Showing posts with label Excessive. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Excessive. Show all posts
Sunday, 20 August 2023
Tuesday, 18 April 2023
Sunday, 17 October 2021
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.)
Sunday, 10 October 2021
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
Monday, 1 August 2016
Can I Save Her?
The great, black hands move swiftly - the large woman takes a handful of rice, mixed with soy vinegar and sugar, makes the last vaguely fish-shaped log, then she takes a nice chunk of fresh tuna and starts filleting it in thin stripes, that she lays on the rice with small drops of wasabi acting as 'glue' as well as seasoning.
Lord Jonathan Maxwell keeps watching, as Keisha Lawson fills the work table with nigiris, in the back workroom of Kawarazaki Sushi. The room is wide, spacious and well lit - and well hidden from the dinner room.
Even in this first half of the 22st century, Japanese people are more than a shade racist when it comes to blacks. Lord Maxwell imagines what a riot could it be, if the many actual Japanese clients of the place - probably the best Sushi restaurant in Great London area - discovered that most of the food, there, was prepared by a Nigger.
When she raises her head, Jonathan tries to move forward but is stopped by Saitou Kawarazaki, the owner, who speaks entirely too deferentially to the Black Giantess.
"Kono otoko wa Keisha-Megami-Sama to hanashi o shitaidesu"
"Daijobu Saitou o'dono"
The cold stare of the titanic African could pierce a tank armour, and slices through Jonathan self-assuredness. Her eyes widens a little, for the smallest nick of time - some kind of comprehension overtook her.
"Please, Saitou O'Dono, tell Hikari to continue with the Gunkans. I will be out for a while."
"Ai, Keisha-Megami-Sama" - the man bows deeply in front of the big black, just as she take off her apron.
, bent on exploiting employees in every possible way.
"My place is nearby. I suspect you would rather speak away from everybody's ears, this time" - the smile on Keisha's face is almost crooked, while she says so, but Jonathan cannot help but agree with her.
This time, going in a café could be a bad idea.
He follows the tall woman and her pale Burberry, down an alley and then into an entirely too old elevator.
He must look tense, because the black feels the need to reassure him "Machine's reliability is often more a matter of their maintenance than of their age. Beside, this thing is just five years old - it's a copy of a first quarter of 20th century lift only aesthetically, the technology is new."
She smiles again, almost giggly, seeing the older man easing up - "It happens often. People sees it and thinks that it is going to break down midway, but I really didn't want to disfigure this old building with
one of those new stainless steel boxes".
They reach the attic of the old warehouse, and enter an enormous flat with teak floors.
The main area contains a well sized kitchen in a corner, a big television with three old leather couches in front of it, surrounded by outmoded big speakers, in the other.
Between them, a dining table with eight seats covered in linen cloth rests over a big carpet occupies a central space.
At the walls, bookshelves contend space with some obvious reproductions of works from Keith Haring and other ancient artists bear witness to the big woman's taste. The only wrong note, a reproduction of a painting from some seventeenth century Dutch artist, possibly Gerrit Dou, didn't really catch with the rest of the place.
It was the portrait of a small girl with red hair, probably included in the furniture for some sentimental value.
The giantess passes near one of the couches, and invites Jonathan to take a seat, while she directs herself to the door that gives access to the other half of the place - Jonathan imagines that the bathroom and the bedroom[s] are in the walled part of the flat, whereas this open space is the "day" area; not a bad disposition of the spaces, if a bit old fashioned.
Soon, the sound of a shower running confirms his suppositions.
"Do you want something to drink? To eat?"
The diminutive red-head has appeared while Jonathan was lost in his thoughts, startling him and leaving him temporarily out of words.
"S-Something strong" - is all that he finally manages. He hoped there would be nobody else, to listen to what he had to say.
"Strong? Alcohol?· We only have some Schnapps. Do you want it?"
"It will be fine."
No, it is not fine at all - "What the hell is this?" - the content of alcohol in the beverage is off the charts.
"Austrian home-made Schnaps" - says Keisha, entering the room in a red kimono, her hair still wet - "85% alcohol. Mariede keeps it mostly to have fun with new guests."
The short redhead pours herself a full glass of the infernal concoction, and gulps it down, smiling to an astonished Jonathan. It is easy to see why the Dutch painting is included in the house... it could very well be a portrait of this young woman. Familial resemblances often can last centuries; Jonathan himself is almost identical to his great-great-great-great-grandfather Nicholas Maxwell, judging by the photos in the family book.
"Her body hardly absorbs any alcohol. She needs a whole bottle of that, to actually be a bit high, and anything below 70º has no effect at all, on her."
The smile on the red-head clearly tells something along the lines of "What do you want, that's life."
"Lord Jonathan Maxwell, this is my companion, Mariede Gründl. Mariede, this is Jonathan Maxwell, the current possessor of Isabel."
By the way Mariede's smile cools down, Jonathan can see that she is not very happy of hearing the name.
The circumstances of Jonathan and Keisha first encounter, some six months before, become clear - the tall woman had fallen in love with Mariede, and couldn't afford to keep Isabel on the leash, mostly because the - Austrian? She had a faint accent - short girl didn't like to share her woman with anybody.
"What's the problem, now, with that scatter-head?"
"Ehm, it is very personal, I would rather discuss this only with Ms. Lawson." - the expression on the Austrian face is clearly a "No way", so he decides to try and explain that he is not looking forward "giving back" the voluptuous blonde - "The relationship between my wife and Isabel, I ... this is so bad"
"Your wife has grown more and more sadistic, and it had come to the point where she was virtually trying to kill Isabel on a regular basis. Only, nothing she can do damages Isabel for more than, say, twenty minutes? And then, Isabel wants more pain. So, now your wife is finally trying to kill Isabel, all the time, just to get rid of her and the sense of utter impotence that she feels, when she sees that blonde hair."
Mariede's eyes widens up in stupor, then she look at Keisha, who just tilts her head so slightly on the right and raises an eyebrow, clearly communicating an "I told you that it was going to be so" that hits Mariede very deeply. She lowers her head, sits on the sofa next to Jonathan's and , while she does not really cry and sob, she gives the impression that she may as well do so.
Keisha goes over to her, sits on the sofa too, and places Mariede on her lap - like the Austrian was weightless - and starts to cuddle her.
" I am such a bad person" - the phrase is almost whispered, as the "No, you are not" answered by Keisha, who then address her befuddled guest.
"I think that you may have some questions, Lord Maxwell."
"OK... first of all, WHAT is Isabel?"
"An... experiment, on the capabilities of nano-technology. Her body is full of small robots that repair any possible damage it may occur to her."
"Yes, yes... I suspected something like that, it's the only thing that makes sense."
"Of course, her body wasn't exactly human even before that, and her mind is... very peculiar."
"Yes, I saw that too... this technology, where does it come from?"
"It is unwise for you to ask, and it would be even more unwise for me to answer."
"I see" - whoever made something like that, had no concern for ethics, morals or laws, and plenty of reasons to go to any length to keep the lid on the affair, which begets the question...
"But, why... why isn't she kept away, in some secret cell? Whatever scientific data could be retrieved, it would be better to keep her in a containment facility, not " - to trap poor sods like me, he didn't add..
"Let's say that his creator is a very contradictory person, and sees no problems in CREATING the ultimate pain toy girl, but it would smite anybody that even suggests to REALLY imprison her, only because it is convenient."
A fatigued expression wanders through the big black face - "With that... guy, it is always a question of Do-ut-Des and free choices, even if it takes a bit to pierce his obfuscating persona and see how it really sees the world. But, we rather not discuss this, shall we?"
"My wife is losing her mind."
"Yes... your wife is into SM because she feels a need to feed a fragile ego. That is already the worst possible reason, to be into this kind of things, but the interaction with someone like Isabel can easily becoming very destructive."
Jonathan faintly nods with his head, to signal that he understands it - he wishes very much he had not come to that sort of insights.
"At start, she must have felt very powerful... you can do everything, with Isabel. No limits, for real. Then she had to realize... no limits, because nothing really matters. She has no power at all, on Isabel - nobody has. And Izzy does not 'endure' anything either... every kind of pain in an even mildly sexualized environment gives her pleasure, and she craves it 24/7. In the end, your wife is just the slave that keeps Isabel well tortured and happy, and this is a blow that her ego cannot take."
"Oh, my God, she is going to destroy herself, if they are together."
" Isabel is also kind of a test... she brings out the best and the worst in her 'owners'. You didn't resent her, for not being able to lose permanently a limb when you cut it off" - a muted, inarticulate sound comes from Jonathan, as the horrid vision of a recent night flashes before his eyes - "You probably couldn't even think about doing something like that , but your wife did it as soon as it became clear that Isabel could withstand, literally, everything. And then, she did cut something off, only to look at how it reattached itself, didn't she?"
