen, and the end of Gordon Moore's era migth be near) "robot whores" are going to appear, and make this the average pattern.
Of course, I think that they'll arrive after "robot truck drivers" (banally, trucks that drive themselves), "Robot taxis", "robotic warehouses", "robot nurses", "robot policemen" etc... so, the big question will likely be:
"Who the hell has the money to pay for their services, anyway?"
The answer will be , nobody.
Yes, if they will ever be built, probably these contraption will be banned.
But it would be nice, if the people that will push for the ban - starting with the ineffable Kathleen Richardson - admitted that the problem is not that "the 'bots teach males to treat women as object".
Much of the traditional ways of life did and still do the same, far more effectively - simply because it is functional to maximize chances of reproduction, which was fundamental for societies that had little medicine to keep in check infant mortality rates, and no automation to alleviate the need for a vast workforce.
The fact that in our modern societies men are permitted the luxury of thinking about women as human beings (or even, to admit that they like other kind of human beings) is a side effect of the increasing levels of automation, a positive effect, whereas the abysmally low birthrate is a less positive one...
A society that, globally, does not feel the need for the replacement of its workforce - most of which is already supernumerary - does not make much effort to have any new workforce born, leaving women exposed to a wide set of non-reproduction pressures.
It is funny that the same political forces that are often at the core of establishing this pattern, for the economical interests of their patrons, then blame women as a category for simply acting like the kind of rational economic actor - in most cases, an idealization not dissimilar from the invisible pink unicorn - that those same patrons allegedly worship.
Nor the problem is that "The robots will make the condition of whores worse".
Nobody really cares about the prostitutes - they are women who broke the solidarity pact of their gender and allowed men sex for almost free, anyway - but every woman with a brain can see the menace, if the robots do a decent job at simulating a living person.
Robotic whores may arrive, one day.
They will effectively put out of business`most of the low strata of the "profession", those that effectively only sell little more than their body (often, in countries where prostitution is not a legal, legitimate profession, forced by criminal gangs).
This , in itself, would not be such a terrible outcome.
What is more worrying, for many , these machines could put out of business the whole low strata of WOMEN, those that had little more to offer, to men, than sex.
This will be the real reason why these robots will be banned, if they ever menace to become a widespread reality.
Some women will fear that, some day, men will say the same that I heard, a week ago, from a female friend of mines:
"Ever since I bought my Sybian, I do not feel the need for men - they are so underwhelming, in bed."
- Yep, mechanic gigolos are already stealing our chances; robot whores would just even the playfield.
Wednesday, 17 August 2016
NCS - Non-Consensual Story, Part 3
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and, frankly, undesired on the author's part.
Third part of NCS - Non-Consensual Story, coming in after the aptly named NCS - Non-Consensual Story, part 2.
If I have to interpret the curve of visits to this blog before and after I realized that I had published the second part and finished it -, as a reaction to the fact that the guy breaks down at the end, I'd say that a lot of my readers are really naughty.
I suspected it but, there is really someone that gets off from non-consensual S&M fantasies with a cruel, over-`powerful sadist?
Sheesh, I hope that they are all bottoms - which would explain why the good stories are, really, told from the sub side, leaving the "dom" as a hastily sketched, cruel force of nature.
To be fair, that's - effectively - a nice description of yours truly...
Kyla had lost almost half of her teeth - Josh continued to beat her every time that she refused a command, but he wasn't so brutal as he hoped to be. She knew that he was growing frustrated - with himself.
His long-planned introduction to vengeance had left him with no vengeance at all... rather, with a gnarly, ugly pleasure; A pleasure slowly increasing, each time she offered him an excuse to punish her.
Kyla realized that she had lost the tempo to submit - by being defiant, she had really broke him. But what she had broke was "Gentle Josh", the guy that discussed with her composition technique, though he hardly had any useful clue on it. What she had been left with was, Josh the maniac, that kidnapped her for, she suspected, pretty horrible motives.
The gentleness was disappearing from the new Josh... leaving a nasty piece of work that enjoyed torturing her.
Soon he would realize that he was enjoying giving her pain - not just doing it to get her to submit, but enjoying her pain on its own.
That was a scary, scary thought, because she knew all too well how the stories ended, when criminals discovered that they cared for the pain of the victim more than for the victim..
Yet, all hope was not lost, yet. As long as he had to tend to her wounds, after his tantrums, he was not going to forget that she was a person, a woman that used to be his friend, Kyla.
The two sides were fighting inside him, that was clear - as long as this was going on, she was not in immediate danger - beyond the cumulating damages.
Should she fold, and submit to his will?
At least apparently?
If he was real, about this just being a test before doing the same to his ex-wife, if he really believed so... the moment she folded, she would stop being a useful test, and he would have to look for a new test subject.
At that point, keeping her alive, or gutting and burying her somewhere, would become just a matter of personal taste and convenience, for Josh.
Folding may spare her physical pain, but get her killed in a matter of days - she still hoped that he had let some dangling thread, that someone could pick up what he was doing.
She wasn't ready to let go any hope or illusion - anything to keep herself alive, really.
Josh thoughts were remarkably similar to those of Kyla - "I am not going to break her, this way."
He knew it... his choice of tortures were more damaging that demeaning; if things kept going this way, she was going to die way before she had a chance to give in.
He could almost feel the ball of stubbornness forming inside the little black woman.
Worse, he could feel parts of himself respecting her for it.
"She is a bitch, a slut, a whore."
"She is a girl in an impossible situation, trying to keep her soul intact as long as possible."
He couldn't keep having non-torture contacts with her... allowing her access to a medical kit was dangerous, but he couldn't continue to mend her either. There was the chance that he concluded that all this was a farce, and let her go. He needed to make more distance between them, so he needed someone to mend her for him.
Was there a nurse in any of his "Male Rage" acquaintances?
Could he trust anybody of them, anybody at all? He knew the answer - "not really".
Not the moment that they were outside the complex... having information on something like his current extra-curricular activities is the kind of leverage, in discussing things with the police, that most "players" only dream about.
And that solved things... he needed to look in another place, as he needed a nurse, but not really an accomplice.
He toyed with an idea that he had entertained for a while before, using one of those electric collars , the kind that zaps animals if they run away from a transmitter, to jerry-build some comtrol hardware.
He realized why he didn't try to build one, before. A malfunction would have killed Kyla, before she gave him what he wanted.
- His mind carefully tiptoed around the concept, just to avoid spelling out what he really wanted from Kyla... at a deeper level, he knew that any chance of ever getting it was gone, the very moment he drugged her.
But her nurse, was of no consequence - should he kill her, he could just kidnap another one.
Of course, another kidnapping was a bother but, this time, things were going to be easier...
This was no proof-of-concept, no anticipation of what he was going to do with his ex-wife.
There was no reason at all to have any kind of relationship with the nurse. She just had to be a surgical nurse, possibly a tiny woman - for personal tastes and practical reasons.
Her disappearance was going to cause some more noise than Kyla's but, as she was going to have no direct connection to him, it didn't matter that much.
As he thought this, he realised that he would have never gone on with his ex-wife kidnapping.
There simply was no way that the police wouldn't check on him with a magnifying lens, given how bitter had been their divorce, and his history of near complete existential crisis afterwards.
Even the stupidest detective in the world would have done so, and he doubted that the policemen were any worse at their jobs than anybody else is at his own.
