Hooded in Grace

I Miss her, but I was a toxic influence on her.

A Dream

The dude is me, the place is my dining room.

The woman is the [now unattainable?] dream.

 

(To be honest, a couple of women did want her place in the past, it's just that drawing is easier than living and has less constraints. ie I AM lazy.)

African Women

I know, she is a black lady - from actual Africa, if I remember well. 

Is it in bad taste, drawing her in bondage regalia? Maybe. 

Then again, I am not American. A lot of what would be uncomfortable sub-text for a U.S. citizen is a lot toned down when seen from my Italian Hikkikomori vantage point.

What I know of African women is from the ones that I met. On average, they are nice people that treated me fairly - which may not actually apply to my mother, I can say after enough therapy - and whose only grating characteristic was, usually, an excessive desire to save my soul from hell - when they discover that I am agnostic.

So, to my eyes they are simply women whose physicality I really like and, me being me - ie screwier than a corkscrew, this is my way of showing it. 

It is not like white women are treated any better, in my drawings. 

Ite, Missa Est

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.

Dystopia

Elizabeth Sionlla on the floor of the No-Clone Inc. laboratory.

Elizabeth is the breeding-transport device in the middle of the shot.

Her tits and belly contains, each, an uterus (the ones housed in the breasts were cloned from her original one) with one high end supermodel embryo (woman-woman autologous female child, from mating sperm-from-mother-cells of a supermodel with eggs of another supermodels), in this case all Naomi Campbell - Tyra Banks cross-breeds.

The three embryos are original sisters, and not simply clones out of some successful commercial line, and as such command a hefty premium price, at 800 k each.

Once she delivers the last of the three, depending on her state she will be re-purposed as a sex toy, re-used as breeding bed or discarded by euthanasia.

Terrible as this may seem, Elizabeth  actually volunteered for this.

In the modern post-industrial reality, where all but a handful of not-so-well paid creative jobs have been replaced by robots and AIs, this is one of the few ways - legals or otherwise - in which members of the great unwashed can earn life-changing amounts of money.

She earns 5% of the final price, i.e. about 150 k a year, that goes in a trust fund for her offspring.

She chose this so that her natural born daughter, Mara K. Sionlla, may have a better future.

Little does she know that her daughter "radicalized" in college, and joined the neo-Marxists terrorist group "Red October" - as such, she has no more access to these funds and, should she ever be apprehended, her fate would be very similar to this.

Mara will likely end her life as a growth shell for government critical personnel organs - an unpaid, coaxed  position very similar to that of breeding devices.

While breeding devices are usually kept sedated in a limited lucidity state to reduce their stress, Coaxed Organ Growth Shells are kept awake and in an heightened state of physical sensibility, both to maximize their efficiency and to add to the terroristic value of their imprisonment.
 
It is normal for freed COGS to ask for euthanasia, as their very first act as free persons.

In a 15% of these cases, the euthanasia is not granted and the ex-terrorist is re-conscripted for another period as COGS.

It is debatable whether it would be ethically more correct to interrupt the  chemically induced haze that precludes Elizabeth from understanding what has happened, and interrogate her about her willingness to continue her service as BTD, or to let her do all her run, till her biologic systems fails for over-stress .

-and the plausibility of this crap, in some 30 years, is high enough that I'll have to get drunk tonight, to forget that I even wrote this.

Au Pair

A typical Sunday Afternoon.

Lucy had started her career as "au pair" with plenty of hopes and the dream of discovering Europe, before settling down definitively in her home city, Des Moines.

One year of much needed travelling and sightseeing, in her intentions.

This was 4 years ago - things didn't go to plans, but Lucy is hardly complaining about it.

The first family she worked for was a pretty "normal" one, a pretty stolid French middle class household in the city of Caen.

The second one, though, was a far different issue - a British expatriate married to a Spanish woman, with two daughters, living in Sitges, Catalunya, Spain.

A very loving family, with some pretty interesting rituals for the Saturday afternoon - when the girls are not around.

