A Medusa

 

OK, not really a Gorgon,  but still a captivating sight.

Athletica

 

Annie Hall in college.

Upside Down

 

A Van Full of...

 

This is - gasp - a pencil sketch.I did it for someone, as a preview for a possible "commission".

The ladies should be... the female cast of Farscape, but I do not think that they would all be into this kind of role-play. 

I think that the van is, really, a 3rd series Ford Transit, while it should have been the armoured car of Section 9, from Ghost in The Shell.

 I should do more stuff with traditional media...

In the name of Noxon (Part 9)

[Extreme S&M Ahead - do not read if you do not like very bad things done, on very nice women, for the sake of the voyeuristic pleasure of a petty and utterly idiotic divinity]

By the way, chance is that, if you know me from other venues and you have followed "Noxon" till now, this is just what you were waiting for, my dear bad boy/girl/divinity.

---

Sarah Westerhoos was on the superior deck of one of the new Officiants' boats - her Granny Padma hadn't exaggerated. The electric engine hardly made any noise or vibration. The boat was travelling, leisurely, inside the old channel that went from the ancient waterway of the Sassa river to the SassaFrakka Ziggurat.

It had been two years, since her sister Emily had been abducted by the entity known as Noxon - Sarah had lost any hope of ever seen her twin again, unless she could get inside the house of Noxon in some way, and the only one she knew of was joining the Officiant and endure all that she could, on top of a Ziggurat.

This was going to be her first ascension as a full Officiant - she had already survived things that, only a year before, would have seemed impossible to her, and soon she was going to face more.

In her hand was a leash, going to the collar of one Called, a little daughter of Sassa's middle-low bourgeoisie that looked every bit as young as her 19 years, and maybe even a bit more.

Sarah considered the fact that her follow-up was just one solitary, so-so girl, but she realized that she could not really complain about the prudence of the local Church's chapter.

After all, she was an oddball, to say so - someone that had a very personal and outside-box reason to enlist.

No matter how consistently she would pursue her Officiant career, the old women that organized the rites were bound to be suspicious of her, for a long time. Persons with her kind of stake in the faith, in fact, were known to be prone to suddenly lost interest and decide to leave the service, be damned its carefully designed social whiplash; and, even if it was seldom acknowledged, this tended to have an effect on the girls that had been introduced to The Service by them.

Sarah sighed - she felt that she had gone a long way, but a lot more was still in front of her.

Her sigh inspired another one, at her back - she darted a glance above her shoulder, to see the young girl - Meri? - reflecting her own unsteadiness, multiplied by a younger age and an even shakier vocation.

The young Sassian was not an incredible beauty, either... why exactly had the Old Bastard - this was the name that Sarah had chosen for Noxon - decided to summon this slightly chubby kid, among the millions of women in the Great Sassa Area?

They arrived at the Ziggurat landing pier, way before she had started to fathom that mystery.

Sassa's Ziggurat had a staircase of the full, traditional length - 1024 steps, each 17 cm and some mm tall, a whole 175 metres of climb.

At least it was a modern ziggurat, its stair twisting up its front side - a long, slow climb and not the muscle-breaking, steep vertigo of more ancient designs.

Sarah was not sure whether this was really better - "The Walk" takes a lot more, on these low-slung slopes, and she fully felt the gaze of half the city on her, as she couldn't use the bulk of the stone pyramid as a shield. On the other hand, the cramps the old ones can induce in even the most physically fit - and better trained - women were the stuff of legends.

Yet, "The Walk" was only one hour or so of a very long day.

She started, nudging a light strap to the leash going to the little Sassan's box-tie central knot.

They started at the slow cadence of the tambourines, drummed by their companions along the stair.

Soon, she was only vaguely aware of the city, or even of the small girl in her tow - she became lost in the almost-trance she had long studied for, in the months after her induction.

Near the end she realized only vaguely giving the leash to a priestess, on the half-last plan of the ziggurat where the inductions take place.

She went on to the last stretch of steps, her mind almost a blank slate with no human concerns.

On the plan, the first women on the sides were recently inducted novices, preparing themselves for their first climb.

Inside the inner square, older women looked with mild interest - these were active duty officiants, who had already done the walk - and who would still do it in the future, plenty of times. Finally, inside "The Cube", there were only four priestesses - officiants that had decided to remain in the Church when their twenty years of service were over.

They were her torture team, and she had met with each of them many times, during her training.

The older ones were Gea and Gaia, married officiants from Fillandia, with that region classic feature of Ancient Africa and the pale skin that came with generations of the little sun available in high Antarctic areas.

As many married couples since the dawn of the species, they had grown to resemble each other, in some uneasily describable way. The younger ones were Nichelle, a tanned girl with epicanthic folds from Fraglbar, and Jenna, a tall RedHead from Grassyrainland.

Sarah was already down, in the vast realms of sub-space, in the trance that would allow her recently revealed masochist nature - she was, indeed, one of the few, lucky "naturals" - to transform the storm of pain ahead into a strange, calm and pleasant serenity.

That had been a great surprise, in her post-induction training - she liked the right pain, at the right moments, produced by the right persons, in the right way. A lot of "in the right", but she liked it - when it was well administered, and the priestesses of Noxon accumulated years of experience, from her side of the altar, before moving to their current one.

The ritualized pain didn't give her the cataclysmic climaxes of some of her companions, but it was already much better than for others. She had a chance, although slimmer than the one she'd fancied entering the service, of reaching up to the 'god' great white house, and be able to ask to the old bastard - "where the hell is my sister?"