They didn't need to be geniuses... they simply had aggregated experiences, to draw on; A nice little check on his financials and they'd pick the factory, recognised its tell signs and check it with geo-radars and the like.
For all he knew, if anything ever happened to his wife, it was still going to happen, unless he had some iron-clad alibi.
Why the fuck did he start this crap, then?
The answer flashed through his mind, then He forgot it almost as fast as it had come.
His wife was only the last woman to hurt him, but they all had to pay. Al the bitches and sluts.
"But Kyla is not a slut, although she was a whore for a short while."
To silence the mutinous parts of his mind, he concentrated on the issue of planning the new abduction.
He continued, for a while - focusing on a task helped him. Then, revised the list, and moved building the collar to the top.
That night, the door of Kyla's cell opened briefly as he deposited a stool near the chained woman.
In its middle, the stool had an enormous ... thing, so oversized that it was grotesque.
His order was simple "Sit on it" - his voice, still, calm, almost dead.
A voice that Kyla had never heard.
She didn't resist, this time. The man she knew as Josh was almost gone, so she carefully avoided giving it another push. She wasn't sure what could replace him, if she did.
But it was not going to be nice.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and, frankly, undesired on the author's part.
Third part of NCS - Non-Consensual Story, coming in after the aptly named NCS - Non-Consensual Story, part 2.
If I have to interpret the curve of visits to this blog before and after I realized that I had published the second part and finished it -, as a reaction to the fact that the guy breaks down at the end, I'd say that a lot of my readers are really naughty.
I suspected it but, there is really someone that gets off from non-consensual S&M fantasies with a cruel, over-`powerful sadist?
Sheesh, I hope that they are all bottoms - which would explain why the good stories are, really, told from the sub side, leaving the "dom" as a hastily sketched, cruel force of nature.
To be fair, that's - effectively - a nice description of yours truly...
Kyla had lost almost half of her teeth - Josh continued to beat her every time that she refused a command, but he wasn't so brutal as he hoped to be. She knew that he was growing frustrated - with himself.
His long-planned introduction to vengeance had left him with no vengeance at all... rather, with a gnarly, ugly pleasure; A pleasure slowly increasing, each time she offered him an excuse to punish her.
Kyla realized that she had lost the tempo to submit - by being defiant, she had really broke him. But what she had broke was "Gentle Josh", the guy that discussed with her composition technique, though he hardly had any useful clue on it. What she had been left with was, Josh the maniac, that kidnapped her for, she suspected, pretty horrible motives.
The gentleness was disappearing from the new Josh... leaving a nasty piece of work that enjoyed torturing her.
Soon he would realize that he was enjoying giving her pain - not just doing it to get her to submit, but enjoying her pain on its own.
That was a scary, scary thought, because she knew all too well how the stories ended, when criminals discovered that they cared for the pain of the victim more than for the victim..
Yet, all hope was not lost, yet. As long as he had to tend to her wounds, after his tantrums, he was not going to forget that she was a person, a woman that used to be his friend, Kyla.
The two sides were fighting inside him, that was clear - as long as this was going on, she was not in immediate danger - beyond the cumulating damages.
Should she fold, and submit to his will?
At least apparently?
If he was real, about this just being a test before doing the same to his ex-wife, if he really believed so... the moment she folded, she would stop being a useful test, and he would have to look for a new test subject.
At that point, keeping her alive, or gutting and burying her somewhere, would become just a matter of personal taste and convenience, for Josh.
Folding may spare her physical pain, but get her killed in a matter of days - she still hoped that he had let some dangling thread, that someone could pick up what he was doing.
She wasn't ready to let go any hope or illusion - anything to keep herself alive, really.
Josh thoughts were remarkably similar to those of Kyla - "I am not going to break her, this way."
He knew it... his choice of tortures were more damaging that demeaning; if things kept going this way, she was going to die way before she had a chance to give in.
He could almost feel the ball of stubbornness forming inside the little black woman.
Worse, he could feel parts of himself respecting her for it.
"She is a bitch, a slut, a whore."
"She is a girl in an impossible situation, trying to keep her soul intact as long as possible."
He couldn't keep having non-torture contacts with her... allowing her access to a medical kit was dangerous, but he couldn't continue to mend her either. There was the chance that he concluded that all this was a farce, and let her go. He needed to make more distance between them, so he needed someone to mend her for him.
Was there a nurse in any of his "Male Rage" acquaintances?
Could he trust anybody of them, anybody at all? He knew the answer - "not really".
Not the moment that they were outside the complex... having information on something like his current extra-curricular activities is the kind of leverage, in discussing things with the police, that most "players" only dream about.
And that solved things... he needed to look in another place, as he needed a nurse, but not really an accomplice.
He toyed with an idea that he had entertained for a while before, using one of those electric collars , the kind that zaps animals if they run away from a transmitter, to jerry-build some comtrol hardware.
He realized why he didn't try to build one, before. A malfunction would have killed Kyla, before she gave him what he wanted.
- His mind carefully tiptoed around the concept, just to avoid spelling out what he really wanted from Kyla... at a deeper level, he knew that any chance of ever getting it was gone, the very moment he drugged her.
But her nurse, was of no consequence - should he kill her, he could just kidnap another one.
Of course, another kidnapping was a bother but, this time, things were going to be easier...
This was no proof-of-concept, no anticipation of what he was going to do with his ex-wife.
There was no reason at all to have any kind of relationship with the nurse. She just had to be a surgical nurse, possibly a tiny woman - for personal tastes and practical reasons.
Her disappearance was going to cause some more noise than Kyla's but, as she was going to have no direct connection to him, it didn't matter that much.
As he thought this, he realised that he would have never gone on with his ex-wife kidnapping.
There simply was no way that the police wouldn't check on him with a magnifying lens, given how bitter had been their divorce, and his history of near complete existential crisis afterwards.
Even the stupidest detective in the world would have done so, and he doubted that the policemen were any worse at their jobs than anybody else is at his own.
They didn't need to be geniuses... they simply had aggregated experiences, to draw on; A nice little check on his financials and they'd pick the factory, recognised its tell signs and check it with geo-radars and the like.
For all he knew, if anything ever happened to his wife, it was still going to happen, unless he had some iron-clad alibi.
Why the fuck did he start this crap, then?
The answer flashed through his mind, then He forgot it almost as fast as it had come.
His wife was only the last woman to hurt him, but they all had to pay. Al the bitches and sluts.
"But Kyla is not a slut, although she was a whore for a short while."
To silence the mutinous parts of his mind, he concentrated on the issue of planning the new abduction.
- Choose his nurse
- Check her routine
- Find the place
- Build the definitive collar...
He continued, for a while - focusing on a task helped him. Then, revised the list, and moved building the collar to the top.
That night, the door of Kyla's cell opened briefly as he deposited a stool near the chained woman.
In its middle, the stool had an enormous ... thing, so oversized that it was grotesque.
His order was simple "Sit on it" - his voice, still, calm, almost dead.
A voice that Kyla had never heard.
She didn't resist, this time. The man she knew as Josh was almost gone, so she carefully avoided giving it another push. She wasn't sure what could replace him, if she did.
But it was not going to be nice.
Thursday, 11 August 2016
NCS - Non-Consensual Story, Part 2
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and, frankly, undesired on the author's part.