Lucy was usually out, too, but one Saturday she was stood up by José, the Spanish boy she was going out with, and depressed she had retreated to her room - without advising  Mark and Maria of having returned home.

What she saw, when she ventured in the basement after having heard Maria's screams, disturbed her sleep for a couple of weeks, till she confronted the couple asking clarifications.

M&M convinced her to give their SM plays a try - before she ran away to some social worker all too eager to save the girls from some perverts - it was a complete revelation for Lucy.

Like finding a missing piece of herself, that was the source of most of her inquietudes, or plugging a hole in her soul that she despaired to ever find a way to fill.

Lucy lived with the family for six more months, then moved in with two friends of Maria, in the Basque country.

They had no children, and dedicated to SM far more time than Mark and Maria, in a big shack in their property converted to a wonderful dungeon, full of light from huge windows and hand-crafted apparatuses.

In the year spent with them, she learnt more and more about her instincts and she completed her transformation from slightly air-headed au-pair to full time, TPE slave-girl.

Her successive, and for now last employment, was once again a father, mother and two adult daughters family, living in a big house in the middle of a forest in France, with an incredibly well prepared dungeon.

In other words, a submissive masochist's heaven.

Officially, Lucy is now a full time housecleaning maid.

Unofficially, and much more satisfactorily for her, she is the pain-toy of the daughters, on Wednesday, and of Papa - with Mama a sister-slave - during the week-end.

Monday is to decompress and recuperate from the session, Tuesday to effectively clean the house... usually, wearing only an apron.

Free days, Thursday and Friday, to go out and have a social life - mostly because Mama insists that she is still too young to become a 24/7 slave-in-a-cage.

She is pretty happy with her life, right now... and sees no reason to change, or to go back to Iowa any time soon.

Little does she know, that Papa is going to receive a much unwanted promotion... oversea.

Attagirl!

Attagirl!

Name: Linda Milian
Age:   18
Work: High -School Student, Store Clerk (part time)
Vocation: Pony-Girl

---

This is Linda Milian.

She is the image of what is good, and of what is wrong in our sport.

She has a very busy life, between the school (she lost a year due to a mismanaged family transfer in France, but she really enjoyed Notre Dame de Paris e L'Île St. Louis) and her job, but she really enjoys spend what she can of her free time here, at the Pony-Girls Ring in Kügel Canyon.

She dedicates herself to training, with admirable devotion, and is not devoid of actual talent. In fact, had her heart fallen for another sport, she would have a ticket to college thanks to an athletic scholarship.

But because she loves Pony-Girling, she is forced to work a very menial job, in order to accumulate the money to pay her tuition.

It is so, because she loves Pony-Girling - and because the current rules are, in our opinion, wrong.  

Her small frame, however very elegant, put her at a disadvantage when it comes to towing power, and more so in the initial acceleration phase, in which her 45 kg (100 lbs) can hardly compete against athletes with bigger build.

It is a shame, and a waste of what we think is real talent.

Which leads us to our proposal.

With the rise in the number of registered Pony-Girls, it is finally opening up the possibility for creating weight categories in the tournaments.

Linda, and others like her, would then be allowed to face other athletes with a similar build, in a fairer competition.

We realize that, traditionally, Pony-Girling has been considered part of the track and field sports, in which the concept of weight category has never been used.

We think it is about time to recognise the differences between this and other sports like Running or Jumping, in which the athletes must carry only their own weight.

At the same time, we admit that this is not the only possible solution to the issue.

The one proposed by our Canadian colleagues of the Calgary Pony Ring, namely equalizing the ratio Pony-Cart by adding a suitable  ballast to the cart of the heavier athletes (so that the ratio Pony-Girl weight / Cart and Rider gross weight is the same for everybody, and aligned to the less favoured Pony on the track) also promises to do away with the grossly unfair advantage that big framed Ponies have in the current state of affairs.