"Please..." - Jonathan's face is a mask of emotional pain, but it is Mariede that, suddenly, jumps out and run away.
"I think that she didn't really understood, when I tried to explain her that I had to keep Isabel. What could happen..." - a sigh escapes from Keisha's lips - "... but she is very possessive, and felt that Isabel was taking up too much of my energies and time. She is right, of course, so I had to find a new guardian for Isabel."
Sadness paints its shade on Lawson's face, as she adds "Sorry."
"How can I save my wife?"
"Can you? I fear that it may be already too late. You cannot isolate Lady Anna from Isabel, without reinforcing the fact that she is not the one in control, and as things keep worsening, your wife may decide to prove her power on a surrogate. It has already happened, to the poor sloth that was her guardian before me. He planned, organized and re-hearsed the kidnapping of a sixteen years old girl, but managed to kill himself just before going on with it, in a last moment of lucidity."
Maxwell tried to think to his wife, Anna, in a similar situation - no, she would not kill herself. She'd just go on, and do her terrible ddeds.
"How may I kill Isabel?"
"You can't - physically, there are some ways. Maybe. Throw her in a steel furnace, it should be hot enough that her nanorobots should be disabled, her rests would be so dispersed that they should be unable to recompose her even if they were still active. However, " - the pause is significant - "I used to be able to punch holes in hot furnaces, and throw melted iron around with my bare hands; The tech inside my body is way older than what's inside Isabel. She may as well swim into the ore, and come out of the still mill with her hair barely singed."
"You used?"
"I am not on active service, so most of the naughty things inside me have been switched off. Don't ask more, it would be... very, very unwise. Me waking up from some homicidal trance, your still beating heart in my hands kind of unwise."
Was it a joke? Probably, more of a truth. As Keisha continued, Jonathan realized that anything this woman said apparently in jest was deadly serious, most of the time.
"Anything else, she'd just brush it off. You can't lay Isabel out either, not really... 'Till the end of your natural lives' was literal, not a joke."
The horror grapples Lord Maxwell's heart, as he realize what this probably means. If he tries to get rid of Isabel... somebody would rip his chest open and squish his heart, while he looks at it - no anaesthesia.
"What, can I do?"
"You must decide, what of your wife do you want to save, if she starts planning the surrogate move."
"Oh, God, no!"
"Also you must realize... you are probably a surrogate as good as anybody else."
"Anyway, it doesn't matter to me, not any more."
"But, but..."
"Isabel is an adult, your wife is an adult, you are an adult, you entered in this relationship all together, wholeheartedly, and the rules of engagement were clearly defined, for everybody involved. It turns out one of you can't manage the burden of her role? It is not my fault. Isabel had warned you that she was an handful, I bet."
Indeed, she did - Jonathan remembered the many emails exchanged with the young woman.
Nothing that was happening was really a surprise, it had been hinted to in a moment or the other.
He, and Anna, just couldn't believe it.
"So, you cant help me?"
"Short of taking Isabel back, there is nothing that I can do. And I bet that Izzy is having the time of her life, with your wife. She wouldn't come back anyway - not to old, boring, dull Keisha."
That, Jonathan realises, closes the discussion - she cannot help him, even if she wanted - which he very much doubts.
Before going out, he turn toward the huge black, and says an angry farewell "I hope to see you in Hell, woman.
By the time he sees the man in the alley, she retorts - more to herself - "We already live in one, didn't you know, Milord?"
"But it is true that I ended up making you pay for my greatest sin." - her thought continue, as her eyes land on the spot, in the painting, when a small strand of hair used to be encrusted.
She remembered when she first saw it, in the Louvre museum, and decided to see if it was possible to recreate the owner.
Mariede was the third product of that experiment, done in half jest. The moment when Keisha realized that she, too, was becoming a monster - when she engineered the various Mariede's minds to be highly susceptible to fall in love with one Keisha Lawson.
It was then, when she realized that she, too, had to go back to normal humanity, before it was too late - which could very well be - when she realized how cruel she had been, to each Mariede, and decided to be always there, for the one that loved her.
"Can I save her, from the very monsters that gave her her life, when I am one of them and I still like to hurt her?"
She will never admit that she knows the answer,:
"No."
Lord Jonathan Maxwell keeps watching, as Keisha Lawson fills the work table with nigiris, in the back workroom of Kawarazaki Sushi. The room is wide, spacious and well lit - and well hidden from the dinner room.
Even in this first half of the 22st century, Japanese people are more than a shade racist when it comes to blacks. Lord Maxwell imagines what a riot could it be, if the many actual Japanese clients of the place - probably the best Sushi restaurant in Great London area - discovered that most of the food, there, was prepared by a Nigger.
When she raises her head, Jonathan tries to move forward but is stopped by Saitou Kawarazaki, the owner, who speaks entirely too deferentially to the Black Giantess.
"Kono otoko wa Keisha-Megami-Sama to hanashi o shitaidesu"
"Daijobu Saitou o'dono"
The cold stare of the titanic African could pierce a tank armour, and slices through Jonathan self-assuredness. Her eyes widens a little, for the smallest nick of time - some kind of comprehension overtook her.
"Please, Saitou O'Dono, tell Hikari to continue with the Gunkans. I will be out for a while."
"Ai, Keisha-Megami-Sama" - the man bows deeply in front of the big black, just as she take off her apron.
, bent on exploiting employees in every possible way.
"My place is nearby. I suspect you would rather speak away from everybody's ears, this time" - the smile on Keisha's face is almost crooked, while she says so, but Jonathan cannot help but agree with her.
This time, going in a café could be a bad idea.
He follows the tall woman and her pale Burberry, down an alley and then into an entirely too old elevator.
He must look tense, because the black feels the need to reassure him "Machine's reliability is often more a matter of their maintenance than of their age. Beside, this thing is just five years old - it's a copy of a first quarter of 20th century lift only aesthetically, the technology is new."
She smiles again, almost giggly, seeing the older man easing up - "It happens often. People sees it and thinks that it is going to break down midway, but I really didn't want to disfigure this old building with
one of those new stainless steel boxes".
They reach the attic of the old warehouse, and enter an enormous flat with teak floors.
The main area contains a well sized kitchen in a corner, a big television with three old leather couches in front of it, surrounded by outmoded big speakers, in the other.
Between them, a dining table with eight seats covered in linen cloth rests over a big carpet occupies a central space.
At the walls, bookshelves contend space with some obvious reproductions of works from Keith Haring and other ancient artists bear witness to the big woman's taste. The only wrong note, a reproduction of a painting from some seventeenth century Dutch artist, possibly Gerrit Dou, didn't really catch with the rest of the place.
It was the portrait of a small girl with red hair, probably included in the furniture for some sentimental value.
The giantess passes near one of the couches, and invites Jonathan to take a seat, while she directs herself to the door that gives access to the other half of the place - Jonathan imagines that the bathroom and the bedroom[s] are in the walled part of the flat, whereas this open space is the "day" area; not a bad disposition of the spaces, if a bit old fashioned.
Soon, the sound of a shower running confirms his suppositions.
"Do you want something to drink? To eat?"
The diminutive red-head has appeared while Jonathan was lost in his thoughts, startling him and leaving him temporarily out of words.
"S-Something strong" - is all that he finally manages. He hoped there would be nobody else, to listen to what he had to say.
"Strong? Alcohol?· We only have some Schnapps. Do you want it?"
"It will be fine."
No, it is not fine at all - "What the hell is this?" - the content of alcohol in the beverage is off the charts.
"Austrian home-made Schnaps" - says Keisha, entering the room in a red kimono, her hair still wet - "85% alcohol. Mariede keeps it mostly to have fun with new guests."
The short redhead pours herself a full glass of the infernal concoction, and gulps it down, smiling to an astonished Jonathan. It is easy to see why the Dutch painting is included in the house... it could very well be a portrait of this young woman. Familial resemblances often can last centuries; Jonathan himself is almost identical to his great-great-great-great-grandfather Nicholas Maxwell, judging by the photos in the family book.
"Her body hardly absorbs any alcohol. She needs a whole bottle of that, to actually be a bit high, and anything below 70º has no effect at all, on her."
The smile on the red-head clearly tells something along the lines of "What do you want, that's life."
"Lord Jonathan Maxwell, this is my companion, Mariede Gründl. Mariede, this is Jonathan Maxwell, the current possessor of Isabel."
By the way Mariede's smile cools down, Jonathan can see that she is not very happy of hearing the name.