Second part of NCS - Non-Consensual Story
It is not a mystery that I do not exactly love Non-Consensual S/M stories, though I have a suspect that the problem is that the few that I read were written somewhat badly (worse than by me... I know, it's almost impossible), showed no interest in the psychology of the characters (beyond a "He was the master of the universe, and proud of being the master of the universe that he was" attached to the master... have I said that this was about the master? And such a master he was ) and hand-waved even the basic needs (secrecy, trusted accomplices, keeping things into budget) of the criminal factors in the story.
So, why am I here writing one? Because, lately, I remembered that I had left the old one on a little cliffhanger...
The oh-so-unfortunate female deuteragonist of our story had just been kidnapped by my pretty despicable protagonist.
What is going to happen?
Pages and pages of relentless sexual tortures on her, till she dies?
Alas, the few things that I wrote about Kyla are enough that I do not want her to die.
I do not want Josh to die, or to remain in prison for the rest of his life, either.
Neither do I want Kyla to fall in love with her torturer - even though it is a staple of the BDSM genre in Hentai, the use of the Stockholm Syndrome (or, rather, women becoming addicted to extreme lewdness) seems to me - in this context - yet another example of bad writing.
Maybe it actually reflects true psychological mechanisms at work in real life prisoners, but it still seems crap to me.
Will I be able to mix things so that I get all that I want?
As I write these lines, I have not even the foggiest idea of if and how.
We'll see...
Kyla woke up.
She was naked, chained to an old forged-iron bed, with no mattress or sheets, and just one little pillow and a thick blanket.
Even with it being three centimetres thick, the blanket was not enough to completely even out the pressure of the net's chains on her skin. Had she been white, plenty of red lines would mark her body.
Drugged? Josh had drugged her? But - why?
He didn't look like one of those pervert... Hell, she had tried plenty of times to get him to look her THAT way! By now, she was sure the guy was even more gay than he was a lousy writer.
A man copying the style of Patricia Loughlear... almost as pathetic as the voice that was now coming from some hidden loudspeaker.
"Welcome, slave, to your last room. Here is where you'll spend the rest of your miserable life."
It used some distorter but, come on, it was Josh's voice - unmistakably. The fact that he pretended to be someone else suggested that he had no real accomplices... which was a bit scary. Accessories to crime have a tendency to flip on their bosses... the lone maniac had some more chances than the ones that hired helps.
Khttps://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7916738425800914293#editor/target=post;postID=5200943278606118177;onPublishedMenu=overview;onClosedMenu=overview;postNum=0;src=postnameyla listed in her mind all that she had read on serial criminals... defy or comply? Which strategy would keep Kyla alive longer and get Josh to make more mistakes? What did he expect from her kidnapping, what h needed? Why did he?
If all he wanted was some sex, he just had to ask... idiot. She really didn't care about that stuff.
"Come on, Josh! I recognized your voice! Let me go now, and we'll call this a practical joke and laugh about it tomorrow, with the rest of the boys" - to Hell with it...
The guy had clearly spent some time planning this, and had the resources in place to abduct and hide women - even if he let her go, he may still try again with some other poor girl. If she convinced him, her first call would be to the FBI.
He probably understood this - a part this.... thin that he was doing, he was not really that dumb as not to get it.
The punishment for kidnapping - for this KIND of kidnapping, beyond the years of jail, there is also the probability of being killed by one pissed-off inmate, to take into account - are so harsh that it makes no sense freeing the kidnapped, ever.
Not when the chances of murder prosecution, in the absence of a body, are so abysmally low as in their state.
Had he made this kind of calculations? He didn't seem much into crime novels as Kyla - Pat Loughlear was her only romantic read, though some romance is hidden even in Edgar Wallace and Conan Doyle, if one squeeze the eyes hard enough - but he had probably spent way more time then her, thinking about this moment.
Except that he really didn't, or couldn't do, anything more than having some vague notion of kidnapping her, imprisoning her and make her "pay" - for things that she didn't do at all.
Not only didn't she do anything to him, the lonely black girl could hardly do anything nasty to any other man... she simply had not enough nastiness in her, to really be a bitch.
As she stood defiantly, he could feel the back of his mind itching, trying not to say to himself "She is right... this is stupid, and wrong".
This was a mistake - a mistake that he already made. The only way left was to go on, follow the script till its dirty end, polish the weak points, and then use the revised plan with his horrible ex-wife.
"Slave, you are here to entertain us with your pain, your body and your terror. Your past life is over. You have no rights, nor freedom, nor food nor water but what we allow you to have, by our goodwill. Now, lower your head and put on the leather blind hood in front of you."
"Fuck Off, Josh. If you want to see me blindfolded, you may have at least the courage to do it yourself, ass-hole! I am not going to help you."
Josh stood aghast, in front of his 94" flat screen. The resolution of the concealed webcam was just too low, it made the bigger than life face of the Kyla on-screen somewhat surreal. He switched the signal to his laptop , noting for himself - "when it will be Linda's time, I'll have to use a 4k camera... "
He didn't expect Kyla to resist - her life had been a long series of humiliations, pains, and betrayal that she had to endure and had made her into a worthless person.
At least, so he thought... the fact that the tiny, slightly chubby black girl may see herself differently, had never crossed his mind, but she did. This didn't look like the near broken wreck that he found in her letters to her preferred romance provider.
This was Kyla as she had to go through life, always ready for the next fight. He miscalculated.
Repeating the order was only going to highlight his ineffectiveness - she said it herself, he had to do it himself.
He took the hood that he prepared, and then let it go. She knew that he was the one behind this - there was no reason to hide. He left his "command post", and suddenly realized why did he create it n the first place - to remove himself from the action, to feel less what he was going to do. A coward way to look at the effects of his own actions.
He could not expect her to do his bidding for him - "he who draws blood, must soil himself" - the ancient reality of the men of action, before the weapons that strike at distance changed the nature of confrontation among humans.
He opened the door, and entered her cell.
Kyla looked at him, with a lot more hate than fear. She despised him, he knew.
He wen up to her, and they stood separated, looking at each other - Kyla asked only "Why?".
Josh knew that he could not answer... that any justification he could come out was, really, pathetic, so he finally saw the truth.
"Because I Want" - then he slammed his fist in her face, at his full strength.
She fell on her own feet, already an incoherent mess, blood running from her broken lips, the eyes half-closed in her near-loss of consciousness, one of her incisors visibly loosened in its gum.
Hosh looked at her... he thought that he was going to feel powerful, vindicated. he did not.
He considered continuing the work, trash the frail body of the diminutive black girl, completely.
He wen off the room, instead, closed the door, sat against the wall.
And he cried.
He was a monster, and a prisoner of his own choices - from now on, all had to follow its path.
Till the dirty, messy, stupid end.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and, frankly, undesired on the author's part.
Second part of NCS - Non-Consensual Story
It is not a mystery that I do not exactly love Non-Consensual S/M stories, though I have a suspect that the problem is that the few that I read were written somewhat badly (worse than by me... I know, it's almost impossible), showed no interest in the psychology of the characters (beyond a "He was the master of the universe, and proud of being the master of the universe that he was" attached to the master... have I said that this was about the master? And such a master he was ) and hand-waved even the basic needs (secrecy, trusted accomplices, keeping things into budget) of the criminal factors in the story.
So, why am I here writing one? Because, lately, I remembered that I had left the old one on a little cliffhanger...
The oh-so-unfortunate female deuteragonist of our story had just been kidnapped by my pretty despicable protagonist.
What is going to happen?
Pages and pages of relentless sexual tortures on her, till she dies?
Alas, the few things that I wrote about Kyla are enough that I do not want her to die.