When the youngest priestesses greeted and undressed her, it felt just - natural. Nichelle, Jenna and her had rehearsed these moments plenty of times, in the weeks leading to this moment.

The knot of tension that had managed to maintain itself, deep, deep inside her eased and dissolved when the two older priestesses extended their hands, so that she could be guided to the altar.

As the ones in most Ziggurats, it was a mobile structure, at present looking just like a one step tall platform at the centre of The Cube - she raised herself on it, sat in its centre by cross-folding her legs in a lotus position and then distended, till she remained lying, her arms and legs well spread, her eyes looking the deep blue-green of the morning sky.

The altar was raised, till it was at the correct height for the work of the priestesses. A scream came, from the platform below the great square - the little Sassan hasty training hadn't been thorough enough, and she could not manage to attain the state of mind necessary to withstand her induction with some pleasure.

Gea held Sarah's hands, while they waited - together - for the other priestesses to come back with the tools to be used on the nearly new officiant - and for what was going on, some five meters below them, to end.

Soon, the screams turned to almost inaudible sobs then, after some long minutes, a new sound reached their ears - the Sassan was a screamer, and announced to the whole universe that she had finally come.

By then Gaia had come back, and now the two older clergywomen stood at her sides, each one holding one of her hands and slowly caressing her body, while Jenna and Nichelle placed the trays and prepared for their role as assistants.

The beholders along the causeway had already started to disband - what was now to happen was not, supposedly, for human eyes.

However, the Church never bothered to press any city council into changing its zoning laws, so even this Ziggurat was now surrounded by stupidly high towers, whose last floors offered a view of the events as good as the one that The God had.

Her eyes to the sky, framed by the thin stainless steel beams of "The Cube" (even Fraglbar Ziggurat had finally moved away from the ancient reinforced concrete Cube structure), she couldn't care less about the little women that had taken a day break to watch her, from their offices and flats in the towers.

A priest surged from the lower platform, to signal that the Sassan had been finally inducted in the service and, thus, it was finally time to give the 'god' its main course.

The four priestess stepped near Sarah, and each of them placed a leather cuff to one of her aft articulations - wrists and ankles - then locked it to the Yttrium frame. When all these were firmly in place, they trapped her to the frame with leather bands at knees and elbows and, finally, the assured her hips and her chest.

When they were sure that she was fully confined on the small frame, she felt the the large stone plan of the altar disappear from below her back, while the uncomfortable, small beams of the double-y shaped "Yttrium" support maintained their position.

The altar continued to go down, its hydraulics hardly emitting any sound, till it became just another stone in the pavement, barely distinguished by its enormous shape and the design of the "under-Yttrium" - a large, double-y shaped slab of the same rock as the altar, that levels to the ground when the altar is closed to the ground - in its middle.

The priestesses donned their gloves, then the younger ones made a step back and assumed a waiting position, similar to the box-tie start.

Each of the older priestesses went down, with a hand, inside her legs - one of them started teasing her anus, while the other inserted two fingers inside the vagina.

They continued to warm her up for a while, as they had done plenty of times during the rehearsals, them signalled Nichelle to take place between her legs and replace them, while Jenna took a specular position, in front of Sarah, and lowered the support of the Officiant's head protruding from the Yttrium frame, opened the front of her priestly robe, and placed her vagina in a position where Sarah's tongue could gratify her.

Or, at least, try to - Jenna hadn't assumed that position for her own pleasure.

The older women took a medium length leather flogger and, each on her side, moved two step away, to have Sarah's body at the right striking distance.

They started slowly, and increased the intensity of their strokes for the successive twenty minutes, before changing to a heavier cat of nine tails, with whom they continued for other twenty minutes, before switching to a final 5 feet bull-whip.

Every few minutes, Gea and Gaia took a pause, so that Jenna could offer some water to their patient, and switched arm.

At the end of that first hour, the body of Sarah was covered with whip marks, and blood dripped from some small cuts.

Jenna, whose body had acted not only as a further humiliation for the much younger colleague but, also, as a shield, didn't fare too much better - many of the strokes given with the non-dominant hands by her seniors had gone astray, and impacted on the arms womb and legs of the younger priestess.

Similarly, the forearms of Nichelle were now full of whip marks.

Now that the whips had stopped, Sarah could appreciate that the hands of this latter had fully entered inside her... a sensation that she had discovered to be quite satisfying, during the preparation weeks before the rite.

The priestess then extracted both hands, first the one inside Sarah's rectum, then, partially, the one in her vagina. When the thumb came out of the young woman, the priestess started using it to rub, suavely, against Sarah's clitoris.

Nichelle continued her stimulation, till Gaia took her place, in hand a powerful, spherical head vibrator.

The old woman continued to stimulate the young Officiant, with the machine and her own hand, till Sarah came. Then, the altar platform was raised again, and Sarah was - temporarily - freed from her numerous shackles.

A new girl arrived - not a priestess, another officiant not much older than Sarah - to take care of her during the half. hour rest period, helping cleaning up the body of the former Windy Valley inhabitant, and keeping her well hydrated.

As she sat in her lotus position, feeling her colleague fingers running all the length of her body, Sarah couldn't help but imagining Noxon - the 15000 years old bastard - looking at the spectacle, with a glass of wine and a Mortadella sandwich in hand, or something the like.


When the four priestess returned, Sarah promptly lied down again, this time facing the stone.

A heavy leather hood was placed on her face, though it let her mouth open, for her to scream - or to safe-wording out of the ceremony.

A heavy, rugged corset was put on her, covering the whole of her belly and back - a necessary shield, to safeguard the kidneys and the surrounding tissues from the stroke of the whips.