The Canadian solution would allow to keep the current organisational structure for the existing tournaments, with just minor additions, but we fear that some athletes may try to find ways to cheat at the time of the weigh-ins, if it will be chosen.


In our opinion, weight categories would greatly limit this undesired behaviours.

In the end, however, this is an aesthetic as well as political choice that the Federation, as a whole, must make, which is the reason why we decided, jointedly with the Calgary Pony Ring, to propose a motion to adopt either of the aforementioned rule changes.

We hope that the members of the committee will evaluate wisely, which of the two proposals will better serve the interests of Pony-Girling in the 22th Century.

Thanks for your time,
   have a nice day.

Paula Stockharden, 
chief athletic officer of the Kügel Canyon Pony-Girls Ring

- from the notes of the 35th reunion of the 
Reform Panel Subcommittee of the Pony-Girling Olimpic Federation

February the 12th, 2097 

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 actual events is purely coincidental.

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.

Jus Primae Noctis

This is a short tale on the "jus primae noctis",  the (complrtely fictional) right of nobles to have the "first night" of a new bride, before the groom.

As you will see, there is more than one way to exercise a right... and, whose right is that?

---

I always thought that it was barbaric... our duke is the only noble, in a hundred miles, that still requires newly wed women to spend their first night of marriage with him.

I used to despise the idea, I really did.

Then, my fiancé died in a stupid work accident, and the man that I had to fall back on... has a very traditional  family, that values the damn virginity thing.

I am, of course, no virgin at all... my position in their pecking order is bound to be very low.

But what can I do? I cam't get my hymen to grow back, now, can I?

I was surprised, when our lord communicated us that he expected to have my company for my first night of marriage. If I knew it I'd have gone in a convent, the hell with men and their idiotic ideas.

The evening of my narriage day, I was led to the lord's house, and so here I am.

Dining with our Duke, and the Duchess.

-"Come on, dear, this lamb is delicious" - says the duchess.

Her presence disconcerts me... she must know why I am here.

_"I think that she didn't expect to see you, my dear. You know, Jus Primae Noctis, the feudal lord takes what he wants from the poor peasant girl. She thought she was going to be prsented to me naked, bound and with an apple stuffed in her mouth, for my ducal spike to skewer her."

-"In a way, my lord, indeed I was."

-"Oh, dear girl, you got it so wrong" - the voice of tyhe duchess is mellifluous, slightly amused.

-"Am I wrong, my Lady?"

-"My husband is not going to force himself upon you, dear. I can promise you that much."

-"That is... why not?"

-"Because I am not a damn bastard!"

The voice of the Duke booms, irritated.

-"So, if I want, I can go home, right now?"

-"Oh, no, my dear, that can't do. You are here to spend the night"  - her Ladyship voice is velvetry, but a hint of steel gleams below it -"would you mind, looking in the tray at your right?"

I expected food, instead, lifting the tray's cover, I find a glass thing shaped like a big man's cock.

-"You may decide not to have intercourse, but I cannot allow you to exit this house, tomorrow, with your virginity intact".

-"I beg your pardon, my Lady?"

-"You can have sex with the two of us" - the Duchess hand reaches that of the Duke and holds it for a second, reassuring - "and I can guarantee you that it will be an experience to remember" - the duke almost growls, at the idea. He really don't care for this?
-"Or you can use that to take away your virginity, while I witness it; It's your choice".

My confusion is complete, now. What the hell is this about?

The Duke raises an eyebrow, his irritation subsided, his voice that of an old teacher, when he speaks again '"Do you know why are you here, child?" - Of course I don't, if it is not just for his lust - "there are two ways we chose to ask a new bride to give us her first marriage night, when the marriage is announced to us" - he pauses to sip a bit of wine - "one, we both toss a coin, me and my lady, and if both are heads, she is invited to join us for a night".

-"You toss coins, sir?"