I do not want Josh to die, or to remain in prison for the rest of his life, either.
Neither do I want Kyla to fall in love with her torturer - even though it is a staple of the BDSM genre in Hentai, the use of the Stockholm Syndrome (or, rather, women becoming addicted to extreme lewdness) seems to me - in this context - yet another example of bad writing.
Maybe it actually reflects true psychological mechanisms at work in real life prisoners, but it still seems crap to me.
Will I be able to mix things so that I get all that I want?
As I write these lines, I have not even the foggiest idea of if and how.
We'll see...
Kyla woke up.
She was naked, chained to an old forged-iron bed, with no mattress or sheets, and just one little pillow and a thick blanket.
Even with it being three centimetres thick, the blanket was not enough to completely even out the pressure of the net's chains on her skin. Had she been white, plenty of red lines would mark her body.
Drugged? Josh had drugged her? But - why?
He didn't look like one of those pervert... Hell, she had tried plenty of times to get him to look her THAT way! By now, she was sure the guy was even more gay than he was a lousy writer.
A man copying the style of Patricia Loughlear... almost as pathetic as the voice that was now coming from some hidden loudspeaker.
"Welcome, slave, to your last room. Here is where you'll spend the rest of your miserable life."
It used some distorter but, come on, it was Josh's voice - unmistakably. The fact that he pretended to be someone else suggested that he had no real accomplices... which was a bit scary. Accessories to crime have a tendency to flip on their bosses... the lone maniac had some more chances than the ones that hired helps.
Khttps://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7916738425800914293#editor/target=post;postID=5200943278606118177;onPublishedMenu=overview;onClosedMenu=overview;postNum=0;src=postnameyla listed in her mind all that she had read on serial criminals... defy or comply? Which strategy would keep Kyla alive longer and get Josh to make more mistakes? What did he expect from her kidnapping, what h needed? Why did he?
If all he wanted was some sex, he just had to ask... idiot. She really didn't care about that stuff.
"Come on, Josh! I recognized your voice! Let me go now, and we'll call this a practical joke and laugh about it tomorrow, with the rest of the boys" - to Hell with it...
The guy had clearly spent some time planning this, and had the resources in place to abduct and hide women - even if he let her go, he may still try again with some other poor girl. If she convinced him, her first call would be to the FBI.
He probably understood this - a part this.... thin that he was doing, he was not really that dumb as not to get it.
The punishment for kidnapping - for this KIND of kidnapping, beyond the years of jail, there is also the probability of being killed by one pissed-off inmate, to take into account - are so harsh that it makes no sense freeing the kidnapped, ever.
Not when the chances of murder prosecution, in the absence of a body, are so abysmally low as in their state.
Had he made this kind of calculations? He didn't seem much into crime novels as Kyla - Pat Loughlear was her only romantic read, though some romance is hidden even in Edgar Wallace and Conan Doyle, if one squeeze the eyes hard enough - but he had probably spent way more time then her, thinking about this moment.
Except that he really didn't, or couldn't do, anything more than having some vague notion of kidnapping her, imprisoning her and make her "pay" - for things that she didn't do at all.
Not only didn't she do anything to him, the lonely black girl could hardly do anything nasty to any other man... she simply had not enough nastiness in her, to really be a bitch.
As she stood defiantly, he could feel the back of his mind itching, trying not to say to himself "She is right... this is stupid, and wrong".
This was a mistake - a mistake that he already made. The only way left was to go on, follow the script till its dirty end, polish the weak points, and then use the revised plan with his horrible ex-wife.
"Slave, you are here to entertain us with your pain, your body and your terror. Your past life is over. You have no rights, nor freedom, nor food nor water but what we allow you to have, by our goodwill. Now, lower your head and put on the leather blind hood in front of you."
"Fuck Off, Josh. If you want to see me blindfolded, you may have at least the courage to do it yourself, ass-hole! I am not going to help you."
Josh stood aghast, in front of his 94" flat screen. The resolution of the concealed webcam was just too low, it made the bigger than life face of the Kyla on-screen somewhat surreal. He switched the signal to his laptop , noting for himself - "when it will be Linda's time, I'll have to use a 4k camera... "
He didn't expect Kyla to resist - her life had been a long series of humiliations, pains, and betrayal that she had to endure and had made her into a worthless person.
At least, so he thought... the fact that the tiny, slightly chubby black girl may see herself differently, had never crossed his mind, but she did. This didn't look like the near broken wreck that he found in her letters to her preferred romance provider.
This was Kyla as she had to go through life, always ready for the next fight. He miscalculated.
Repeating the order was only going to highlight his ineffectiveness - she said it herself, he had to do it himself.
He took the hood that he prepared, and then let it go. She knew that he was the one behind this - there was no reason to hide. He left his "command post", and suddenly realized why did he create it n the first place - to remove himself from the action, to feel less what he was going to do. A coward way to look at the effects of his own actions.
He could not expect her to do his bidding for him - "he who draws blood, must soil himself" - the ancient reality of the men of action, before the weapons that strike at distance changed the nature of confrontation among humans.
He opened the door, and entered her cell.
Kyla looked at him, with a lot more hate than fear. She despised him, he knew.
He wen up to her, and they stood separated, looking at each other - Kyla asked only "Why?".
Josh knew that he could not answer... that any justification he could come out was, really, pathetic, so he finally saw the truth.
"Because I Want" - then he slammed his fist in her face, at his full strength.
She fell on her own feet, already an incoherent mess, blood running from her broken lips, the eyes half-closed in her near-loss of consciousness, one of her incisors visibly loosened in its gum.
Hosh looked at her... he thought that he was going to feel powerful, vindicated. he did not.
He considered continuing the work, trash the frail body of the diminutive black girl, completely.
He wen off the room, instead, closed the door, sat against the wall.
And he cried.
He was a monster, and a prisoner of his own choices - from now on, all had to follow its path.
Till the dirty, messy, stupid end.
Wednesday, 10 August 2016
Back to your art...
When you can, make time for it.
If you see something that doesn't satisfy you, think about ways to solve it - eventually, be bold, and trample your ego to take on a course of some kind on it.
Perspective, for example, doesn't take much... any good book on technical drawing usually covers "technical perspective" more than deeply enough.
Remember that there are, really, no "cheap tricks" - just things that work for you and your style, and things that do not.
Also, all techniques are just there to be learned and used.
Try to always keep a goal that you can reach inside your despair horizon, the length after which you lose faith in completing projects.
If you are down, that length can be quite short, but doing things helps stretching it back to normal.
Treasure constructive critics and ignore obstructive ones.
No matter what keep going on and, when you can, go back to your art.
Nobody else is really going to really understand it, but it doesn't matter - as long as it yours.
Saturday, 6 August 2016
Thursday, 4 August 2016
How to build yourself a Cintiq: To case or not to case?
Or, rather, to build a new case, or to modify the case of the tablet, to hold the screen?
It is a matter of personal tastes, and of time: building even the simplest, boxy-style case, ad fitting everything neatly inside takes a couple of days (and some raw material).
Modifying an Intuos case takes less time, BUT... if for any reason, you fancy changing the tablet in your build (for example, to upgrade to a later model... I2 -> I3 makes a lot of sense and, if one is lucky enough that his screen does not interfere with the new tablet, the change may be little more than a direct replacement of the main boards and finding a place for the I3 buttons) or you finally abort the project, you cannot re-assemble and re-sell the tablet.