In the following hour, the four women pretty much repeated what they had done to the front of Sarah's body, reiterating many hits on her exposed ass to compensate for the dangerous areas they had to avoid.

They left Sarah, barely conscious, to the cares of the small Officiant.

For more than an hour, the exhausted girl was allowed to rest, in the shade of the Cube automatic cover, then the last leg of her ordeal commenced.

They freed Sarah, and helped her to seat, on the raised altar's border.

Then, the altar closed down completely, and they helped her to stand when her feet touched the ground. Soon, the square inside the Cube was fully flat, the altar and the frame just pavement irregularities at its centre. Lifting hooks descended from the winches on the cube's top beam, and Jenna and Nichelle locked Sarah's cuffs in them.

The beaten girl's legs were completely unsteady, and she would have likely fell down if left alone. The last rite that the dices had declared for the young Officiant was an "optional" one, that Sarah was authorized to refuse but decided to take it anyway.

The electric winches lifted Sarah's body till she remained just on the tip of her toes, and she begun to cry. Jenna reached for her and, with her tallness, managed to kiss the tortured girl on her mouth and whispered her "Be strong, it will end soon".

For this breach of protocol, the redhead would be whipped harshly, once back to the Officiants House.

 The unnamed Officiant brought, from the recesses of the ziggurat, a final set of contraptions, and disposed it on the top shelf of one of the trays.

The first tool appeared to be a small, inflatable cylinder with two conic terminals,  a bit like a big silicone suppository with a thick tube protruding from one tip.

Next to it, a stainless steel, well sized speculum, and than an oddly shaped dildo, with a sizeable hole traversing its whole length, then a stainless terminal with a one-way valve and a lock-plug, and one battery operated terminal-clamping machine.

Gaia inserted the speculum in Sarah, then arranged its screws so that it fully opened and exposed the young woman's uterus cervix.

She then took the inflatable gizmo, showered it with lubricant and proceeded to force it through the cervix's neck. Soon, only the black silicone tube remained in sight, protruding from the body of Sarah.

Gea kept caressing and soothing Sarah from behind, as she had started to do the very moment that the little Officiant had brought the new tools from the service rooms inside the ziggurat.

Gaia then slid the tube inside the oddly shaped dildo/holder, and proceeded to move this up along it, till she placed the misshaped clump of silicone inside the stretched body cavity.

She then removed the speculum, all the while keeping the newly placed holder in its position. She knew that its top was modelled on the young woman's cervix mouth, as well that its silicone gel would morph itself over the next few days, as daily injection of more compound would enlarge the holder toward the inside.

Nichelle took a set of leather strands from the tray - her and Jenna managed to assemble it, connecting its pin joints, around the hips and waist of Sarah, revealing its nature as a tight-fitting harness. With a bit of awkwardness, them and Gaia finally managed to complete the set-up, fully locking the various silicone contraptions inside the womb of the officiant.

Lastly, Gaia glued shut all the joints using a self-hardening resin, on each joint applying the Seal of Service.

The strands of the harness really were just nice covers for carbon fibre tapes, able to withstands thousand of kilograms of tensile strength. Once fully hardened, the resin was, likewise, among the most resistant plastics known to woman.

By the end of the day, Sarah would have needed specific tools to remove the harness, and the uncomfortable pieces of synthetic biocompatible materials that this kept firmly inside her body.

Gaia then took, from the tray, the last final pieces of the puzzle - the battery operated clamping machine, who could also cut the nano-carbon woven silicone tube, and the special one-way valve and socket plug assembly. She cut the tube - which could also act as a one-ton life-line - and proceeded to clamp the one-way valve-plug on it, again using the multi-ton strength of the battery tool.

In the meanwhile, Nichelle inserted a more normal butt-plug inside Sarah's ass, and then attached one tensor of a Y-shaped leather frame to one hook in the back of Sara's leather corset, the centre of the frame to the screw protruding from the butt-plug, with a small butterfly bolt and, finally, when Gaia moved away, she passed the two final strands of the frame on the sides of the Venus mount, to two rings in the leather corset,

While this anal plug would be retired, at the end of the day, the material in her womb would be left in placer, as every of her days hereafter would start with a generous quantity of saline solution, forcedly inserted inside the inner inflatable, to expand her womb.

The physicians who would supervise the expansion process, as well as her menstruations' suspension, would be the only ones authorised to remove her harness and proceeded with the necessary hygiene and health maintenance activities. 

The purpose of this all was to use the, by then enormous, balloon inside Sarah's belly to suspend her upside down, in her third full officiation, six local months after.

Gaia then attached a small saline pump yo the inflate plug, and proceeded to place the first half of many a liter inside Sarah. The saline was at body temperature and, among the sensorial assault that the session had brought on the young woman, it went nearly unnoticed.

The winches hooks were lowered, and finally Nichelle and Jenna helped the nearly destroyed Sarah walking out of the Cube squares, down the first ramp of steps, and inside the hidden rooms of the Ziggurat, where the paramedics of the Service were waiting for her.

On a veranda of a very nice villa, in one of the few tropical islands still untouched by mass tourism, a seven feet tall Obsidian man and a chubby, five feet girl looked at the scene, as reproduced by a way beyond the state of the art 3D vision system.

Both were avatars of the 'god', however, this usually didn't override their original consciousnesses when it observed the rites, one of the few times in which each was sure to be itself - and one of the few occasions in which they had to talk, to communicate.

Around them, about a dozen of naked women, almost all with marks on their bodies, some wearing the same kind of harness enclosing Sarah, or even more outlandish implements - one of them a Protasian with no arms.