-"I am not my father, child... I don't have the guts to shag every ugly daughter of every unwashed tosser in my lands, just for the sake of having a go with the few beautiful ones, and singling out the nice ones would be an injustice..." - another pause -"... and an incentive for them to disregard personal hygiene, in the days leading up to the marriage..." - a small laugh from the Duchess interrupts him with a smile -"... so, yes, two coins, one possibility in four. I wouldn't care to stress my poor loins more than that."

-"So, I was just - lucky?"

-"Two ways, lass. The other, is the woman asks it to us" - why the tone of the Duke hints so much that this is my case? I didn't ask anything.

- "The woman, or a member of her family that doesn't believe in her ability to fake convincingly to have a virginity that she has already lost" - the voice of the Duchess is soothing, I feel I am not the first recipient of this discourse.

-"What?"

-"Your mother is a very practical woman, my dear. And, it worked for her, after all, before you were born"

 I am astounded, I didn't suspect any of this. Any.

-"Which is a very good reason why you should pick the glass thing, lass" - he eats some more lamb, leaving me the time to reflect on it, than he realizes that my mind is in a blank

-"I would rather avoid you giving birth to your half-sister" - he says, finally.

-"She has a right to know actual lovemaking, if she so chose, before being chained to a pork farmer for the rest of her life!" - comments drily the Duchess.

-"She could be my daughter!"

-"She has a right, my dear. Noblesse do Oblige - and I could be your sister... it didn't stop you"

-"Don't remind me that. Thank God, times are changing. Our son will not have to put up with this, this... shit!"

The Duchess come over to me, smiling in a wilynway -"So, wat do you chose? A piece of glass, or me?"

Behind her, I see the Duke raise his eyes to the sky and sigh.

I didn't expect this to play out this way... then, her ladyship leans down and kisses me on my mouth.

I am surprised, I don't put up any resistance - it is one hell of a kiss.

At the other end of the table, the Duke growls again.

To hell with glass.

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...

Anti-Gravity

In the early May of year 203x, Masonics LTD showed the first human-friendly AG device at the International Expo of Calcutta.

It is safe to say that it lead to a revolution in transportation... coupled with efficient self-flying systems, it allowed to create economically sensible flying cars (the energy employed by an AG module usually being half of what was loss by wheels' rolling dissipations, compensating for the lower efficience of fans compared to  electric cars' drive-train), that until that moment had been relegated to the realm of science fiction.

Not only this, it also allowed a host of new personal devices, like the floating life-jacket that saved many workers in high-altitude projects, extremely silent pallet movers, extremely reliable courier drones etc.

It also opened the way to some way less conventional application, like the one in the image.

This is from the original brochure of the PiK-3 courier drone, the first efficient low-cost drone to feature the new technology, beating by just two months the Loughead SR72.

The PiK-3 was intended to fly above human heads but well below the sprawling traffic of flying car, to dispense with the then costly auto-flying "collaborative logic",  which was required to every vehicle able to join in the heavy-weight air traffic.

In fact, its simple graphene quantum computer was able to deliver packets, sorting the details of the road ahead, but wasn't powerful enough to offer the required contribution to the grid-intelligence that kept under control the skies above 100 feet.

Also, dispensing with the grid access meant that the small drone used less public 4G bandwidth, whose cost at the time was steadily increasing , pushed by a never seen before communication congestion in the 8.4 Ghz band.

Famously, to distinguish themselves in a soonto be very crowded marketplace, the enterprise of the Pikowsky twins - never too shy to exploit the latest trend or a human male mania - chose some very peculiar uses, in its campaign, to showcase the possibilities of the machine...

Here, the twins and their fiancée Lois Lockburn are presenting the PiK-3 MC (middle cargo, up to 80 kg) to the Japanese market.

By subtly adapting their campaigns to each market, the PiKowsky managed to capture an impressive 65% of the global market for flying couriers, in the 8-120 kg cargo capacity range. 

Pikowski demise came through a successful hostile take-over by Boink , who promptly re-branded all the  Pikowsky products in the USA and European market, officially because of the misogynistic ideology associated to the company.