Personally, I tend to build new cases, even for the A5 sized (probably, that was a mistake... the case is all in folded iron; It is excessively sturdy, to say the least... the kind of small appliance that one does not survive, if his partner throws it at him in anger).
Building your own case takes slightly more time (in reality, with a well thought design, one may assemble it in a couple of hours... then, days go in trimming it to fit everything, the same as with modifying an existing Intuos), but it presents its advantages.
First of all, tablets are made to be placed on a desk.
Unless they have a good IPS monitor, "Cintiqs" can HARDLY be used at all, in that position.
And even if they were... drawing on a tablet, you follow the work on the screen - the screen is in a perfect position to be viewed with little or no perspective aberrations; over time, your brains learns how to compensate for the large distance between hand and the screen (and for the non-linearities in the tablet position reading... that's why a tablet driver has a 4 points projection set-up, and a Cintiq driver uses 27 - or more - points; on a digitizing monito, you see where it goes off-track).
A Cintiq is going to replace your physical support ... so, it is best thought in terms of how you use a sheet of paper of the same size of the screen.
A5 - it is a notes block, that usually one keeps in hand while drawing - for one of these, keeping it small and compact is a good idea.
A4 - Can go both way (keep in mind that usually a tablet requires a size comparable to the successive din step), though probably the best paradigm is a monitor on a monitor arm.
A3 - Big, they are better served thinking of one of them as a centre-piece in a drawing table.
A2 and beyond (multiple digitizers under the LCD) - these are, really, drawing boards.
With some care, one may design a frame that can be trimmed, relatively easily, for more than one use case.
Stretching out a tablet frame for an use that it was not thought for, may produce strange results and require awkward junctions.
(In fact, an awful number of builds die during the fit-the-case-to-the-screen phase - torn TCON-lcd flexible junctions, cutters that go in the wrong place and short things....)
On the other hand, modifying an existing plastic case... can take a lot less time.
Both methods can yield good results, depending on what your use scenario is, so it is a matter of personal preferences.
It is a matter of personal tastes, and of time: building even the simplest, boxy-style case, ad fitting everything neatly inside takes a couple of days (and some raw material).
Modifying an Intuos case takes less time, BUT... if for any reason, you fancy changing the tablet in your build (for example, to upgrade to a later model... I2 -> I3 makes a lot of sense and, if one is lucky enough that his screen does not interfere with the new tablet, the change may be little more than a direct replacement of the main boards and finding a place for the I3 buttons) or you finally abort the project, you cannot re-assemble and re-sell the tablet.
Personally, I tend to build new cases, even for the A5 sized (probably, that was a mistake... the case is all in folded iron; It is excessively sturdy, to say the least... the kind of small appliance that one does not survive, if his partner throws it at him in anger).
Building your own case takes slightly more time (in reality, with a well thought design, one may assemble it in a couple of hours... then, days go in trimming it to fit everything, the same as with modifying an existing Intuos), but it presents its advantages.
First of all, tablets are made to be placed on a desk.
Unless they have a good IPS monitor, "Cintiqs" can HARDLY be used at all, in that position.
And even if they were... drawing on a tablet, you follow the work on the screen - the screen is in a perfect position to be viewed with little or no perspective aberrations; over time, your brains learns how to compensate for the large distance between hand and the screen (and for the non-linearities in the tablet position reading... that's why a tablet driver has a 4 points projection set-up, and a Cintiq driver uses 27 - or more - points; on a digitizing monito, you see where it goes off-track).
A Cintiq is going to replace your physical support ... so, it is best thought in terms of how you use a sheet of paper of the same size of the screen.
A5 - it is a notes block, that usually one keeps in hand while drawing - for one of these, keeping it small and compact is a good idea.
A4 - Can go both way (keep in mind that usually a tablet requires a size comparable to the successive din step), though probably the best paradigm is a monitor on a monitor arm.
A3 - Big, they are better served thinking of one of them as a centre-piece in a drawing table.
A2 and beyond (multiple digitizers under the LCD) - these are, really, drawing boards.
With some care, one may design a frame that can be trimmed, relatively easily, for more than one use case.
Stretching out a tablet frame for an use that it was not thought for, may produce strange results and require awkward junctions.
(In fact, an awful number of builds die during the fit-the-case-to-the-screen phase - torn TCON-lcd flexible junctions, cutters that go in the wrong place and short things....)
On the other hand, modifying an existing plastic case... can take a lot less time.
Both methods can yield good results, depending on what your use scenario is, so it is a matter of personal preferences.
Monday, 1 August 2016
Can I Save Her?
The great, black hands move swiftly - the large woman takes a handful of rice, mixed with soy vinegar and sugar, makes the last vaguely fish-shaped log, then she takes a nice chunk of fresh tuna and starts filleting it in thin stripes, that she lays on the rice with small drops of wasabi acting as 'glue' as well as seasoning.
Lord Jonathan Maxwell keeps watching, as Keisha Lawson fills the work table with nigiris, in the back workroom of Kawarazaki Sushi. The room is wide, spacious and well lit - and well hidden from the dinner room.
Even in this first half of the 22st century, Japanese people are more than a shade racist when it comes to blacks. Lord Maxwell imagines what a riot could it be, if the many actual Japanese clients of the place - probably the best Sushi restaurant in Great London area - discovered that most of the food, there, was prepared by a Nigger.
When she raises her head, Jonathan tries to move forward but is stopped by Saitou Kawarazaki, the owner, who speaks entirely too deferentially to the Black Giantess.
"Kono otoko wa Keisha-Megami-Sama to hanashi o shitaidesu"
"Daijobu Saitou o'dono"
The cold stare of the titanic African could pierce a tank armour, and slices through Jonathan self-assuredness. Her eyes widens a little, for the smallest nick of time - some kind of comprehension overtook her.
"Please, Saitou O'Dono, tell Hikari to continue with the Gunkans. I will be out for a while."
"Ai, Keisha-Megami-Sama" - the man bows deeply in front of the big black, just as she take off her apron.
, bent on exploiting employees in every possible way.
"My place is nearby. I suspect you would rather speak away from everybody's ears, this time" - the smile on Keisha's face is almost crooked, while she says so, but Jonathan cannot help but agree with her.
This time, going in a café could be a bad idea.
He follows the tall woman and her pale Burberry, down an alley and then into an entirely too old elevator.
He must look tense, because the black feels the need to reassure him "Machine's reliability is often more a matter of their maintenance than of their age. Beside, this thing is just five years old - it's a copy of a first quarter of 20th century lift only aesthetically, the technology is new."
She smiles again, almost giggly, seeing the older man easing up - "It happens often. People sees it and thinks that it is going to break down midway, but I really didn't want to disfigure this old building with
one of those new stainless steel boxes".
They reach the attic of the old warehouse, and enter an enormous flat with teak floors.
The main area contains a well sized kitchen in a corner, a big television with three old leather couches in front of it, surrounded by outmoded big speakers, in the other.
Between them, a dining table with eight seats covered in linen cloth rests over a big carpet occupies a central space.
At the walls, bookshelves contend space with some obvious reproductions of works from Keith Haring and other ancient artists bear witness to the big woman's taste. The only wrong note, a reproduction of a painting from some seventeenth century Dutch artist, possibly Gerrit Dou, didn't really catch with the rest of the place.
It was the portrait of a small girl with red hair, probably included in the furniture for some sentimental value.