The Abducted Officiants were discussing the spectacle from their perspective, though some were simply crazily masturbating.

- "So, that is Emily's little sister?"

- "Twin - the four of them were born in a couple of hours. She is ten minutes younger than her older sister."

- "Oh, girls, won't our spy on the alien ship make a fuss, over this?"

- "Why? Her sister has the same right that she had, to consecrate herself to us. Emily has nothing to say about this, really."

- "More on the point, if this sister grows enough, should we ever get her here?"

The tall man stopped, while the armless woman stepped in front of them and, gracefully,  sat with a perfect rendition of the Officiants' Lotus cross-fold - a movement that the Protasianne, Diem van Tinh, had invented forty centuries before, when she still hadn't been abducted by the god.

- "That is not your choice" 

- "No need to use that tone, we are just... us - what we think  does not really matter."

- "Maybe... it is customary that we are the ones that decide to ascend an officiant. Us, the council of the Forever Servants."

- "Noxon has no reason to allow to his presence someone who is bound to be so critical as that lass."

- "Unless everybody is mistaken, that is precisely the reason why she has entered the service. Am I wrong?"

- "Uh, no - No, you are not Mistaken."

 The change in the big man voice pitch signalled that Noxon main consciousness had taken control - the gold-tanned woman ignored it, as it was inconsequential. Her artificial arms arrived, navigating the room like some weird animal or the semi-autonomous small robot that they really were, reached their owner and dressed on her. Diem preferred to have her arms attached, when she talked with the Old Bastard, as she knew that the ancient A.I. had never really overcome its original human upload preference for Italian-style mimicry

- "So, when she will have earned it - soon, if this fist performance is a clue of her level of commitment - we will invite her here, and you will take her dress-down like a man, and not like a stupid divinity."

The last word was almost spat. Not for the first time in 5000 years, Noxon wondered how could it have been so dumb as to reprint its ancient collection of comics - Oink and its "Confront your Gods" message had made lasting damages to its godhood pretences.

Yet, erasing the abductees and their culture would have been... wrong like the plans of JVH for the inhabitants of Madian, Noxon's measure for unacceptable levels of divine ass-holeness.

- "Of Course - when she will have earned it."

Diem stood up, proud as ever, her nipples even more arrogant than ever

- "Vâng!"

Noxon looked at the 4000 year young arse as she went away, and felt that she was every bit as lovely as the first time that she climbed Nijistrim's Ziggurat, one of the few with developmental malformations in a society completely based upon the use of genetic engineering.

The substance that had produced that generation of teratogenic damages was long forgotten, and Noxon knew that it was right, but at times it wondered if the spunky 'Namese would have been so outspoken, hadn't she had to fight the unwanted pity of the "normals" in her youth.

Noxon considered the Westerhoos sisters conundrum....

Finally, some fun.

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."

My Squad

My Squad

OK, this is my squad... or, to be more precise, the kind of squad that I'd like to have at my command.

I know, I know, it is not going to happen, ever.

And it is demeaning for women (why? no, really, why??? And I mean, exactly, WHY?) that I even go around pushing this kind of drawing.

OK; now, let's see... how many of you guys, would say no t having this kind of squad in you service?

Come one... your lady is not really looking, and there are plenty of other reasons you'd be worried, if she find this site in your browser history, like... you didn't tell her that you liked my kind of stuff, did you?

No, eh? She'd cut your balls off, on the durface value of the site itself, just because.

Just because you consigned her your balls to chop every fucking time she is displeased, you FUCKING DAMN MORON!

Nobody really forced you to do so - nobody forced you to marry/get engaged/room-sharing-with-benefits with a woman like that.

You did it... you were scared of being alone, scared of growing old and miserable, or you were really in love with her.

This doesn't change the fact that you have handed down your balls to her, and now you can't even admit that you'd like to have some four barely legal girls catering to your whims, even if every scientific plausible fact available points in the direction that your brain was built only to enjoy crave that.

All the rest, monogamy and the whole enormous shitload of CRAP that we call society, is there to keep you in line, so you can PAY THE BILLS OF YOUR MASTERS while they use YOUR MONEY to  FUCK THE GIRLS THAT YOU CANNOT EVEN TOUCH.

Oh, of course, not all your money, it's true... most of it goes to PAY THE BILLS of the WARDENS that keep you IMPRISONED IN YOUR SHITTY PLACE.

Yeah, tell me that I am wrong, that I oversimplify things and that the world does not really work like that.

You know, it would be more believable, if you could say it without crying..  

The conquest of Afrika

There are plenty of ways to scam Africans out of their resources, without bother living there more than a week  at each time.

The modern history of Africa, ever since the last colony got independent, clearly shows it.

In some cases, revolutions, counter-revolutions and civil wars only led to a string of cleptocrats - those who rules by thieving -  that managed to bring the living standards, for the general population, well below the colonization period have only contributed to a cheaper access to a region's natural resources.

(Someone would also say that copying the XVI century Spain and exiling almost all of their middle class and professinal figures, being them white imperialist, probably didn't help those countries any more that chasing away their "moriscos" and their Jews helped Spain becoming a modern country...  )




There was really just one giant fringe benefit, in racist colonialism...


You could be a hopeless ass from a middle of nowhere city in Europe, and get away with doing something like that.

(OK, this is a bad, bad, bad, very bad joke, and an even worse truth)

Bondage Chess

A typical "Bondage Chess" indoor play.