The circumstances of Jonathan and Keisha first encounter, some six months before, become clear - the tall woman had fallen in love with Mariede, and couldn't afford to keep Isabel on the leash, mostly because the - Austrian? She had a faint accent - short girl didn't like to share her woman with anybody.
"What's the problem, now, with that scatter-head?"
"Ehm, it is very personal, I would rather discuss this only with Ms. Lawson." - the expression on the Austrian face is clearly a "No way", so he decides to try and explain that he is not looking forward "giving back" the voluptuous blonde - "The relationship between my wife and Isabel, I ... this is so bad"
"Your wife has grown more and more sadistic, and it had come to the point where she was virtually trying to kill Isabel on a regular basis. Only, nothing she can do damages Isabel for more than, say, twenty minutes? And then, Isabel wants more pain. So, now your wife is finally trying to kill Isabel, all the time, just to get rid of her and the sense of utter impotence that she feels, when she sees that blonde hair."
Mariede's eyes widens up in stupor, then she look at Keisha, who just tilts her head so slightly on the right and raises an eyebrow, clearly communicating an "I told you that it was going to be so" that hits Mariede very deeply. She lowers her head, sits on the sofa next to Jonathan's and , while she does not really cry and sob, she gives the impression that she may as well do so.
Keisha goes over to her, sits on the sofa too, and places Mariede on her lap - like the Austrian was weightless - and starts to cuddle her.
" I am such a bad person" - the phrase is almost whispered, as the "No, you are not" answered by Keisha, who then address her befuddled guest.
"I think that you may have some questions, Lord Maxwell."
"OK... first of all, WHAT is Isabel?"
"An... experiment, on the capabilities of nano-technology. Her body is full of small robots that repair any possible damage it may occur to her."
"Yes, yes... I suspected something like that, it's the only thing that makes sense."
"Of course, her body wasn't exactly human even before that, and her mind is... very peculiar."
"Yes, I saw that too... this technology, where does it come from?"
"It is unwise for you to ask, and it would be even more unwise for me to answer."
"I see" - whoever made something like that, had no concern for ethics, morals or laws, and plenty of reasons to go to any length to keep the lid on the affair, which begets the question...
"But, why... why isn't she kept away, in some secret cell? Whatever scientific data could be retrieved, it would be better to keep her in a containment facility, not " - to trap poor sods like me, he didn't add..
"Let's say that his creator is a very contradictory person, and sees no problems in CREATING the ultimate pain toy girl, but it would smite anybody that even suggests to REALLY imprison her, only because it is convenient."
A fatigued expression wanders through the big black face - "With that... guy, it is always a question of Do-ut-Des and free choices, even if it takes a bit to pierce his obfuscating persona and see how it really sees the world. But, we rather not discuss this, shall we?"
"My wife is losing her mind."
"Yes... your wife is into SM because she feels a need to feed a fragile ego. That is already the worst possible reason, to be into this kind of things, but the interaction with someone like Isabel can easily becoming very destructive."
Jonathan faintly nods with his head, to signal that he understands it - he wishes very much he had not come to that sort of insights.
"At start, she must have felt very powerful... you can do everything, with Isabel. No limits, for real. Then she had to realize... no limits, because nothing really matters. She has no power at all, on Isabel - nobody has. And Izzy does not 'endure' anything either... every kind of pain in an even mildly sexualized environment gives her pleasure, and she craves it 24/7. In the end, your wife is just the slave that keeps Isabel well tortured and happy, and this is a blow that her ego cannot take."
"Oh, my God, she is going to destroy herself, if they are together."
" Isabel is also kind of a test... she brings out the best and the worst in her 'owners'. You didn't resent her, for not being able to lose permanently a limb when you cut it off" - a muted, inarticulate sound comes from Jonathan, as the horrid vision of a recent night flashes before his eyes - "You probably couldn't even think about doing something like that , but your wife did it as soon as it became clear that Isabel could withstand, literally, everything. And then, she did cut something off, only to look at how it reattached itself, didn't she?"
"Please..." - Jonathan's face is a mask of emotional pain, but it is Mariede that, suddenly, jumps out and run away.
"I think that she didn't really understood, when I tried to explain her that I had to keep Isabel. What could happen..." - a sigh escapes from Keisha's lips - "... but she is very possessive, and felt that Isabel was taking up too much of my energies and time. She is right, of course, so I had to find a new guardian for Isabel."
Sadness paints its shade on Lawson's face, as she adds "Sorry."
"How can I save my wife?"
"Can you? I fear that it may be already too late. You cannot isolate Lady Anna from Isabel, without reinforcing the fact that she is not the one in control, and as things keep worsening, your wife may decide to prove her power on a surrogate. It has already happened, to the poor sloth that was her guardian before me. He planned, organized and re-hearsed the kidnapping of a sixteen years old girl, but managed to kill himself just before going on with it, in a last moment of lucidity."
Maxwell tried to think to his wife, Anna, in a similar situation - no, she would not kill herself. She'd just go on, and do her terrible ddeds.
"How may I kill Isabel?"
"You can't - physically, there are some ways. Maybe. Throw her in a steel furnace, it should be hot enough that her nanorobots should be disabled, her rests would be so dispersed that they should be unable to recompose her even if they were still active. However, " - the pause is significant - "I used to be able to punch holes in hot furnaces, and throw melted iron around with my bare hands; The tech inside my body is way older than what's inside Isabel. She may as well swim into the ore, and come out of the still mill with her hair barely singed."
"You used?"
"I am not on active service, so most of the naughty things inside me have been switched off. Don't ask more, it would be... very, very unwise. Me waking up from some homicidal trance, your still beating heart in my hands kind of unwise."
Was it a joke? Probably, more of a truth. As Keisha continued, Jonathan realized that anything this woman said apparently in jest was deadly serious, most of the time.
"Anything else, she'd just brush it off. You can't lay Isabel out either, not really... 'Till the end of your natural lives' was literal, not a joke."
The horror grapples Lord Maxwell's heart, as he realize what this probably means. If he tries to get rid of Isabel... somebody would rip his chest open and squish his heart, while he looks at it - no anaesthesia.
"What, can I do?"
"You must decide, what of your wife do you want to save, if she starts planning the surrogate move."
"Oh, God, no!"
"Also you must realize... you are probably a surrogate as good as anybody else."
"Anyway, it doesn't matter to me, not any more."
"But, but..."
"Isabel is an adult, your wife is an adult, you are an adult, you entered in this relationship all together, wholeheartedly, and the rules of engagement were clearly defined, for everybody involved. It turns out one of you can't manage the burden of her role? It is not my fault. Isabel had warned you that she was an handful, I bet."
Indeed, she did - Jonathan remembered the many emails exchanged with the young woman.
Nothing that was happening was really a surprise, it had been hinted to in a moment or the other.
He, and Anna, just couldn't believe it.
"So, you cant help me?"
"Short of taking Isabel back, there is nothing that I can do. And I bet that Izzy is having the time of her life, with your wife. She wouldn't come back anyway - not to old, boring, dull Keisha."
That, Jonathan realises, closes the discussion - she cannot help him, even if she wanted - which he very much doubts.
Before going out, he turn toward the huge black, and says an angry farewell "I hope to see you in Hell, woman.
By the time he sees the man in the alley, she retorts - more to herself - "We already live in one, didn't you know, Milord?"
"But it is true that I ended up making you pay for my greatest sin." - her thought continue, as her eyes land on the spot, in the painting, when a small strand of hair used to be encrusted.
She remembered when she first saw it, in the Louvre museum, and decided to see if it was possible to recreate the owner.
Mariede was the third product of that experiment, done in half jest. The moment when Keisha realized that she, too, was becoming a monster - when she engineered the various Mariede's minds to be highly susceptible to fall in love with one Keisha Lawson.
It was then, when she realized that she, too, had to go back to normal humanity, before it was too late - which could very well be - when she realized how cruel she had been, to each Mariede, and decided to be always there, for the one that loved her.
"Can I save her, from the very monsters that gave her her life, when I am one of them and I still like to hurt her?"
She will never admit that she knows the answer,:
"No."
Monday, 18 July 2016
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.
Monday, 30 May 2016
Evil Interlude
Molly Donaldson awoke in a dark place. twas quiet, warm, almost cozy.
She was naked, but that was not an issue - it seemed like nobody was there, so it didn't really matter.
After a while,she realized that it was not pitch black... some light was there, not enough to pick its color, but still enough to get a sense of the space. Which was better, as she could hear somebody else breathing nearby. She was not alone... was this a monster? A wolf?
"Who's there?"
"A girl" was the answer. Maybe older than Molly, but not an adult - Molly wasn't sure. Almost everybody was and sounded older, to her.