The giantess passes near one of the couches, and invites Jonathan to take a seat, while she directs herself to the door that gives access to the other half of the place - Jonathan imagines that the bathroom and the bedroom[s] are in the walled part of the flat, whereas this open space is the "day" area; not a bad disposition of the spaces, if a bit old fashioned.
Soon, the sound of a shower running confirms his suppositions.
"Do you want something to drink? To eat?"
The diminutive red-head has appeared while Jonathan was lost in his thoughts, startling him and leaving him temporarily out of words.
"S-Something strong" - is all that he finally manages. He hoped there would be nobody else, to listen to what he had to say.
"Strong? Alcohol?· We only have some Schnapps. Do you want it?"
"It will be fine."
No, it is not fine at all - "What the hell is this?" - the content of alcohol in the beverage is off the charts.
"Austrian home-made Schnaps" - says Keisha, entering the room in a red kimono, her hair still wet - "85% alcohol. Mariede keeps it mostly to have fun with new guests."
The short redhead pours herself a full glass of the infernal concoction, and gulps it down, smiling to an astonished Jonathan. It is easy to see why the Dutch painting is included in the house... it could very well be a portrait of this young woman. Familial resemblances often can last centuries; Jonathan himself is almost identical to his great-great-great-great-grandfather Nicholas Maxwell, judging by the photos in the family book.
"Her body hardly absorbs any alcohol. She needs a whole bottle of that, to actually be a bit high, and anything below 70º has no effect at all, on her."
The smile on the red-head clearly tells something along the lines of "What do you want, that's life."
"Lord Jonathan Maxwell, this is my companion, Mariede Gründl. Mariede, this is Jonathan Maxwell, the current possessor of Isabel."
By the way Mariede's smile cools down, Jonathan can see that she is not very happy of hearing the name.
The circumstances of Jonathan and Keisha first encounter, some six months before, become clear - the tall woman had fallen in love with Mariede, and couldn't afford to keep Isabel on the leash, mostly because the - Austrian? She had a faint accent - short girl didn't like to share her woman with anybody.
"What's the problem, now, with that scatter-head?"
"Ehm, it is very personal, I would rather discuss this only with Ms. Lawson." - the expression on the Austrian face is clearly a "No way", so he decides to try and explain that he is not looking forward "giving back" the voluptuous blonde - "The relationship between my wife and Isabel, I ... this is so bad"
"Your wife has grown more and more sadistic, and it had come to the point where she was virtually trying to kill Isabel on a regular basis. Only, nothing she can do damages Isabel for more than, say, twenty minutes? And then, Isabel wants more pain. So, now your wife is finally trying to kill Isabel, all the time, just to get rid of her and the sense of utter impotence that she feels, when she sees that blonde hair."
Mariede's eyes widens up in stupor, then she look at Keisha, who just tilts her head so slightly on the right and raises an eyebrow, clearly communicating an "I told you that it was going to be so" that hits Mariede very deeply. She lowers her head, sits on the sofa next to Jonathan's and , while she does not really cry and sob, she gives the impression that she may as well do so.
Keisha goes over to her, sits on the sofa too, and places Mariede on her lap - like the Austrian was weightless - and starts to cuddle her.
" I am such a bad person" - the phrase is almost whispered, as the "No, you are not" answered by Keisha, who then address her befuddled guest.
"I think that you may have some questions, Lord Maxwell."
"OK... first of all, WHAT is Isabel?"
"An... experiment, on the capabilities of nano-technology. Her body is full of small robots that repair any possible damage it may occur to her."
"Yes, yes... I suspected something like that, it's the only thing that makes sense."
"Of course, her body wasn't exactly human even before that, and her mind is... very peculiar."
"Yes, I saw that too... this technology, where does it come from?"
"It is unwise for you to ask, and it would be even more unwise for me to answer."
"I see" - whoever made something like that, had no concern for ethics, morals or laws, and plenty of reasons to go to any length to keep the lid on the affair, which begets the question...
"But, why... why isn't she kept away, in some secret cell? Whatever scientific data could be retrieved, it would be better to keep her in a containment facility, not " - to trap poor sods like me, he didn't add..
"Let's say that his creator is a very contradictory person, and sees no problems in CREATING the ultimate pain toy girl, but it would smite anybody that even suggests to REALLY imprison her, only because it is convenient."
A fatigued expression wanders through the big black face - "With that... guy, it is always a question of Do-ut-Des and free choices, even if it takes a bit to pierce his obfuscating persona and see how it really sees the world. But, we rather not discuss this, shall we?"
"My wife is losing her mind."
"Yes... your wife is into SM because she feels a need to feed a fragile ego. That is already the worst possible reason, to be into this kind of things, but the interaction with someone like Isabel can easily becoming very destructive."
Jonathan faintly nods with his head, to signal that he understands it - he wishes very much he had not come to that sort of insights.
"At start, she must have felt very powerful... you can do everything, with Isabel. No limits, for real. Then she had to realize... no limits, because nothing really matters. She has no power at all, on Isabel - nobody has. And Izzy does not 'endure' anything either... every kind of pain in an even mildly sexualized environment gives her pleasure, and she craves it 24/7. In the end, your wife is just the slave that keeps Isabel well tortured and happy, and this is a blow that her ego cannot take."
"Oh, my God, she is going to destroy herself, if they are together."
" Isabel is also kind of a test... she brings out the best and the worst in her 'owners'. You didn't resent her, for not being able to lose permanently a limb when you cut it off" - a muted, inarticulate sound comes from Jonathan, as the horrid vision of a recent night flashes before his eyes - "You probably couldn't even think about doing something like that , but your wife did it as soon as it became clear that Isabel could withstand, literally, everything. And then, she did cut something off, only to look at how it reattached itself, didn't she?"
"Please..." - Jonathan's face is a mask of emotional pain, but it is Mariede that, suddenly, jumps out and run away.
"I think that she didn't really understood, when I tried to explain her that I had to keep Isabel. What could happen..." - a sigh escapes from Keisha's lips - "... but she is very possessive, and felt that Isabel was taking up too much of my energies and time. She is right, of course, so I had to find a new guardian for Isabel."
Sadness paints its shade on Lawson's face, as she adds "Sorry."
"How can I save my wife?"
"Can you? I fear that it may be already too late. You cannot isolate Lady Anna from Isabel, without reinforcing the fact that she is not the one in control, and as things keep worsening, your wife may decide to prove her power on a surrogate. It has already happened, to the poor sloth that was her guardian before me. He planned, organized and re-hearsed the kidnapping of a sixteen years old girl, but managed to kill himself just before going on with it, in a last moment of lucidity."
Maxwell tried to think to his wife, Anna, in a similar situation - no, she would not kill herself. She'd just go on, and do her terrible ddeds.
"How may I kill Isabel?"
"You can't - physically, there are some ways. Maybe. Throw her in a steel furnace, it should be hot enough that her nanorobots should be disabled, her rests would be so dispersed that they should be unable to recompose her even if they were still active. However, " - the pause is significant - "I used to be able to punch holes in hot furnaces, and throw melted iron around with my bare hands; The tech inside my body is way older than what's inside Isabel. She may as well swim into the ore, and come out of the still mill with her hair barely singed."
"You used?"
"I am not on active service, so most of the naughty things inside me have been switched off. Don't ask more, it would be... very, very unwise. Me waking up from some homicidal trance, your still beating heart in my hands kind of unwise."