The quantity of piercing and weights at the prize's outer labia is characteristic of the "Baka Irregulars",
one of the - if not THE - first associations of "No-Limits Prize-Girls" to have appeared in Central Park.

NLPG are into the play for the thrill of being conquered, and usually allow much wider terms to their
temporary masters than most other submissive PG, such as this kind of extensive body modifications.

Submissive PG in generals, and NLPGs in particular, are thought to be the real "soul" of the game. 

"Bondage Chess" is an extension of the classic game of chess in which a person in bondage is connected through two cables to electrodes placed on the underside of two specific pieces, one per side, usually (at the start of the game, at least), the Queens.

When the Queens land on spots of different colours the "prize-girl" (traditionally the person in bondage is a young woman, sometimes also called the Queen-to-be) receives electrical discharges through the cables.

When a Queen is eliminated its role as electrode connector - its "cable" - is passed to any of the player's remaining pieces, though the bishops are usually avoided (the bishops never changing the colours of the case they reside on, they present a limit to the player's possibilities).

Voltages are inversely proportional to the "chessboard distance" from the centre of the board which adds an element into the calculations of the players.  

(Conventionally it is said that the blacks are "+" and whites "-" however the impulse generator inside the board actually uses alternate polarity impulses, to avoid electrolysis in the tissues of the "prize").

The game is won either "traditionally" - by checkmate or by forfeit of the adversary - either on the "prize-girl" passing out.

However the players do not know if he is the one who made the girl pass out or his adversary, the one who will win in this eventuality.

Traditionally this is selected by the arbiters of the match through the launch of a coin and stated in a signed affidavit - together with the prize's detailed rules of enslavement (if they have been established) - that is placed under the time counter, before the start of the game.

The information is shared with the "prizes" when in their rules of enslavement they have agreed to a period of 24/7 servitude of a length above one week.

The "prize-girl" with a slavery period at stake is authorized to suggest to the players what would be the "best" strategy - best being "the strategy that would likely lead her into the hands of the player that she fancies more".

In fact while they are not authorized to outright state who would be the winner on a pass-out the "prize-girls" are also not compelled to be truthful, in the hints that they may give to the players. If no arbiter is present the arbiter's role is usually taken by the "prize girl" herself.

This is of course not considered ideal - unless both the prize and the players are all in very good terms with each other (i.e. it almost only happens in informal games, between friends - the prizes are discouraged from faking their loss of consciousness, but it is known to happen - some players have also been known to have used the moment of confusion, when the prize passes out, to replace the original affidavit with one with more favourable terms).

By rule in case a play with no arbiters ends with a contested "pass-out" (the prize-girl doesn't recognize the affidavit as her own), the game is considered void.

Differently from traditional chess stalemates (and generally, draws) are not allowed. In case one such situation arise each player chooses one piece to sacrifice (or to rescue if each player has less than three pieces still on the board) and, again, a coin is tossed to decide which of the two will be eliminated-rescued.

Usually this is enough to unlock the situation but should the draw re-present itself other two times (the first, the dice is used again) the game is declared null.

The prize-girl is called this way because usually (not always) she is to be handed to the winner of the game. However they are honour (not legally) bound to abide only to the rules of enslavement that they themselves have signed and accepted that are to be detailed - as explained above - in the game's affidavit.

 It is not uncommon in great tournaments to have as "prize-girls" professional fetish models, that do not agreed to perform any other function. This "prize-models" are kept unaware of the chosen passing-out policy, to keep them from trying to bend the game for purely monetary reasons - their involvement being mostly a mercenary one.

Bondage Chess is a recent extension to the classic chess game and being younger than its source, some of its rules are still up to revision as of this writing.

For example it is being actively discussed whether keeping the actual "constant voltage" policy or if an "incremental" one would suit better the needs of the play.

With the current rules it is not uncommon to see players (mostly at low levels) that spend more energies devising how to torment - at length - "prize-girls" known to establish very restrictive terms in their affidavits, than to play against their adversaries.

An incremental voltage rule would reduce the number of times the queens may be moved (on different colour squares) before the prizes pass out, avoiding some pretty irritating "Queen's Runs" (when two players agreed to a dilation tactics, in which one queen "follows" the other, in order to applying time and again discharges to the "prize"), but it would also produce higher risks for the prizes' health.

 A vehement discussion is also ongoing whether to maintain the traditional "prize-girl" definition, given the fact that the category does include males, MtF and FtM transsexuals as well as women.

 The LGBT community has lobbied strongly for a neutral "prize-person", but it still has to win over the last remnants of the traditional, males-driven players community...

---

I love writing fake magazine's articles...
Spirito di Gianni Brera, proteggimi.

A stranger life..

From the abysses of the early 2000's

Millie Hartford was a lively blonde, with a nice job in an art gallery that she gained through a combination of work, talent for creating stories and handle problematic personalities,  perseverance and - why not - sex appeal.

Although she tends to dismiss it, it helped her career - and why should she be ashamed of it?

Looking good, in our society, requires its share of work too - work out and dieting

Her hard work has earned her what she used to think it was a perfect life... a brand new BMW coupé,  a modern flat full of design furniture, a cleaning service for the house twice a week, a good looking fiancé,  full of money and  somewhat easy to manipulate.

Life couldn't be better... a part a couple of details.

She had never felt what is usually called "an orgasm" - she was grown to believe that  it was only some kind of fairy tale, by a mother that never felt it in her own life.

She couldn't stand her  neighbour, Mr Anderson... he looked like some kind of creepy red-neck out of an horror movie, unkempt, almost never going out of his flat.