The voice could come from a child, a girl, a woman or a Balrog. It sounded friendly, at least.
And the light was slowly improving. She could make the silhouette of the stranger, now.
Bigger than her, older, but smaller and younger than her mom, Lidia. Naked, like Molly. "Hi, my name is" - a voice interrupted Molly, coming from the walls.
"Unit, you will refer to yourself only as 121 - you will not use your previous designations, nor use the previous designations of any other unit"- pause -
"My name is-" this time, the other girl stopped her, frantically closing her mouth with both hands, visibly scared.
"Believe me, you do o not want to discover what happens, when one refuses to obey."
The voice returned, speaking slowly - "Failure to comply to our directives will be punished, by means of liberal applications of emotional and physical pain."
"What does that mean?"
"That they are going to beat the snot out of you, and of anybody you love, till you obey to whatever order that they give".
"You are correct, 117" - the voice from the wall said drily.
"It is time for your exercises, 117. Take 121 and bring her to the war room, to observe your work." - said drily the voice from the wall
"I obey" - said 117, even more drily.
The door of their cell opened, but a ball-bot was there, waiting for them. Molly had seen some of those contraptions only at a science fair where they were used to shepherd visitors. They were supposed to be cute and non-menacing, as their lax stability meant it didn't take much to topple one over.
This one... looked plenty menacing, somehow. On her part, 117 remembered the time when she tried to escape. The infernal machine was faster than her, and broke her arms with no effort.
It drove them down a corridor, full of doors similar to their one. All cells? Every second, things looked scarier to Molly.
When Molly saw the War Room, its content - out of one of those crappy horror movies that her mom had to stop watching - she fainted.
"You must observe, look, and learn. It is not so terrible as it looks, it can be endured. Soon, your life - and that of the persons that you care for - will depend on you being able to perform these tricks, up to whatever standard they decide." - 117 had managed to revive her, and was saying these words, at a very low voice - "Resistance is not futile, it is not possible. Do you feel this? Here, in the back of your head? It is a transmitter. They know what you hear, see, say, and even think. They are always surveilling, their machines never stop, never tires. There is no more, only survival, here. And survive you must, as they never keep only one of a group. If you die, they'll kill your mom too."
"Remember: nothing is so hard, that it can not be done" - 117 said so with a tense smile, doing something that looked - to Molly - as painful as humanly possible.
That first day, Molly cried all the time, through any horrible moment of 117 work-out.
By the end of the month, 121 was able to obey her orders and stopped crying, or trying to use her name.
- Another place, some weeks later
The Blonde Bitch is looking at the tapes. Lidia Donaldson, unit 122, has tried to kill her, again.
After she watched the damn tapes... Irene Reldas can't help but agree with her prisoner. She, too, would try to kill the "Blonde Bitch", after seeing what was going on with her daughter.
The impulse to vomit strikes hard, but there is nothing in her stomach. As far as Irene knows, she may not have a stomach any more. It's been three years since last time she ate something... yet, she can't accept the fact that she is, most likely, just a Revenant of the less human kind.
"I do not know why you do this to yourself" - the voice was amazed, somewhat childish... unit 73, Pipa Stone. One of those that had truly embraced their master and its foibles - "Let the golems handle these affairs. There is plenty to do out there, and whole lives to live on the side; there is no need for a Herald to bury herself in Purgatory".
Irene knows better than answer with her voice. Pipa is using the Heralds channel.
The same small box (more like a squishy pea, really) inside their heads, the one that 117 had warned off Molly some weeks ago, can be used as a communication device.
If the function is enabled, of course.
"Back off, Pipa. Irene doesn't want to let these poor fellows without any human interaction. She is worried that they are going to be washed away, which would be terrible for her - because they are her last tally" - Keisha Lawson, almost as whimsical in tone as Pipa, but Irene feels a shade of concern behind the affectation of nonchalance.
Irene may have been their captor, but Keisha and a botched operation of hers are the reasons those two were there.
"Everybody has been her last tally, at a given moment" - neither forgot, nor forgiven, evidently.
Irene, "unit 5", the great huntress that tracked down Matthew Stone and his family, when he tried to warn the U.S. Government of some o the Masters ore unsavory activities.
That the Pipa Stone that is living with them is the real, or is the Herald, as always is anybody's guess.
"It is one of the reasons why she should stop" - Pipa continued - "Before she really goes crazy and tries to rebel against 'god' , again."
"Uhm" - they are half-way around the world, and yet Irene could visualize Keisha cringing at the biblical reference. The Evangelical girl was one of the few heralds that managed to cling on to her faith, and was deeply unnerved by the similarities between the genesis and some of their circumstances.
"Krack" - Pipa was breaking somebody's bones, judging by the noises reverberating inside her body - "It would be stupid, and useless, and we all know that you are getting too frustrated in that place. You hold the fort longer than anybody, you paid enough for your sins. Take what's left of your soul and walk under the Sun again."
She may have been right.
"Yes, please do. Your substitute has already been selected" - they knew that 'god' was listening, but it seldom interfere, nowadays. It makes easier for them to behave like it did not exist, which probably ticked some of his conspicuous fetishistic desires.
"My substitute?"
"122 will replace Irene as chief of Purgatory"
A number, not her name... a Revenant? it made sense - "What about Lidia and Molly? They are my last prey, after all."
"Their memories have been edited with success, the FBI managed to intercept the band that kidnapped them, and all criminals were shot down in the ensuing armed conflict. This has happened two months ago."
"Really?"
"Their personalities were interesting, amenable to be developed in some intriguing directions. I decided to spawn some copies, and investigate the possibilities."
Too much information - it never lets out all this information, never... and the Channel is mute - "Am I going too die?"
"Yes"
"How?"
"Apparently, my ability still has some limits. You are old, the trinkets in your body have long stressed the chemistry of your brain, accelerating its natural decay, and the countermeasures in place are near the end of their effectiveness."
Why must it always state the obvious? In transitioning from humans to whatever it now is, the guy took two levels in obnoxiousness.
"You are nearing a tipping point, where the artificial neurons that have replaced your lost biological cells cannot but inter-operate directly, and your down-clocker will all but cease to function."
"Correct me if I am wrong, but it does not mean that I am going to die. No?"
"Your analytical mind will accelerate to a couple of hundred thousand times its normal speed, all the while you will lose access to many of the emotive aspects of your moist cherished memories. The physical sensations will feel so diluted that you'll feel without a body, images from your eyes changing every three subjective hours. After a year subjective time - three minutes real time - most of the others decided to self-destroy"
And, almost surely, it killed the ones that didn't, just to avoid competition - that was the most logical thing to do, for the entity that nicknamed itself 'god' (lowercase and apexes included).
To make sure that no other 'god' ever appeared, to cross its paths.
"We did not choose our 'god', did we?" - fifty years before, her only lover said that, just seconds before Irene snapped her neck, at the end of their rebellion. It was still the same cruel bastard
It took 'god' two weeks, to do whatever it had desired to do to prepare 122 for her new role.
Irene felt, one by one, her "trinkets" go off-line and vanish. She was back at being a normal person , again. Feeling hunger, thirst, tiredness... the whole package. This way, her last few months could stretch to her last few years,. she knew.
It did not make feel her any less defenseless, when she met 122 again.
The Asian-looking midget had received the whole package, whatever the package was these days. Skin thougher than steel, for sure.
"I never thought to see you this way.I thought hat you'd be my refuter, that you'd hold out till..."
"I am a mother, he gave me a choice. I want my daughter to live an happy and free life with her mother, not to join me and her - revenant? that's the term that you use, right? its genetic and mental copy - in this hell."
"That is not your daughter, 122, or 121 is as much your daughter as she is."
"121 has accepted her role in the grand scheme. You cannot save who want not to be saved, and my name is Lidia"
What?
"I must accept that my revenant will fill my role as the mother of Molly, as I know that it would do her best for our daughter."
"Nice to know. And, 121?"
"She has been already assigned to her new duties, and will continue her training under Maître Grenadier."
"Yes, I forgot that there is more than one Hell, in our world" - Irene had some ideas of what was the "Ècole de Maître Grenadier", and shuddered... and that was all.
Lidia watched the videos of the last session of her daughter - no, 121.
Her daughter was home, with her mom, the two of them still battling with a new security detail from the FBI. It would take long before the agency finally registered that they had no usable information, and were not in danger after the death of the "band".
121 was a copy, not a real person... and if it was a real person, she was her own, not Molly.
Molly was her true, her only priority.
121 could fend off for herself.
Lidia couldn't save 121, so she preferred to think at the little girl as some kind of object, not as her second daughter.