Was it a joke? Probably, more of a truth. As Keisha continued, Jonathan realized that anything this woman said apparently in jest was deadly serious, most of the time.
"Anything else, she'd just brush it off. You can't lay Isabel out either, not really... 'Till the end of your natural lives' was literal, not a joke."
The horror grapples Lord Maxwell's heart, as he realize what this probably means. If he tries to get rid of Isabel... somebody would rip his chest open and squish his heart, while he looks at it - no anaesthesia.
"What, can I do?"
"You must decide, what of your wife do you want to save, if she starts planning the surrogate move."
"Oh, God, no!"
"Also you must realize... you are probably a surrogate as good as anybody else."
"Anyway, it doesn't matter to me, not any more."
"But, but..."
"Isabel is an adult, your wife is an adult, you are an adult, you entered in this relationship all together, wholeheartedly, and the rules of engagement were clearly defined, for everybody involved. It turns out one of you can't manage the burden of her role? It is not my fault. Isabel had warned you that she was an handful, I bet."
Indeed, she did - Jonathan remembered the many emails exchanged with the young woman.
Nothing that was happening was really a surprise, it had been hinted to in a moment or the other.
He, and Anna, just couldn't believe it.
"So, you cant help me?"
"Short of taking Isabel back, there is nothing that I can do. And I bet that Izzy is having the time of her life, with your wife. She wouldn't come back anyway - not to old, boring, dull Keisha."
That, Jonathan realises, closes the discussion - she cannot help him, even if she wanted - which he very much doubts.
Before going out, he turn toward the huge black, and says an angry farewell "I hope to see you in Hell, woman.
By the time he sees the man in the alley, she retorts - more to herself - "We already live in one, didn't you know, Milord?"
"But it is true that I ended up making you pay for my greatest sin." - her thought continue, as her eyes land on the spot, in the painting, when a small strand of hair used to be encrusted.
She remembered when she first saw it, in the Louvre museum, and decided to see if it was possible to recreate the owner.
Mariede was the third product of that experiment, done in half jest. The moment when Keisha realized that she, too, was becoming a monster - when she engineered the various Mariede's minds to be highly susceptible to fall in love with one Keisha Lawson.
It was then, when she realized that she, too, had to go back to normal humanity, before it was too late - which could very well be - when she realized how cruel she had been, to each Mariede, and decided to be always there, for the one that loved her.
"Can I save her, from the very monsters that gave her her life, when I am one of them and I still like to hurt her?"
She will never admit that she knows the answer,:
"No."
Lord Jonathan Maxwell keeps watching, as Keisha Lawson fills the work table with nigiris, in the back workroom of Kawarazaki Sushi. The room is wide, spacious and well lit - and well hidden from the dinner room.
Even in this first half of the 22st century, Japanese people are more than a shade racist when it comes to blacks. Lord Maxwell imagines what a riot could it be, if the many actual Japanese clients of the place - probably the best Sushi restaurant in Great London area - discovered that most of the food, there, was prepared by a Nigger.
When she raises her head, Jonathan tries to move forward but is stopped by Saitou Kawarazaki, the owner, who speaks entirely too deferentially to the Black Giantess.
"Kono otoko wa Keisha-Megami-Sama to hanashi o shitaidesu"
"Daijobu Saitou o'dono"
The cold stare of the titanic African could pierce a tank armour, and slices through Jonathan self-assuredness. Her eyes widens a little, for the smallest nick of time - some kind of comprehension overtook her.
"Please, Saitou O'Dono, tell Hikari to continue with the Gunkans. I will be out for a while."
"Ai, Keisha-Megami-Sama" - the man bows deeply in front of the big black, just as she take off her apron.
, bent on exploiting employees in every possible way.
"My place is nearby. I suspect you would rather speak away from everybody's ears, this time" - the smile on Keisha's face is almost crooked, while she says so, but Jonathan cannot help but agree with her.
This time, going in a café could be a bad idea.
He follows the tall woman and her pale Burberry, down an alley and then into an entirely too old elevator.
He must look tense, because the black feels the need to reassure him "Machine's reliability is often more a matter of their maintenance than of their age. Beside, this thing is just five years old - it's a copy of a first quarter of 20th century lift only aesthetically, the technology is new."
She smiles again, almost giggly, seeing the older man easing up - "It happens often. People sees it and thinks that it is going to break down midway, but I really didn't want to disfigure this old building with
one of those new stainless steel boxes".
They reach the attic of the old warehouse, and enter an enormous flat with teak floors.
The main area contains a well sized kitchen in a corner, a big television with three old leather couches in front of it, surrounded by outmoded big speakers, in the other.
Between them, a dining table with eight seats covered in linen cloth rests over a big carpet occupies a central space.
At the walls, bookshelves contend space with some obvious reproductions of works from Keith Haring and other ancient artists bear witness to the big woman's taste. The only wrong note, a reproduction of a painting from some seventeenth century Dutch artist, possibly Gerrit Dou, didn't really catch with the rest of the place.
It was the portrait of a small girl with red hair, probably included in the furniture for some sentimental value.
The giantess passes near one of the couches, and invites Jonathan to take a seat, while she directs herself to the door that gives access to the other half of the place - Jonathan imagines that the bathroom and the bedroom[s] are in the walled part of the flat, whereas this open space is the "day" area; not a bad disposition of the spaces, if a bit old fashioned.
Soon, the sound of a shower running confirms his suppositions.
"Do you want something to drink? To eat?"
The diminutive red-head has appeared while Jonathan was lost in his thoughts, startling him and leaving him temporarily out of words.
"S-Something strong" - is all that he finally manages. He hoped there would be nobody else, to listen to what he had to say.
"Strong? Alcohol?· We only have some Schnapps. Do you want it?"
"It will be fine."
No, it is not fine at all - "What the hell is this?" - the content of alcohol in the beverage is off the charts.
"Austrian home-made Schnaps" - says Keisha, entering the room in a red kimono, her hair still wet - "85% alcohol. Mariede keeps it mostly to have fun with new guests."
The short redhead pours herself a full glass of the infernal concoction, and gulps it down, smiling to an astonished Jonathan. It is easy to see why the Dutch painting is included in the house... it could very well be a portrait of this young woman. Familial resemblances often can last centuries; Jonathan himself is almost identical to his great-great-great-great-grandfather Nicholas Maxwell, judging by the photos in the family book.
"Her body hardly absorbs any alcohol. She needs a whole bottle of that, to actually be a bit high, and anything below 70º has no effect at all, on her."
The smile on the red-head clearly tells something along the lines of "What do you want, that's life."
"Lord Jonathan Maxwell, this is my companion, Mariede Gründl. Mariede, this is Jonathan Maxwell, the current possessor of Isabel."
By the way Mariede's smile cools down, Jonathan can see that she is not very happy of hearing the name.
The circumstances of Jonathan and Keisha first encounter, some six months before, become clear - the tall woman had fallen in love with Mariede, and couldn't afford to keep Isabel on the leash, mostly because the - Austrian? She had a faint accent - short girl didn't like to share her woman with anybody.
"What's the problem, now, with that scatter-head?"
"Ehm, it is very personal, I would rather discuss this only with Ms. Lawson." - the expression on the Austrian face is clearly a "No way", so he decides to try and explain that he is not looking forward "giving back" the voluptuous blonde - "The relationship between my wife and Isabel, I ... this is so bad"
"Your wife has grown more and more sadistic, and it had come to the point where she was virtually trying to kill Isabel on a regular basis. Only, nothing she can do damages Isabel for more than, say, twenty minutes? And then, Isabel wants more pain. So, now your wife is finally trying to kill Isabel, all the time, just to get rid of her and the sense of utter impotence that she feels, when she sees that blonde hair."