Curiously, the board of directors of Pikowsky during the "misogynistic" founder's era was constituted by a 75%  of women, of which more than a half were to be replaced by men at the very dawn of the "politically correct" Boink management.


(note: I pulled names out of thin air; there is no intended similitude to any existing brand, person, name and situations. So I swear. )

Is there a name...

... for a 'philia where someone wants to have intercourse with giant stuffed dolls?

Not yet, probably, but by the time the DSM-XV will be out, chances are there will be an entry into it.

The Grand Father

Beta Israel women members of the IDF

 
Nothing could harm him.

Not even his own mistakes.

His palace full of  eighteen-less startlettes and whores outraged the public, but enough of his supporters were thrilled that their Chosen-by-God representative was still able to entertain himself the same way that they would like to do - in his '70s - that he managed to maintain some political clout.

The dèbacle had led many around him to show their true nature but, in all honesty, he expected them to be the pitiable, morally handicapped pieces of shit that they were.

It didn't stop him, no more than it had in the decades during which his own triumphs taught him their hard lesson.

Everybody around him was some ambitious piece of work with the moral fiber of a corrupt bureaucrat, the capable ones more dangerous than they were worth, the not capable just spineless sycophants.

 He had grown to accept it like a fundamental law of his universe.

He raised from the bed, went to the piano, and started playing  a sad song.

When he felt like that, he used to call one or two of the mares in his stables and have some fun, but that was no longer an option.

The public kept a somewhat keener eye on what he did in his private life, ever since the discovery of how he spent his nights.

He was growing old, he knew that. He was growing old and he had no doubt whatsoever that whatever laid after death for him, be it the afterlife he was taught about in his childhood as a catholic choir boy or the atheistic void he had grown to prefer, was going to be shit.

He sighed... had he really underestimated the CIA? Had he stumped too hard on their sensible feet, with his foreign policy?

His private lifestyle hadn't really changed in years, everybody in his entourage knew it and tried to profit a bit from the vulnerabilities it opened in his public persona.

Like everybody always tries to exploit whichever asset they may have.

There was no reason for everything to blow so out of his control.

Was that the problem? Beyond the blunders like the friendship with an unpresentable dictator, was it true that Mossad had infiltrated his stable of young whores? And that CIA already had some inside his circle, detected it and pulled the plug - before the whole situation became embarrassing for the USA?

Like they helped the judges that sent in exile  his political mentor, back in the 90s.

- He calls them "communist" every other day, but he knows all too well that the support that allowed a small group of judges to dismantle a nation-wide system of corruption,  consolidated over twenty years of political praxis, didn't come from the likewise corrupted Italian communist party. 

Or from the collapsed  intelligence services of the convulsed Eastern bloc.

Someone in Langley had probably appraised the whole mess the country was becoming, predicted that it was going to blow up  all the more explosively if the shit was allowed to gain more momentum, and they pulled the plug.

He sighed... he knew how to evaluate most people - which is why he valued much the few non-piece-of-works that crossed his path - but had real problems when they were moved by faith or ideals.

He understand the rascals, doing their scams for a dime. He is a grand-time rascal himself, he would  admit it willingly.

In his experience, everybody become a rascal when you pile enough zeros on the right of their check - a part old men like himself, who are more swayed by a nice, young, firm woman's ass.
But when it came to people motivates by ideology - sense of duty, patriotism, honour - his skin crawled uneasily.

He re-read the note.

He remembered the girl fondly - her ass was a masterpiece of black flesh, her smile as luminous as only African women can be and, in the caravanserai's of his little sluts, maybe the most honest.

He knew her as an escapee  from Sudan and its vehemently Islamic and gynophobic  government. 

He didn't know that she had "escaped" with all her family.

Not as a single lusty woman, running toward a world ready to pay well for her graces, but as a child in a Beta Israel family, relocated by the government of Tel-Aviv.

That her ass was  as much a product of  some drill sergeant of the Israeli Army as of her passion for dance.