If the guy had only had the good taste of moving away, leaving the flat in front of hers to some nicer person - a professional something - she could be as happy as humanly possible.


Joe Panouchki raised his imposing girth from "Wendy's Delicacies Inn" table, his second serving of bacon and omelette rightfully vanquished and vanished into his capacious belly.

Joe hasn't always been such a compulsive eater... until some eight years ago, he was in fact a lean and wiry guy, very happily married with his high-school sweetheart,  Linda.

Linda wasn't a promo queen, nor a geek or any other kind of prominent high/school demographics.

She was an average looking girl, with a bright smile and enough cheerfulness to lighten-up even her husband's worse days, and that was all that mattered to Joe.

With Linda, Joe managed to forget his depressive streak and built a decent life for the two of them, by taking up a truck driver's job and hauling his ass off every day.

She kept him happy, fed him salads and fruits and a lot of yogurts, and made a better man of him than he ever thought he could be.

And then, at 29, she died of an aortic dissection and left Joe alone.

In the years since Linda died, Joe has gained fifty kilograms.

The food is his only consolation, the only thing that fills - for some minutes at least - the hole that he still feels inside.

He is known at Wendy's as a good customer - a good eater, he is not stingy with the tips nor he is any serious in his flirtatious jokes, and the waitresses appreciate his good nature, when he pass by, on average once a week.

Joe returns to his loyal 18wheeler, as  always somewhat bemused by how Lara, the youngest waitress in Wendy's, manage to exchange banters with him over who drives better a truck.


Fifteen years younger and half his weight, she could probably drive a modern all-servo truck, but Joe had its doubt on some older machines out there.

Scrolling his head, Joe placed the first low gear and started... he had a good four hours more of drive in front of him, and two weeks, this time, before his schedule would bring him back into Wendy's area.

So he had overeaten a bit -Wendy's was, maybe, the best restaurant in his route.

He asked Linda to forgive him for his flirtations with a kiss on index and middle finger then deposited on her photo in the cockpit, and accelerated his 22 tons semi-trailer toward the big city.

He was moderately late, but there was no reason to speed above the legal limit, so Joe set the speed on his truck cruise control a couple of mph below the limit, and prepared himself for a nice relaxed run.

Three hours after, an idiot in a pick-up in front of Joe lost a badly secured sheet of metal from his trunk,  that flew into Joe's cabin at 50 mph, killing him just mere minutes away from where he usually disengaged the cruise control.

 - No, I am not going to relate anything on the guy in the pick-up... he was just a cheery idiot who failed to evaluate correctly the effect of wind on his cargo. For the rest, he isn't even half as interesting as Joe; he has no lost love tormenting his guts, no salacious waitresses with maternal instincts waits for him to trade jokes, no ghosts half-seen in a winter dusk on the road

And just half km away from where Millie was bottled in a traffic jam, on a lane in the opposite direction, feeling pissed for the jam and for the kids in the old wagon on front of her.

Mainly for the little miscreant that kept making grimaces in the back window of the big Buick.

No dead man switch stopped the 22 tons of metal from jumping lane, just some 15 meters in front of Mildred.

Like in a bad movie, Millie saw the twenty years old Roadmaster in front of her folding under the momentum of the big truck, the front of his own car crashed by the big wagon's back, her seatbelt locking while the airbag refused to act - because the car was on a stop and airbags deactivates below a certain speed.

All was happening with an absurd clarity, in a slow motion as painful as useless.

Millie finally saw confusedly the little girl flying back inside the car, the truck's tractor rising above her and crash on top of her Bimmer, and then she awoke in an hospital.

Her face was covered in bandage, her left arm had been on the door, where she had it lying  when the truck huge tire smashed sideways through the half open glass..

Her right arm, too, had suffered minor damages, as she had raised it to protect her face.

Later on, Millie had to know one of the most troubling developments of the modern world... antibiotics-resistant bacteria.

Unable to keep under control infections in the arms by normal means, her physicians were forced to amputate her left arm first, and later her right hand.

And again some more of her left arm, days latter, finally shortening it above the elbow.

She had been lucky, if that is the word, in that the compression damages to her face didn't open her skin... an infection there would have been really a mess. But that meant that the physicians didn't dare to operate to fix her left cheek fracture, so her face healed to look somewhat crooked.

 But other cuts on her body got infected, and the ineffective treatments the phisicians were forced to use left her with some horrible scars.

Her fiancé stood by her side, through all of this, bravely. Maybe too bravely, like he was forced to do so by his sense of honour - at times, she had that impression and it was one hell of a feeling.

One day she was finally allowed to go home, to learn how to live her new life... which had become quite different from her dreams.

The museum had found  a new spoke-person, in the months during which she had been unable to work.

They didn't fire her, but she was "kicked upstairs" to a new position as International Program assistant director; one where she wouldn't have to interact with the general public on a regular basis.

She wasn't sure if it was deference for what had happened to her, or a way to avoid the  embarrassment.

Even a modern art museum prefer to have a public face that doesn't look like an early cubist  phase Picasso.

The same could be said of her fiancé... now that she was  out of the hospital, he couldn't avoid it anymore. Sexually speaking, he felt horror at the idea of lying with her.

He managed to find time and again an excuse to avoid sharing her intimacy, and she realized that she didn't really care.

That she never really cared, maybe.

They drifted away, bit by bit, till she discovered that he had anew fiancée, a blonde bomb, smart and witty.

Like her was, before the accident... with two hands and a face that doesn't subtly remind a Dalí's clock.

She hated him, and dedicated her energies into learning how to use her legs and feet to handle her daily routine, with the help of a phisiotherapist and  yoga instructor... and kept herself reasonably busy living.