Unit 122, revenant r1178, the nine months old woman inappropriately called Lidia, could almost feel 'god' laugh manically in the deep back of its skull, then and then every so often, when the"entity" contacted her directly.
She never guessed why she made it so jolly.
She was naked, but that was not an issue - it seemed like nobody was there, so it didn't really matter.
After a while,she realized that it was not pitch black... some light was there, not enough to pick its color, but still enough to get a sense of the space. Which was better, as she could hear somebody else breathing nearby. She was not alone... was this a monster? A wolf?
"Who's there?"
"A girl" was the answer. Maybe older than Molly, but not an adult - Molly wasn't sure. Almost everybody was and sounded older, to her.
The voice could come from a child, a girl, a woman or a Balrog. It sounded friendly, at least.
And the light was slowly improving. She could make the silhouette of the stranger, now.
Bigger than her, older, but smaller and younger than her mom, Lidia. Naked, like Molly. "Hi, my name is" - a voice interrupted Molly, coming from the walls.
"Unit, you will refer to yourself only as 121 - you will not use your previous designations, nor use the previous designations of any other unit"- pause -
"My name is-" this time, the other girl stopped her, frantically closing her mouth with both hands, visibly scared.
"Believe me, you do o not want to discover what happens, when one refuses to obey."
The voice returned, speaking slowly - "Failure to comply to our directives will be punished, by means of liberal applications of emotional and physical pain."
"What does that mean?"
"That they are going to beat the snot out of you, and of anybody you love, till you obey to whatever order that they give".
"You are correct, 117" - the voice from the wall said drily.
"It is time for your exercises, 117. Take 121 and bring her to the war room, to observe your work." - said drily the voice from the wall
"I obey" - said 117, even more drily.
The door of their cell opened, but a ball-bot was there, waiting for them. Molly had seen some of those contraptions only at a science fair where they were used to shepherd visitors. They were supposed to be cute and non-menacing, as their lax stability meant it didn't take much to topple one over.
This one... looked plenty menacing, somehow. On her part, 117 remembered the time when she tried to escape. The infernal machine was faster than her, and broke her arms with no effort.
It drove them down a corridor, full of doors similar to their one. All cells? Every second, things looked scarier to Molly.
When Molly saw the War Room, its content - out of one of those crappy horror movies that her mom had to stop watching - she fainted.
"You must observe, look, and learn. It is not so terrible as it looks, it can be endured. Soon, your life - and that of the persons that you care for - will depend on you being able to perform these tricks, up to whatever standard they decide." - 117 had managed to revive her, and was saying these words, at a very low voice - "Resistance is not futile, it is not possible. Do you feel this? Here, in the back of your head? It is a transmitter. They know what you hear, see, say, and even think. They are always surveilling, their machines never stop, never tires. There is no more, only survival, here. And survive you must, as they never keep only one of a group. If you die, they'll kill your mom too."
"Remember: nothing is so hard, that it can not be done" - 117 said so with a tense smile, doing something that looked - to Molly - as painful as humanly possible.
That first day, Molly cried all the time, through any horrible moment of 117 work-out.
By the end of the month, 121 was able to obey her orders and stopped crying, or trying to use her name.
- Another place, some weeks later
The Blonde Bitch is looking at the tapes. Lidia Donaldson, unit 122, has tried to kill her, again.
After she watched the damn tapes... Irene Reldas can't help but agree with her prisoner. She, too, would try to kill the "Blonde Bitch", after seeing what was going on with her daughter.
The impulse to vomit strikes hard, but there is nothing in her stomach. As far as Irene knows, she may not have a stomach any more. It's been three years since last time she ate something... yet, she can't accept the fact that she is, most likely, just a Revenant of the less human kind.
"I do not know why you do this to yourself" - the voice was amazed, somewhat childish... unit 73, Pipa Stone. One of those that had truly embraced their master and its foibles - "Let the golems handle these affairs. There is plenty to do out there, and whole lives to live on the side; there is no need for a Herald to bury herself in Purgatory".
Irene knows better than answer with her voice. Pipa is using the Heralds channel.
The same small box (more like a squishy pea, really) inside their heads, the one that 117 had warned off Molly some weeks ago, can be used as a communication device.
If the function is enabled, of course.
"Back off, Pipa. Irene doesn't want to let these poor fellows without any human interaction. She is worried that they are going to be washed away, which would be terrible for her - because they are her last tally" - Keisha Lawson, almost as whimsical in tone as Pipa, but Irene feels a shade of concern behind the affectation of nonchalance.
Irene may have been their captor, but Keisha and a botched operation of hers are the reasons those two were there.
"Everybody has been her last tally, at a given moment" - neither forgot, nor forgiven, evidently.
Irene, "unit 5", the great huntress that tracked down Matthew Stone and his family, when he tried to warn the U.S. Government of some o the Masters ore unsavory activities.
That the Pipa Stone that is living with them is the real, or is the Herald, as always is anybody's guess.
"It is one of the reasons why she should stop" - Pipa continued - "Before she really goes crazy and tries to rebel against 'god' , again."
"Uhm" - they are half-way around the world, and yet Irene could visualize Keisha cringing at the biblical reference. The Evangelical girl was one of the few heralds that managed to cling on to her faith, and was deeply unnerved by the similarities between the genesis and some of their circumstances.
"Krack" - Pipa was breaking somebody's bones, judging by the noises reverberating inside her body - "It would be stupid, and useless, and we all know that you are getting too frustrated in that place. You hold the fort longer than anybody, you paid enough for your sins. Take what's left of your soul and walk under the Sun again."
She may have been right.
"Yes, please do. Your substitute has already been selected" - they knew that 'god' was listening, but it seldom interfere, nowadays. It makes easier for them to behave like it did not exist, which probably ticked some of his conspicuous fetishistic desires.
"My substitute?"
"122 will replace Irene as chief of Purgatory"
A number, not her name... a Revenant? it made sense - "What about Lidia and Molly? They are my last prey, after all."
"Their memories have been edited with success, the FBI managed to intercept the band that kidnapped them, and all criminals were shot down in the ensuing armed conflict. This has happened two months ago."
"Really?"
"Their personalities were interesting, amenable to be developed in some intriguing directions. I decided to spawn some copies, and investigate the possibilities."
Too much information - it never lets out all this information, never... and the Channel is mute - "Am I going too die?"
"Yes"
"How?"
"Apparently, my ability still has some limits. You are old, the trinkets in your body have long stressed the chemistry of your brain, accelerating its natural decay, and the countermeasures in place are near the end of their effectiveness."
Why must it always state the obvious? In transitioning from humans to whatever it now is, the guy took two levels in obnoxiousness.
"You are nearing a tipping point, where the artificial neurons that have replaced your lost biological cells cannot but inter-operate directly, and your down-clocker will all but cease to function."
"Correct me if I am wrong, but it does not mean that I am going to die. No?"
"Your analytical mind will accelerate to a couple of hundred thousand times its normal speed, all the while you will lose access to many of the emotive aspects of your moist cherished memories. The physical sensations will feel so diluted that you'll feel without a body, images from your eyes changing every three subjective hours. After a year subjective time - three minutes real time - most of the others decided to self-destroy"
And, almost surely, it killed the ones that didn't, just to avoid competition - that was the most logical thing to do, for the entity that nicknamed itself 'god' (lowercase and apexes included).
To make sure that no other 'god' ever appeared, to cross its paths.
"We did not choose our 'god', did we?" - fifty years before, her only lover said that, just seconds before Irene snapped her neck, at the end of their rebellion. It was still the same cruel bastard
It took 'god' two weeks, to do whatever it had desired to do to prepare 122 for her new role.
Irene felt, one by one, her "trinkets" go off-line and vanish. She was back at being a normal person , again. Feeling hunger, thirst, tiredness... the whole package. This way, her last few months could stretch to her last few years,. she knew.
It did not make feel her any less defenseless, when she met 122 again.
The Asian-looking midget had received the whole package, whatever the package was these days. Skin thougher than steel, for sure.
"I never thought to see you this way.I thought hat you'd be my refuter, that you'd hold out till..."
"I am a mother, he gave me a choice. I want my daughter to live an happy and free life with her mother, not to join me and her - revenant? that's the term that you use, right? its genetic and mental copy - in this hell."
"That is not your daughter, 122, or 121 is as much your daughter as she is."
"121 has accepted her role in the grand scheme. You cannot save who want not to be saved, and my name is Lidia"
What?
"I must accept that my revenant will fill my role as the mother of Molly, as I know that it would do her best for our daughter."
"Nice to know. And, 121?"
"She has been already assigned to her new duties, and will continue her training under Maître Grenadier."