He had never suspected it - and now an ISI suicide bomber had killed her and other five women in a lesbian bar, in Tel Aviv.

He looked at the note, arrived through a tortuous path from some corner of the "as devious as deviated" Italian intelligence community.

It was improbable that her past would come to light - the Shin Bet having even less interest to let the world discover that she had been an operative, than he had desire to have yet more dirty laundry aired in the open.

He looked at the photo on the Washington Post. 

Not a nice photo, it didn't show how gorgeous she was - lesbian? He never saw that either. Then again, he hardly ever saw anything that he didn't want to see.

He sighed, the melancholy tight around his heart - Fuck Off, We only life once.

He got to his mobile, and asked his new master of ceremony - the old one proved to be too much of a grafting bastard, even beyond what His generous nature could condone - to find him a couple of  19 years old brunettes, ready for some rough play.

He sighed again... ah, the good old times.

When he need not so much Viagra, or even to check that all the girls were of legal age.

Her ass was marvellously tight, it required her some true effort to take it in.

Could she have killed him, that first time?

Something moved inside his trousers, and went limp  -again.
 - Sigh.

Better three girls.

For old time' sake.

Self-portrait

As an happy man. Am I not gorgeous? No? Really... You are terrible, guys.

Mei Mara

Mei Mara is a tiny woman of very intriguing features, a sublime masochist and a dedicated fetish model.

Mei Mara

Now, I will not try to lead you into the sin of envy but I'll let you know anyway that, if you send a drawing like this to a fetish model, accompanied by a somewhat respectful letter, said model is probably going to feel  flattered and answer .

Yes, it was an unfathomable truth, that I would have never believed before experimenting it myself...

Draw something like this (on top of one of her publicly available photos, I admit), send it to the model asking permission, and she is going to say OK.

I did draw Mei another couple of times, in black and white, this

She is lovely - for me, of course

 and this one,

If there was one fetish model who could pull this stunt, in the
middle of the modern crop, she was probably the one.

, before discovering that she has gone back to college and that she intends to graduate in psychology.
 
I think that she will become a sexual therapist, in the long run - a career in which a past stint in bondage modelling doesn't represent any handicap.

She is one of the not so many example of "make porn, get the money, and build a life on top of it".


In reality, it is not like working in sexual entertainment is so different from other jobs demanding physical efforts and having a limited career span - no, I am not thinking at sports or actors, I am thinking at things like placing tiles on the floor, driving excavators, flattening roofs.

Usually, by the 15th years you do one of these jobs, your back is "gone".
S
o, if you start at 20, by 35 you better be ready to transition to a different job.

By the way, there is always people that doesn't recognize this bitter truth - of course, a back that aches more and more makes it a bit more difficult to ignore than, say, just avoid listening when your agent tells you that it's time to accept roles as a middle aged lady, but someone manages to find himself unable to do his work and to re-train into a new job. It happens.

But, strangely, nobody accuses the contractors' world of being a Saturn that eats his members, even if it is just another one.

As always, double standards...

Katmandu - Nepal? It may be good enough.

"Prendi l'aereo e scappa"

 
-Hi Flower? How come?

    I am at the airport... I see that your plane is going to be late some 45 minutes.
    I didn't expect your call.

- (Inintelligible voice from a young woman) ...

- Yes, I am a fossil. In my time, you had to switch the stupid things off the whole travel.
    Nowadays, you can link to the plane Wi-FI and use that, I know. But I tend to forget this stuff.
    So, aren't you excited? Another summer in Europe, courtesy of your old Uncle B.

-...

- Your mother is on the plane, too? But, I thought her job left her with almost no time for holidays, like all the other years.
   Can you pass her the phone? I'd like to hear her voice!

-...

- It wouldn't be a good idea?
   She is crossed with me, and you are calling from the plane's bathroom, using someone else's phone?
   Sorry, but, I don''t understand-

-...