She is also trying to learn how to handle the new shyness of men around her - even those that are not disgusted seems unable to overcome their sense of... pity? That was way worse than her fiancé lingering disgust.

She felt not need for anyone's pity; She only needed her job, and her home.

Or, at least, so she told herself, out loud.

In all this, Millie lost track of a transformation in her creepy neighbour... he wasn't acting so creepy any more.

Mr Anderson managed often to be at his door when  Millie arrived, offered to help her open the door, pick her mail up... which were all - kind of - things you can expect out of a good neighbour, given the situation.

 But mr. Anderson, Josh, didn't give off any feeling of pity or of social obligation., and it was so damn refreshing for Mildred.

He was grooming herself, way more than she ever saw him do in the three years they had been neighbours.

 If it wasn't absurd, she could have swore that NOW he was interested in her... anyway, in the initial couple of months back at home, she grow used to rely on the shy, slightly social phobic RPG writer, to the point that she gave him a copy of her keys - in case anything happened.

 She had resisted any suggestion of restructuring her flat, on the reasoning that she would have been soon able to move as well as before. She forgot, or wanted to ignore, that even persons with both arms helping them keep their balance manage to slip on wet floors... one morning, coming out of her bath-tub, she fell back and landed on her ass.

 She stood there, unable to raise herself, scared at the idea that she could have broken her hip, the shock giving free rein to the anguish and grieve she had kept bottled till that moment.

 By the time Josh managed to open her flat's door, she had moved from screaming to a sorrowful wail,  sitting naked and wet in the middle of the bathroom, crying her misfortunes out.

 He gave her a long, warm hug and, after she refused to call an ambulance - she didn't want to feed more pity from the other tenants and, now that thw shock was wearing off, she realized everything was aching but probably nothing was broken, she helped her got on her feet.

She felt it, while hey were clumsily getting her back in her feet.

He was having an hard-on... missing limbs, and scars, and her irregular cheeks, really excited him

It had been months, since the last time she has been with a man. Even if she pretended that it wasn't an issue, thinking that she wasn't able to excite a man any-more had been a hole in the middle of her sense of self-worth. She felt - flattered? And his embarrassment at being caught was cute.

To make it short, he was horny, she really needed it - by the time they managed to rationally understand what was happening, they were in bed, where he ate, teased and fingered her into her first orgasm.

Needless to say, it was a discovery that changed many things in her life.

She wasn't stunning as she used to be, but she was still a woman, and now she had a simple but fulfilling stream of compact happiness flowing in her life.
 

Over time, Josh opened up and confided her his many odd tastes and small fetishes.


Millie  realized that, had he done so before, she would have ran away and maybe even called the police. But, she knew he loved her, and was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was a creepy, horny nerd - her horny nerd.


So she accepted to experiment, try new things outside of her comfort zone. Some were just make-believe, Role Playing by another name..


Others were more serious stuff... she enjoyed almost every thing they tried, and the odd sensation of freedom that she felt when her ego subsided into the play.


 Even pain and discomfort proved to ease her off of her current miseries.

Her mood improved, her physical therapy's pace greatly so and with some insurance money she financed a prosthetic hand and arm, that she learnt to use almost as well as she used her real limbs

 All of this was two years ago.

Dressed up, today she looks and feel much like the woman that she was before the accident.
In reality, she is even better - she now has a kind of zen-like way of brushing off small annoyances, by putting them in perspective, that she once lacked, and a newfound ability to delegate without trying yo micromanage everything.


And she is happier than ever, with her companion. They have sex, they play BDSM, she convinced him to go to accompany her to parties and festivals, he convinced her to go to munches and SM meetings.

 Over time they deepened in their play, established some routines and rituals...

When she undress, put her leather harness on, and divest hee prosthetics, she becomes his sex-slave... for a session.

Life is now stranger that she could ever conceive, and much, much happier.

Too Late

 

I whip the slave the stronger I can. She doesn't respect me. I see it in the corner of her mouth, a shade of a smile that shouldn't be there.

I'm her mistress, but she doesn't respect me. She's here because she needs it, but she doesn't love me. She doesn't love me the way I need her to do, so I whip her the stronger I can.

I whip her like she deserves, like she needs, like she wants.

I hope she cum soon, just to force her to have an orgasm the way I like her to have. And then, another, and another, and another...

The skinny slave has tears in her eyes, but they are giggling... she loves it- not me, the beating. For her, I'm nothing more than an extension of the whip.

I whip her as strong as I can. As I always do.

Inside, she keeps smiling because even if I'm failing to keep my temper. I give her to her needs, and no more. 

 Somewhere inside me, I wish to destroy her and her smile. To be strong, but I'm a weak mistress.

She likes me to be weak, she likes to make me angry, she likes to know that she can handle more than what I am capable of. 

She likes to be the real one in control. She delights in it.

She likes the pain and I very much like to give it to her, again and again and again, to make her feel stronger than ever.

But we have no needles; the whore forgot to buy a new packet from last Thursday. I don't want to go out, and buy syringes in a pharmacy that keeps open this late.

Not that this could be done without spreading rumors, in this rat hole of village they call a town, where everybody's peeping the rest of the world.

And I know, we both know, she didn't really forget, I didn't forget to remind her... we both knew what we were going to try today, what we were really tingling to do, even if it's our "Needles Thursday".

Unspoken words sometimes can be felt just loud enough.

There is a mountain to climb, something that we have always failed to achieve, no matter how hard we tried... I was too weak, she was weak too... we let it for when we were stronger. NOW WE ARE - maybe.