"Yes, I forgot that there is more than one Hell, in our world" - Irene had some ideas of what was the "Ècole de Maître Grenadier", and shuddered... and that was all.
Lidia watched the videos of the last session of her daughter - no, 121.
Her daughter was home, with her mom, the two of them still battling with a new security detail from the FBI. It would take long before the agency finally registered that they had no usable information, and were not in danger after the death of the "band".
121 was a copy, not a real person... and if it was a real person, she was her own, not Molly.
Molly was her true, her only priority.
121 could fend off for herself.
Lidia couldn't save 121, so she preferred to think at the little girl as some kind of object, not as her second daughter.
Unit 122, revenant r1178, the nine months old woman inappropriately called Lidia, could almost feel 'god' laugh manically in the deep back of its skull, then and then every so often, when the"entity" contacted her directly.
She never guessed why she made it so jolly.
Tuesday, 29 March 2016
NCS -Non Consensual Story (Part 1).
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 and, frankly, undesired on the author's part.
Joshua "Josh" Lightgow was a rich man.
He hadn't always been one, or even aimed to become one.
When he was young his dreams were much simpler. Marrying the woman he loved, have a couple of children, a house in the suburbs. Normalcy, as they say, in all its heinous glory.
It didn't work out that way - she left him for a guy with grander ambitions, a day-trader that worked at Lehman Brothers, that earned thrice as much as Josh.
As many of his colleagues, the guy had then lost everything when the Lehman imploded, but by that time she had moved onto a bigger mark... and Josh took a perverse pleasure in knowing it.
Yet , some day... some day she will have to pay.
Needless to say, when she left him Josh was really distraught.
It took him a couple of years, and a couple more of failed attempts at starting a relationship, to get back on his feet. When he finally did, he managed to do so through a wholesome revision of his own world view.
The companions that he so desperately wanted do not exist. His drunkard father and crazily possessive mother, nuts as they were, were right: women are, at hearts, whores looking for a wealthy man.
Thinking to build a life with one of them was foolish, completely.
His job had laid him out at the very start of his troubles, just after a month or so of his moping around. It didn't matter - the company went busted soon after, anyway, but the fact that the boss that decided to fire him was a woman didn't help matters.
John found himself writing cheap "romantic" novels for the likes of his "wife" - barely hidden rape fantasies and hyper-gamy unleashed, for dumb cows that didn't even realize how akin to bad pornography that stuff was.
The chicken idiots couldn't resist, and soon the pseudonyms Josh uses to sign his works - Valeria Steedle and Patricia Loughear - started alternating their presence in the New York Times Best Seller list.
Never above a comfortable centre-of-the-list, as to sell enough copies to pierce in the top twenty would require a lot more male readers than what Josh would care to have.
Because Josh wrote his books with the secret gusto of damaging, silently, his women readers, by trapping them in a mirror of his own unrealized romantic aspirations.
He sold copies, made money, invested it wisely, made more money, and so on.
Money begets money, they say, and it is true.
All this notwithstanding, Josh was merrily unhappy and unsatisfied. He really couldn't outgrow her and what she did to him, though a well padded wallet was a way better cushion than an empty one, upon which to rest while crying his pain out.
He went on for quite a while in this way, till he realized that he really needed a catharsis, a vengeance - to get rid of her, so that his heart could finally be sated.
Little did he knew, in reality, of freedom and life... his quest for vengeance wasn't something capable to set a man free, but what we ignore cannot save us fro our follies, and he set forth to plan the execution of his great vengeance.
Always a methodical man, he realized that he needed to arrange a dry run, a test run of himself in the new role of God of vengeance.
Maybe some smarter part of him, deep down where his eyes couldn't reach, was just trying to buy some time.
He decided to start with a morsel less dangerous than his socialite, well connected wife.
Not a bleeding liberal heart he was, yet he knew the difference between destroying some black dregs of a woman and a rich WASP, when it comes to law enforcement response, to be true.
The first would have maybe warranted a routine search, the second would have gotten far more media attention and drawn a full effort on the part of the police.
So, reason said him to start with someone that could disappear without being missed, one of the poor saps that read his drivel preferably - because, deep down, he hated them wholeheartedly - and, if possible, a black girl of particularly African looks. The less the white-looking, the better.
Kyla was 12, when her stepfather decided that she was woman enough to meet his needs.
The next few years had been hell, as her mother - with a logic as insane as heartless - decided to hate her for having "stolen" her her man. He abused her time and again, while mother treated her more and more coldly, till Kyla found the strength - or the desperation- to run away.
Life in the street for her proved to be brutal, but still better than what she had at home, and she had an unexpected shot of luck.
One of her clients gave her a hand, a place to stay and helped her found a job as a cleaning maid - all she could get with her non-existent degrees.
She recompensed him with plenty of sex, of course, but he was kind of a right guy... he didn't choke her, beat her, tried to rape her nor did he stole anything from her. By the time they had met, in Kyla's book this already read as being, positively, a gentleman.
He was a lecherous looking guy with insane habits, so much so that he called himself "leach", yet he was a huge step upward from her stepfather.
They separated after a couple of years or so - because she had grown up a bit and, with a better diet, she had finally started looking like a woman; a fact that profoundly disgusted him, as much as he tried to hide it.
His shortcomings notwithstanding, he had left her able to stand - shaky as she was - on her own feet, and she vowed herself to never come back to whoring again, so Kyla decided to keep cleaning houses for a living, study at night, and went through life baring her knuckles on a daily basis. She was a though young woman, yet she was not yet a cynic. In her moments of respite, she read romantic novels, and dreamt of wealthy guys with athletic bodies that could see beyond her wasted hair, her precociously wrinkled eyes and her sore hands.
She suspected these novels to be a pornography of the soul, written for and by sad women, but she didn't really care. As "leach" said the last time she saw him - skinnier than even she had ever been, even at the worst time of her life - in the hospital, toward his end...
- "No matter if it is stupid, shameful or even illegal, kid. Take whatever you need to go on, step by step, and the rest... let it go."
When the hospital letter finally came in, telling her that she had won "the lottery" and she didn't catch the damned bug from the guy, she went out to buy the last Patricia Loughear novel, and hooked up to the shabby plot with a happy bliss. In her own way she was following his last, and only, advise.
When "leach" finally died, two months after, she finally wrote to Patricia Loughlear, unwinding all the stress, the tears, the troubles of her crappy little life, in a moving letter written with an earnest heart.
Josh read that letter, laughing all the time like an idiot, almost at every phrase - eager as Kyla was to improve herself, she was still a functional illiterate with a flair for excessive melodrama, and Josh had completely lost his ability to empathize with others - and he immediately decided that she was the right subject for the experiment.
Nobody would miss her. She was already a zombie, in more than one way, no family, almost no friends... a living dead, waiting to be finally put to rest.
Josh felt obliged to help such a loving reader finally find the peace that she was so evidently longing for. And she had put her full address, on the envelope.
Josh found a flat, in the building in front of her, from which to observe his prey, while he looked for a bigger, more private place in the countryside around her city.
He replied to her letter, using a bright orange envelope, than flew to the flat, in order to be there by the time the letter arrived. This way, he was able to see that, indeed, she was the person that he deduced from the many clues that she put in her letters.
He soon bought a farm, in a small town not far from the city.
The place was quite secluded, the nearest construction being almost a mile away, and it was surrounded by woods. It also had an anti-atomic bunker, a remnant of another era when the U.S. was in the grips of hysteria, now used as a storage area for food.
Just seeing it, Josh thought plenty of better ways to use the ancient underground complex, so he was more than happy to pay a slightly higher price for aplace with such a marvellous dungeon.
The area was losing population, like the nearby town - people was driven away by the loss of jobs after the closure of the local plastic factory, and the fear of unrecoverable, long term environmental dangers due to the former's dispersal of toxic materials. Undoubtedly, it was going to become yet another ghost town, another monument to the backsides of the American Dream,
He rented an apartment in the palace in front of Kyla's flat, to keep an even closer eye on her, and proceeded to alternate living between there and the farm. He emptied the bunker, and bought some "furniture " for it,
Her life was even sadder than what he thought from her letter. Getting her rid of it was going to be, almost, a good action.
Josh decided to move calmly, writing a new Valeria Steedle book in the meanwhile, with two point of view characters, one for when he was working in the farm, one for when he was checking on Kyla - "Aftermaths"... it became a huge success, and it woke up a career that had grown quite opaque, much to the chagrin of its writer.
The last thing Josh wanted, right now, was the distraction of having to manage a literary success beyond his usual, comfortable middle of the list. For the first time, he had to contemplate using some kind of front-woman to play the role of Valeria Steedle... luckily for him, his agent had contingency plans for the case.