Mariede's eyes widens up in stupor, then she look at Keisha, who just tilts her head so slightly on the right and raises an eyebrow, clearly communicating an "I told you that it was going to be so" that hits Mariede very deeply. She lowers her head, sits on the sofa next to Jonathan's and , while she does not really cry and sob, she gives the impression that she may as well do so.
Keisha goes over to her, sits on the sofa too, and places Mariede on her lap - like the Austrian was weightless - and starts to cuddle her.
" I am such a bad person" - the phrase is almost whispered, as the "No, you are not" answered by Keisha, who then address her befuddled guest.
"I think that you may have some questions, Lord Maxwell."
"OK... first of all, WHAT is Isabel?"
"An... experiment, on the capabilities of nano-technology. Her body is full of small robots that repair any possible damage it may occur to her."
"Yes, yes... I suspected something like that, it's the only thing that makes sense."
"Of course, her body wasn't exactly human even before that, and her mind is... very peculiar."
"Yes, I saw that too... this technology, where does it come from?"
"It is unwise for you to ask, and it would be even more unwise for me to answer."
"I see" - whoever made something like that, had no concern for ethics, morals or laws, and plenty of reasons to go to any length to keep the lid on the affair, which begets the question...
"But, why... why isn't she kept away, in some secret cell? Whatever scientific data could be retrieved, it would be better to keep her in a containment facility, not " - to trap poor sods like me, he didn't add..
"Let's say that his creator is a very contradictory person, and sees no problems in CREATING the ultimate pain toy girl, but it would smite anybody that even suggests to REALLY imprison her, only because it is convenient."
A fatigued expression wanders through the big black face - "With that... guy, it is always a question of Do-ut-Des and free choices, even if it takes a bit to pierce his obfuscating persona and see how it really sees the world. But, we rather not discuss this, shall we?"
"My wife is losing her mind."
"Yes... your wife is into SM because she feels a need to feed a fragile ego. That is already the worst possible reason, to be into this kind of things, but the interaction with someone like Isabel can easily becoming very destructive."
Jonathan faintly nods with his head, to signal that he understands it - he wishes very much he had not come to that sort of insights.
"At start, she must have felt very powerful... you can do everything, with Isabel. No limits, for real. Then she had to realize... no limits, because nothing really matters. She has no power at all, on Isabel - nobody has. And Izzy does not 'endure' anything either... every kind of pain in an even mildly sexualized environment gives her pleasure, and she craves it 24/7. In the end, your wife is just the slave that keeps Isabel well tortured and happy, and this is a blow that her ego cannot take."
"Oh, my God, she is going to destroy herself, if they are together."
" Isabel is also kind of a test... she brings out the best and the worst in her 'owners'. You didn't resent her, for not being able to lose permanently a limb when you cut it off" - a muted, inarticulate sound comes from Jonathan, as the horrid vision of a recent night flashes before his eyes - "You probably couldn't even think about doing something like that , but your wife did it as soon as it became clear that Isabel could withstand, literally, everything. And then, she did cut something off, only to look at how it reattached itself, didn't she?"
"Please..." - Jonathan's face is a mask of emotional pain, but it is Mariede that, suddenly, jumps out and run away.
"I think that she didn't really understood, when I tried to explain her that I had to keep Isabel. What could happen..." - a sigh escapes from Keisha's lips - "... but she is very possessive, and felt that Isabel was taking up too much of my energies and time. She is right, of course, so I had to find a new guardian for Isabel."
Sadness paints its shade on Lawson's face, as she adds "Sorry."
"How can I save my wife?"
"Can you? I fear that it may be already too late. You cannot isolate Lady Anna from Isabel, without reinforcing the fact that she is not the one in control, and as things keep worsening, your wife may decide to prove her power on a surrogate. It has already happened, to the poor sloth that was her guardian before me. He planned, organized and re-hearsed the kidnapping of a sixteen years old girl, but managed to kill himself just before going on with it, in a last moment of lucidity."
Maxwell tried to think to his wife, Anna, in a similar situation - no, she would not kill herself. She'd just go on, and do her terrible ddeds.
"How may I kill Isabel?"
"You can't - physically, there are some ways. Maybe. Throw her in a steel furnace, it should be hot enough that her nanorobots should be disabled, her rests would be so dispersed that they should be unable to recompose her even if they were still active. However, " - the pause is significant - "I used to be able to punch holes in hot furnaces, and throw melted iron around with my bare hands; The tech inside my body is way older than what's inside Isabel. She may as well swim into the ore, and come out of the still mill with her hair barely singed."
"You used?"
"I am not on active service, so most of the naughty things inside me have been switched off. Don't ask more, it would be... very, very unwise. Me waking up from some homicidal trance, your still beating heart in my hands kind of unwise."
Was it a joke? Probably, more of a truth. As Keisha continued, Jonathan realized that anything this woman said apparently in jest was deadly serious, most of the time.
"Anything else, she'd just brush it off. You can't lay Isabel out either, not really... 'Till the end of your natural lives' was literal, not a joke."
The horror grapples Lord Maxwell's heart, as he realize what this probably means. If he tries to get rid of Isabel... somebody would rip his chest open and squish his heart, while he looks at it - no anaesthesia.
"What, can I do?"
"You must decide, what of your wife do you want to save, if she starts planning the surrogate move."
"Oh, God, no!"
"Also you must realize... you are probably a surrogate as good as anybody else."
"Anyway, it doesn't matter to me, not any more."
"But, but..."
"Isabel is an adult, your wife is an adult, you are an adult, you entered in this relationship all together, wholeheartedly, and the rules of engagement were clearly defined, for everybody involved. It turns out one of you can't manage the burden of her role? It is not my fault. Isabel had warned you that she was an handful, I bet."
Indeed, she did - Jonathan remembered the many emails exchanged with the young woman.
Nothing that was happening was really a surprise, it had been hinted to in a moment or the other.
He, and Anna, just couldn't believe it.
"So, you cant help me?"
"Short of taking Isabel back, there is nothing that I can do. And I bet that Izzy is having the time of her life, with your wife. She wouldn't come back anyway - not to old, boring, dull Keisha."
That, Jonathan realises, closes the discussion - she cannot help him, even if she wanted - which he very much doubts.
Before going out, he turn toward the huge black, and says an angry farewell "I hope to see you in Hell, woman.
By the time he sees the man in the alley, she retorts - more to herself - "We already live in one, didn't you know, Milord?"
"But it is true that I ended up making you pay for my greatest sin." - her thought continue, as her eyes land on the spot, in the painting, when a small strand of hair used to be encrusted.
She remembered when she first saw it, in the Louvre museum, and decided to see if it was possible to recreate the owner.
Mariede was the third product of that experiment, done in half jest. The moment when Keisha realized that she, too, was becoming a monster - when she engineered the various Mariede's minds to be highly susceptible to fall in love with one Keisha Lawson.
It was then, when she realized that she, too, had to go back to normal humanity, before it was too late - which could very well be - when she realized how cruel she had been, to each Mariede, and decided to be always there, for the one that loved her.
"Can I save her, from the very monsters that gave her her life, when I am one of them and I still like to hurt her?"
She will never admit that she knows the answer,:
"No."
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