- You are not a virgin anymore? Ehr... Congratulations? 
   So, who's the lucky guy?

-...

- There is no guy? Who's the lucky girl?

-...

- No girl either? Fascinating, but what has this to do with your mother being on the pla-

-...

- My dungeon? How do you know that the detached house is my dungeon?

-...

- OK, the stream of women that went in and out was clue. You are right. This was clumsy even for my standards.

-...

- OK,

-...

- OK,

-...

- You what? Made a copy of the keys?

-...

- Of course I leave them on the rack, the shed also houses the AC compressors and the heating machinery.
  I was fed of hearing odd noises at night, in the old house.

-...

- OK, so, when I went out for that job, you took the keys to town and got a copy, and with that you had unfettered access to the dungeon, when I was not around.

-...

- And when I was around, you could sneak in and look from...? Oh, God.
  I start to see why your mother may be pissed, and why you were being so haughty with Patricia.

-...

- Yeah, I bet that at at your age, it may be difficult to respect a person, when you see how she loves to use electric drillers in very eclectic ways.

-...

- At my age, we call that being alive, Flower. You are alive, you like this or that questionable thing.
  OK, so, you had complete and unsupervised access to the place. What did you do?

-...

- You tried the chair? So, it's that thingy, the lucky one? Sorry...it's not very romantic, though it has probably fares better than most men would do.

-...

-Your mother, was still looking to get you a traditional Japanese marriage? Is that the problem, now that you have been... plucked?
  That's quite a piece of crap, coming from her.

-...

- Ah, no? OK, I failed at properly supervising you, but I do not see reasons to be angry. You were bound to discover that kind of things, sooner or later. To be honest, I am astounded that you lasted so long before...

-...

- It isn't that either. OK, so, what did you do, that your mother is mad at me?

-...

- You tried the whole set of dildos? The whole set? Flower, those things, the biggies,  those are there just for show!!!!
  I do not know any woman that...

-...

- OK, there were no warning labels, and now I know one woman who can.
   But, then you went back home, you stopped the "training", and things should have gone down to normal.
   You are still Captain Crazy for having tried that stunt, kid, but it's not like you fell ill because of that.

-...

- Bottles? Glass Bottles? Of Lamune, right?

-...

- It was something your mother, once, explained to me... what that lemonade is really loved for, by Japanese girls. What that kind of bottles can be so proficiently turned t-

-...

- Wine? As in, the classic, 75 cl bottles?

-...

- So, she caught you with a bottle of wine up your... two bottles?????

-...

- Front and back... you really don't do things by halves. And you were... in the dining room? I see.

-...

- And you were forced to tell her the whole story?

-...

- She is going to wring my neck like a chicken's, the moment she can wrap her arms around it, right?

-...

- OK, thanks for calling, kid.
  I am going to leave the keys of the house at the Ilberia Information desk, as I fear I am not going to be able to help you to the house, this time.

At the Ilberia help desk,

- Hola, Juan. Puedes darles estas a Anita, cuando llega con el avión? Me ha salido un impeño de repente, y  tengo que marcharme.

( - Hey, Juan. Can you give these to Annie, when she arrives? Something came about, and I've got to go)  


- Claro. Que pasó?

(- OK. What's happened?)


- Mmmhhh, Nada. Por si acaso, hay un avión que salga en la próxima hora, o así, que tenga una plaza libre?

(- Mmmhhh, Nothing. Is there, by chance, any plane bound to take off in the next hour or so, with a free seat?) 

- Bueno, sólo hay uno por Katmandu, no creo que te interese.

(- There is only one, for Katmandu, I don't think you want it)

- Katmandu? Nepal?

- Que yo sepa, no hay otros.

(- No other Katmandus that I know of.)

Vale. Dame esa plaza, es mía

(-OK, give me that seat, it's mine)

.

Ramune Bottle: keeping Japan's girls happy since 1841

"Ramune-lemonade,japan" by katorisi - Own work. Licensed under CC BY 3.0 via Commons.