Valeria Steedle was soon played by a washed out theatre actress, without more hassle - for Josh - than jotting down some stage notes for the impersonator , every now and then. A drain of his energies, but not one so deep as he initially feared...
Meanwhile, his observation of Kyla's life led him to discover that she was taking a course in creative writing, at night, in a community college. He decided to enrol in it, to be nearer her.
He still couldn't imagine how to kidnap her, without leaving too many clues about what had really happened. Initially he thought that he would have had to hide his literary talents, but he soon discovered that it was not necessary. Million copies sellers as he was, his writings did not excite any of the people in the course, least of all the teacher, one hard mean ghost writer, specialized in biographies, by the name of Liam Marder.
Josh had to fight, time and again, the desire of leaving the course after this or that cutting remark from Marder. In this, it was not any better than what Kyla had to endure... after a couple of months, Josh had managed to become friend of Kyla, united by their struggle with the mysteries of the English language.
By the end of the course, though, Josh managed to let drop that he was not going to follow it the next year - he didn't need to continue the charade any more, and didn't want his desire of abducting Marder grow any bigger.
He confided Kyla that he had found a job as a ghost-writer, but that he would have needed some help, and that everything was to be kept on the hush-hush: he didn't want to risk that someone of the others could steal his occasion.
After another month and a half, Josh contacted Kyla - he really needed a critical editor, someone who could read his notes and help him polish the style. he offered her the job, a bit better paid than her cleaning work, but nothing otherworldly.
Initially, she worked at home, correcting what were the first chapters of Josh first - and only - foray into science fiction. Soon, she came to recognize that working with Josh, at the studio in the farm, was probably better.
On a spring morning, she took the bus to Downtown, and climbed in Josh's old Roadmaster, with all the things that she had in a couple of bags, her heart full of newfound hope. Not having to pay the rent of her ludicrously small flat while having a more spacious room in the farm was a bonus she had decided to take.
She was going to be a writer, and was really happy of having this opportunity with Josh.
Josh was a soda maniac, so she had never saw him drink anything that was not carbonated and caffeinated.
When he finally made his move, she didn't realize anything was different - he never drank water from her same bottle, anyway. She fell asleep while redressing a particularly convoluted paragraph, one that reminded her of certain not so satisfying passages in Patricia Loughlear's works.
When she awoke, she was naked and chained to a bed, in a place that she had never seen before.
It was, of course, just the start.
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 and, frankly, undesired on the author's part.
Joshua "Josh" Lightgow was a rich man.
He hadn't always been one, or even aimed to become one.
When he was young his dreams were much simpler. Marrying the woman he loved, have a couple of children, a house in the suburbs. Normalcy, as they say, in all its heinous glory.
It didn't work out that way - she left him for a guy with grander ambitions, a day-trader that worked at Lehman Brothers, that earned thrice as much as Josh.
As many of his colleagues, the guy had then lost everything when the Lehman imploded, but by that time she had moved onto a bigger mark... and Josh took a perverse pleasure in knowing it.
Yet , some day... some day she will have to pay.
Needless to say, when she left him Josh was really distraught.
It took him a couple of years, and a couple more of failed attempts at starting a relationship, to get back on his feet. When he finally did, he managed to do so through a wholesome revision of his own world view.
The companions that he so desperately wanted do not exist. His drunkard father and crazily possessive mother, nuts as they were, were right: women are, at hearts, whores looking for a wealthy man.
Thinking to build a life with one of them was foolish, completely.
His job had laid him out at the very start of his troubles, just after a month or so of his moping around. It didn't matter - the company went busted soon after, anyway, but the fact that the boss that decided to fire him was a woman didn't help matters.
John found himself writing cheap "romantic" novels for the likes of his "wife" - barely hidden rape fantasies and hyper-gamy unleashed, for dumb cows that didn't even realize how akin to bad pornography that stuff was.
The chicken idiots couldn't resist, and soon the pseudonyms Josh uses to sign his works - Valeria Steedle and Patricia Loughear - started alternating their presence in the New York Times Best Seller list.
Never above a comfortable centre-of-the-list, as to sell enough copies to pierce in the top twenty would require a lot more male readers than what Josh would care to have.
Because Josh wrote his books with the secret gusto of damaging, silently, his women readers, by trapping them in a mirror of his own unrealized romantic aspirations.
He sold copies, made money, invested it wisely, made more money, and so on.
Money begets money, they say, and it is true.
All this notwithstanding, Josh was merrily unhappy and unsatisfied. He really couldn't outgrow her and what she did to him, though a well padded wallet was a way better cushion than an empty one, upon which to rest while crying his pain out.
He went on for quite a while in this way, till he realized that he really needed a catharsis, a vengeance - to get rid of her, so that his heart could finally be sated.
Little did he knew, in reality, of freedom and life... his quest for vengeance wasn't something capable to set a man free, but what we ignore cannot save us fro our follies, and he set forth to plan the execution of his great vengeance.
Always a methodical man, he realized that he needed to arrange a dry run, a test run of himself in the new role of God of vengeance.
Maybe some smarter part of him, deep down where his eyes couldn't reach, was just trying to buy some time.
He decided to start with a morsel less dangerous than his socialite, well connected wife.
Not a bleeding liberal heart he was, yet he knew the difference between destroying some black dregs of a woman and a rich WASP, when it comes to law enforcement response, to be true.
The first would have maybe warranted a routine search, the second would have gotten far more media attention and drawn a full effort on the part of the police.
So, reason said him to start with someone that could disappear without being missed, one of the poor saps that read his drivel preferably - because, deep down, he hated them wholeheartedly - and, if possible, a black girl of particularly African looks. The less the white-looking, the better.
Kyla was 12, when her stepfather decided that she was woman enough to meet his needs.
The next few years had been hell, as her mother - with a logic as insane as heartless - decided to hate her for having "stolen" her her man. He abused her time and again, while mother treated her more and more coldly, till Kyla found the strength - or the desperation- to run away.
Life in the street for her proved to be brutal, but still better than what she had at home, and she had an unexpected shot of luck.
One of her clients gave her a hand, a place to stay and helped her found a job as a cleaning maid - all she could get with her non-existent degrees.
She recompensed him with plenty of sex, of course, but he was kind of a right guy... he didn't choke her, beat her, tried to rape her nor did he stole anything from her. By the time they had met, in Kyla's book this already read as being, positively, a gentleman.
He was a lecherous looking guy with insane habits, so much so that he called himself "leach", yet he was a huge step upward from her stepfather.
They separated after a couple of years or so - because she had grown up a bit and, with a better diet, she had finally started looking like a woman; a fact that profoundly disgusted him, as much as he tried to hide it.
His shortcomings notwithstanding, he had left her able to stand - shaky as she was - on her own feet, and she vowed herself to never come back to whoring again, so Kyla decided to keep cleaning houses for a living, study at night, and went through life baring her knuckles on a daily basis. She was a though young woman, yet she was not yet a cynic. In her moments of respite, she read romantic novels, and dreamt of wealthy guys with athletic bodies that could see beyond her wasted hair, her precociously wrinkled eyes and her sore hands.
She suspected these novels to be a pornography of the soul, written for and by sad women, but she didn't really care. As "leach" said the last time she saw him - skinnier than even she had ever been, even at the worst time of her life - in the hospital, toward his end...
- "No matter if it is stupid, shameful or even illegal, kid. Take whatever you need to go on, step by step, and the rest... let it go."
When the hospital letter finally came in, telling her that she had won "the lottery" and she didn't catch the damned bug from the guy, she went out to buy the last Patricia Loughear novel, and hooked up to the shabby plot with a happy bliss. In her own way she was following his last, and only, advise.
When "leach" finally died, two months after, she finally wrote to Patricia Loughlear, unwinding all the stress, the tears, the troubles of her crappy little life, in a moving letter written with an earnest heart.
Josh read that letter, laughing all the time like an idiot, almost at every phrase - eager as Kyla was to improve herself, she was still a functional illiterate with a flair for excessive melodrama, and Josh had completely lost his ability to empathize with others - and he immediately decided that she was the right subject for the experiment.
Nobody would miss her. She was already a zombie, in more than one way, no family, almost no friends... a living dead, waiting to be finally put to rest.
Josh felt obliged to help such a loving reader finally find the peace that she was so evidently longing for. And she had put her full address, on the envelope.
Josh found a flat, in the building in front of her, from which to observe his prey, while he looked for a bigger, more private place in the countryside around her city.
He replied to her letter, using a bright orange envelope, than flew to the flat, in order to be there by the time the letter arrived. This way, he was able to see that, indeed, she was the person that he deduced from the many clues that she put in her letters.