The rope is a little bit too long, but I don't want to cut it. We need it for other games, maybe I should really buy some more.

I do my best to bind her tits tight, right at the base, first with a band two inches wide, then with the rope... I manage to obtain a solid knot, in the middle of her breast... to verify if it slips, as it did the last time, I put my right hand into the knot I try to raise her from the floor.
It didn't work, I'm too weak, but the harness seams to stay firmly in place... we've improved.

It's hard to do because her tits are not as big as they ought to be, but we really want to try a suspension by them. We want it desperately.
While I lower the pulley, she helps me... I don't like when she helps me like this. She's supposed not to like what we are going to do now; she's breaking the rules of our play.

I pass a security cable under her armpits... in case of any problem it will share some weight and assure that things will not come to the worst. 

I hook the knot and the security cable to the pulley, and I start to pull... I'm weak, I can't raise her without a multiple pulley, as I wish... as she wish.

I know she wants some strong yet classy mistress; a Lisa Lyon turned domme. I should have never gotten her that Mapplethorpe book.

She dreams of a woman stronger than the average man, while she's stuck with me: a diminutive, skinny brunette. 

But I'm the most reliable domme that she has found; the others were crazy, fat, ugly, devious or all of that at the same time.

Or, at least, it's what she says... it hurts me, to be her most reliable choice; the most reliable, not the best. 

I'm pretty sure of it, the bitch doesn't love me; she will run away with some shady mistress, one with a silver tongue and a sparkling technique, and I will never see her again.

I pull the rope… at first, she climbs on her toes, trying to escape the force that's stretching her flesh, deforming her boobs in a couple of balloons placed above the line of her clavicles. 

I love the wrinkles in her skin, from right under the rope to the base of her chest.

Her eyes stare at me, like they always do. They are full of pain; but I see no fear in them, and no respect for me.

She looks at me as if I am just an instrument of her lust for pain. 

Some tears run through the make-up, she lifts her left hand to clean it. As always, there was no need to tie her arms.

Four inches from the floor, she starts gasping. 

Not a great height, but I wage she's got vertigo now. 

When her tits are deep purple, I decide that she had enough... yet she keeps smiling. I feel the temptation of leaving her up awhile.... she's smiling.

The fucked bitch is smiling at me, her tits menacing to part from her torso and she's smiling at her mistress like it was nothing.

I untie her, her legs are a little shaky - at least she felt something. 

I take a longer whip; I whip her cunt from her front, bottom-up, the tip of the flogger reaching her back. She keeps her look into my eyes, more defiant than ever.

I clean my right hand from her greasy foundation, no need to dirty the whip's handle.

I continue, till I decide she's softened enough for our new toy.

It took my time to carve its plaster mould, and more money than what seemed right to convince my friends at the foundry to make it.

"A folly of the artist", they said in front of the big bronze cock I made for her, full of protuberances that should take her fucking smile away, yet smooth enough to be safe to use.

My orders are simple: she has to sit around it – not on top, or over… around It.

She can use whatever she wants, oil, grease, butter, silicone gel, prayers... she has all the time to do her deed, and the bronze is so smooth I have no doubt she will succeed.

I spent hours polishing my masterpiece, savoring this moment.

She climbs at the top of the monster, she puts her left hand on the leg of a nearby trestle and, finally, she raises cautiously her legs, putting weight upon her labia. 

It's slow, and I can almost hear the sound of the flesh surrendering to the force of gravity.

I know she can't take it all; nobody could... when she reaches her limit, and she puts her legs more firmly on the ground, stopping the fall. 

I don't say anything. She did more than what I dared to dream of; as she always do.

I force her to stay seated for a little longer than what she would be comfortable with.

The tension is starting to make her legs shake harder. 
Soon enough, her muscles will cease to hold her weight as her legs are spread too wide to bear one body's weight with ease. 

She will lose control and completely impale herself.

And she knows this way better than me.

She's on the verge of a crisis, when I finally let her stand up. 

She's crying. She's sobbing. She's hurting, more than she ever did before... She's satisfied, more than she ever was before.

I look at the slave in the mirror. 

Her left hand comes to her watery eyes, when I clean the sweat from my forehead.

My right hand gets dirty another time. 

As always, as the last stunt of the day, I try to put my fist into her ass.

I never succeeded, but each time we do a little better. We entered almost to the knuckles, today.

While I'm working our butt, she starts groaning and moaning. 

She's at the edge of her resistance, on the brink of a fourth orgasm.

I take her to the limit. I'm proud of her. I'm proud of me. I take another look into the mirror.

The makeup is a dissolved, confused mask around my eyes.

Tears keep flowing freely, while my mistress in the mirror nods at me. 

I need to do more yoga, if I want to put that fist where it belongs...

I can hardly stand up, legs won't keep me...

Alone as I entered, I walk out of my "games room". 

The slave in the mirror comes with me, her mistress. 

The bronze cock we carved rests in the room, waiting for us.

Sorry, for me. I have to find a very convinced slave girl, or a merciless but honest mistress.

I have to go out of this little, miserable city where the people pass its life peeping over each others' shoulders.

I need to find the woman I need to love. To start acting like the person that I now know I am and not like I'm supposed to behave.

I have to go looking for her; I have to be free to be a slaved cunt, or to beat my girl senseless.

I have to go, before my mind starts falling apart.

When I reach my bed I know that, if there was a mirror there, the innocent girl I was would look at me aghast.

Maybe, it's already too late.

Note: it has passed quite a bit of time since I wrote this. It feels a bit pretentious, today...