He soon bought a farm, in a small town not far from the city.
The place was quite secluded, the nearest construction being almost a mile away, and it was surrounded by woods. It also had an anti-atomic bunker, a remnant of another era when the U.S. was in the grips of hysteria, now used as a storage area for food.
Just seeing it, Josh thought plenty of better ways to use the ancient underground complex, so he was more than happy to pay a slightly higher price for aplace with such a marvellous dungeon.
The area was losing population, like the nearby town - people was driven away by the loss of jobs after the closure of the local plastic factory, and the fear of unrecoverable, long term environmental dangers due to the former's dispersal of toxic materials. Undoubtedly, it was going to become yet another ghost town, another monument to the backsides of the American Dream,
He rented an apartment in the palace in front of Kyla's flat, to keep an even closer eye on her, and proceeded to alternate living between there and the farm. He emptied the bunker, and bought some "furniture " for it,
Her life was even sadder than what he thought from her letter. Getting her rid of it was going to be, almost, a good action.
Josh decided to move calmly, writing a new Valeria Steedle book in the meanwhile, with two point of view characters, one for when he was working in the farm, one for when he was checking on Kyla - "Aftermaths"... it became a huge success, and it woke up a career that had grown quite opaque, much to the chagrin of its writer.
The last thing Josh wanted, right now, was the distraction of having to manage a literary success beyond his usual, comfortable middle of the list. For the first time, he had to contemplate using some kind of front-woman to play the role of Valeria Steedle... luckily for him, his agent had contingency plans for the case.
Valeria Steedle was soon played by a washed out theatre actress, without more hassle - for Josh - than jotting down some stage notes for the impersonator , every now and then. A drain of his energies, but not one so deep as he initially feared...
Meanwhile, his observation of Kyla's life led him to discover that she was taking a course in creative writing, at night, in a community college. He decided to enrol in it, to be nearer her.
He still couldn't imagine how to kidnap her, without leaving too many clues about what had really happened. Initially he thought that he would have had to hide his literary talents, but he soon discovered that it was not necessary. Million copies sellers as he was, his writings did not excite any of the people in the course, least of all the teacher, one hard mean ghost writer, specialized in biographies, by the name of Liam Marder.
Josh had to fight, time and again, the desire of leaving the course after this or that cutting remark from Marder. In this, it was not any better than what Kyla had to endure... after a couple of months, Josh had managed to become friend of Kyla, united by their struggle with the mysteries of the English language.
By the end of the course, though, Josh managed to let drop that he was not going to follow it the next year - he didn't need to continue the charade any more, and didn't want his desire of abducting Marder grow any bigger.
He confided Kyla that he had found a job as a ghost-writer, but that he would have needed some help, and that everything was to be kept on the hush-hush: he didn't want to risk that someone of the others could steal his occasion.
After another month and a half, Josh contacted Kyla - he really needed a critical editor, someone who could read his notes and help him polish the style. he offered her the job, a bit better paid than her cleaning work, but nothing otherworldly.
Initially, she worked at home, correcting what were the first chapters of Josh first - and only - foray into science fiction. Soon, she came to recognize that working with Josh, at the studio in the farm, was probably better.
On a spring morning, she took the bus to Downtown, and climbed in Josh's old Roadmaster, with all the things that she had in a couple of bags, her heart full of newfound hope. Not having to pay the rent of her ludicrously small flat while having a more spacious room in the farm was a bonus she had decided to take.
She was going to be a writer, and was really happy of having this opportunity with Josh.
Josh was a soda maniac, so she had never saw him drink anything that was not carbonated and caffeinated.
When he finally made his move, she didn't realize anything was different - he never drank water from her same bottle, anyway. She fell asleep while redressing a particularly convoluted paragraph, one that reminded her of certain not so satisfying passages in Patricia Loughlear's works.
When she awoke, she was naked and chained to a bed, in a place that she had never seen before.
It was, of course, just the start.
Sunday, 17 January 2016
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.
Wednesday, 11 November 2015
On Non-Consensual Themes
 | ||
| What Can I say, I really am an artist-whore; you pay, I draw. And then, I bitch about it. |
Me and non-consensual themes, it is a bit complicated.
I do not like them that much, but I can manage them as long as somebody doesn't keep rubbing my face in it.
By the way, mine is an aesthetic as much as an ethic objection.
As a sadist, I want to see stories with Masters that lead their slaves through a path of growth as masochist and submissive, till these are happy of being the ultimate pain toy, or living their life in chains - or whatever.
Masters that may force things a little at start, recognizing a woman "potential", but that in the end are ready to let her go if she doesn't grow into the role - I can bear them.
At worst, they may be Masters that accept to pay the price, when their victims do not recognize their good faith.
In many ways, these are the kind of Master that I would like to be in real life though, to be honest, it's a steep and hard climb to reach up there, and I do not start from very much up the ladder.
 |
| I really have to draw her crying, pal? All the rest, isn't it enough? |
Why the hell should I care for such a character?
Even if I had that kind of money and those contacts, why should I waste my time and resources destroying a woman that's not going to appreciate it?
No, really. I mean, it is not like extreme masochists do not exist in the real world.
I crossed path with a girl that wanted her limbs chopped off and to be kept as a dog slave in a cellar, once; she was 21 and quite cute.
Another one was 19, with a 2 yo daughter, and wanted a master for both (1).
It has been enlightening... look for something hard and long enough, and you will find it. | ||
| As true non-consensual situations look... |
There is no need to "cheat" and go the criminal way.
So, why waste time and effort with someone that is not going to like it?
So, why waste time and effort with someone that is not going to like it?
Out there, there is at least one woman who would be excited at the Idea, whatever that idea may be. Go out and give her a way to rise to the challenge and try it in real life, I say - and if she is not a model with a ass to die for, who cares? Most of those are a boring fuck.
As a real world sadist and intermittent master (you are one ONLY when a slave calls you that, and at the moment I have no such luck), what can a fully N.C. story teach me about how to meet a real life, potential
slave, and have a relationship with her?
The answer is, really, nothing.
And that is the reason why most "virgins" - on both sides - tend to come out with N.C. stories.
You do not need to really know much (often, not even human anatomy) to imagine a N.C. story.
You do not have to devise any reason, for both parts to act the way they act, or to keep a pace of psychological changes in any of them.
It makes for some pretty lazy writing and an even lazier fantasizing.
And it is consolatory, again, for the "virgins" of both sides.
"Subs" can go on fantasizing, because the risk of ending with monsters is so high, so terrible, that it must be avoided.
"Tops" can go on avoiding the spotlights, because they are better than that and, anyway, subs are so few, you can't possibly hope to cross one in real life without cheating, right?
(N.C. stories should be renamed "Masters-that-cheat-at-the-game Stories").
 |
| Cheater at work |
So, for me, N.C. means - mainly - lazy storytelling.
This is my aesthetic objection to the genre.
And then, onto the ethic one.
As they say, "Been there, done that".
When I was a kid, I was a virgin, and as such I was choke full of non consensual fantasies.
After all, I really believed that women hated EVERY form of sex (blame a late Victorian education, a whole century and 2000 km out of place), so any sexual fantasy I could have was, literally, a male-on-female rape fantasy.
Cue in a massive amount of resentment against girls, for not sharing natural male's desires (indirectly making me "a monster"), a glorious misunderstanding on female's anatomy (more or less, I thought they were born trans and had to be liberated from their dicks surgically at puberty – I picked the wrong porn comic when I was 8, and it took me a while to get more accurate information), and you'll understand why my fantasies where Bloody Rape and Deadly Torture.
More deadly torture than rape, really... I didn't really have a good idea of what sex is.
I know, fantasies are fantasies, so I should attach no particular meaning to it.
But...
 | |
| I can't really become like Him, I know. |
A man (or a woman) can become only what (s)he can dream to be.
My "dreams" presented me no outcome that allowed me both to follow my instincts, and yet to be a happy and honorable man (in my worldview, these two words are almost synonyms - you can't really be happy, if your first impulse in the morning is to spit at the asshole in the mirror).
My fantasies were almost my only space of freedom, but in the end they were also a mental cage that I needed to get rid off – and I am still in the process of shredding it – to actually be free.
And this is the base of the ethical reason why I do not like N.C. themes...
I fear that, by doing them, I may be helping some other virgin digging himself in the same trap.
In a couple of cases, I am pretty sure that I already did it.
And that is not good, not at all.
___________________________________________________________________
___________________________________________________________________
1. I stayed the hell away from them, of course... a
small voice in my head kept saying "entrapment, entrapment, entrapment
{manic laugh}", in both cases - and I wasn't in condition to give them what
they wanted anyway.
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