Hooded in Grace

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

A Medusa

 

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

Upside Down

 

Greetings

and
 

To you all
 

 

A Dream

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

The woman is the [now unattainable?] dream.

 

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

African Women

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ite, Missa Est

Aerostatic bondage close up - Sketch

Marker sketch.
 

A Van Full of...

 

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

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

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

 I should do more stuff with traditional media...

In The Name of Noxon (part 7)

<<

Once upon a time, when pirates still littered the seas, after the officiants' ship used to come a fifth ship, but this tradition was lost in recent eras.

Ours was the last ship in the convoy,  the one most attention was directed to - when I saw a flash, from one of the city's windows, I felt the gaze of the woman behind those lenses, as I knew those were glares from telescopes and cameras.

The officiant veil had always been conceived more to show and highlight its wearer shapes, than to hide anything.

While I was there, on the open deck, the light fabric waving under the slow breeze, I felt more naked than I ever was, or would I ever feel again.

I didn't feel so exposed when I was in the middle of our town square, or while waiting in line, completely naked in SassaFrakka's medical complex, when we were thoroughly examined at the beginning of our preliminary training.

I won't feel so exposed ever again, not even at the beginning of my first rites, when I was finally stripped naked, at the top of the pyramid.

Was not for the ropes binding me, for the leash from Cezanne to me and the one that I had to keep in my hands, did not I know that my collapse would have ruined the experience for everybody, I would have run to hide in the lower deck.

But life, in the Service of Noxon, runs on camaraderie more than on anything else.

Noxon is too much of a reasonable entity, to really excite mystical deliriums, so expecting things like auto-flagellation - that the Xhristians  are so fond of - from its followers is asking a bit much.

Yet Officiants do what they have to do, every day of their life, and have to find their strength somewhere - outside mysticism.
The service runs on everybody doing her parts, because the alternative is one of her friends having to take her place, in a moment in which this friend may not be in a good enough shape to withstand the rites - it is then that, often, deaths occur.

The service run on on that, and on the fact that - more or less deeply inside us - we Officiants like it.

Even those for whom the ritualized pain didn't translate into pleasure, and there are some, love being able to do what we do.

It sets us apart from the mass of women that only have a 9 to 5 work, and maybe a couple of daughters, to justify their existences.

Because that is the real horror - not climbing the one thousand steps of a ziggurat, to then be stripped naked on its top and be tortured under the eyes of a whole city.

Not spending an afternoon in the most terrible pain known to woman, once every three months, to keep the world turning at the speed needed to support life.

Nor is it to be asked to breed the most beautiful women in the world, maybe with some of  the strongest ones, five or six times.

It is to be a push-paper, in some bureaucratic middle kingdom, scraping by to pay the rent, with a likewise second-rate wifesband that has to do the same, with lukewarm safe-sex and a mortgage to pay the para-sperm factory, when one wants to reproduce.

Day after day spent aimlessly, with the nagging sensation that one's life is useless, knowing all too well that their daughters' lives will be the same, and their daughters' daughters, and so on, till Noxon will really get bored with us,  stop correcting our planet's orbit to go back to the stars from where we came, and everything in our will finally burn a mere two thousand years after.

>>

The young girls gasped - absolute nihilism, the greatest sin in Noxon's theology.

They did not expect Granny A., the famous Officiant, to entertain such thoughts, and shuddered, thinking about the length of the meditations that would require purging her mind from it.

Of course, Noxon does not promise any after-life, nor does it really cares about any sin one may commit in this life, apart cautioning that that's a nice way to live long and unhappy.

Whatever one does, Noxon says, just fucks up her own life - so, there is no need for any warden deity, paradises or hells.

Bad karma - the manifestation of entropy in social life - is enough  of a punishment, for the Church of Noxon.

<<

But, when you are atop the pyramid and a city is watching you, it is a powerful feeling

And You are - I was - what stands between the world and oblivion, for that day.

Yes, if the Officiants stopped their service, the world would still go on well for a thousand years, maybe.

During the 30 years of the Agnostics rule, about two thousand years ago, the duration of days went up to 24 hours ten minutes, it was enough that the climate started to change.

For those ten minutes more, deserts swollen and then 150 years were needed to get things back in order, 150 years of double rites.

Maybe life is really meaningless but, if it is not, if in some hidden corner of the world, in some mysterious shard of the great torture machine that we call society there is something that justifies its enormous pain in the ass, then - when you climb the steps - you are not meaningless either.

You are the one that keeps the world turning that day.

And there is not much more a person can ask.

>>

The girls relaxed - this was the Granny that they loved: more than a bit fanatical about her job, whichever may it be, was it being a not-too-much glorified sexual doll of an alien 'god', a behind-the-curtains political chess-master, or the pillar of their extended family.

<<

Of course, when you are virtually naked, in an organza dress in the middle of a morning breeze, on a wooden of a ship that is going to a place almost as old as the history of humanity on our world, this kind of thoughts are the very last thing in your mind.

In reality, I didn't see things this way till I turned 40, and my twenty years were nearing their end.

It is the human nature, to really comprehend what one has only when she is forced to let it go.


But, if any of you try to enter the service, if she manages to get up there, she will be one who keeps the world turning, that day.

One day, our species may find a way to compensate the huge tidal effects of a planet so deep inside its tiny star's gravity well like ours, all by itself.

Caving in to Noxon's moronic whims won't be necessary, and the Officiants' long service will may finally end.
Maybe.

But, until that day, when one climbs those stupidly tall, steep steps, she is doing it to  keep the world turning.

>>

- "Granny, please, skip this sentimental junk. You were reaching the great Ziggurat of Fraglbar, over a ceremonial boat, Remember?"-- Emily interrupted, as blunt as ever.

Granny A. slid over the implicit accusation of senility - though it was far from a novelty, she still darted a cold stare at her great-great-granddaughter - before going back to the tale.

However, if Emily continued like this, Granny A. would really pull some strings to get her into the Officiants and then up to Snowhole, the northernmost Ziggurat, the last created, the only one that has no great city nearby... a place not so affectionately known as "Boredom Hell". 

<<

Yes - in those days, diesel engines had already replaced rowers as the ships' means of locomotion - cheaper to maintain, and quieter, though still noisier than the electric motors that replaced them about ten years ago.

The engines purred just above their idle speed,  fairly over-sized if compared with the ship effective needs. .

It is strange, the rhythm of the waves, the gentle hum of the engines, the little words exchanged on the deck, at a given point I stopped caring for the peeping inhabitants of the towers.

 I slid inside a place in my mind, that I did not know was there, where all the small and great nuisances that I was withstanding disappeared, fading in the background.

 I focused only on the leash from Cezanne's hands to me, on following her, through the disembarkation procedures. Then we reached the base of the pyramid, and I dared not looking up.

I  Knew that, if I saw it and its 160 meters tall bulk, I could hardly start the climb.

I just followed Cezanne - or, rather, her slightly swinging ass - up the stairs. .

Fraglbar's path is not 1000 steps - the collapse of the shoreline it was built upon took away about 18 meters of the original base, or about one hundred steps., leaving, in all, 888 steps to climb (I think that the architects of the post-Earthquake restoration fiddled with the height of the Ritual Pier and with some of the steps, to get it to another, though not round, significant number).

It is odd, how much harder it becomes to climb a staircase when your hands are tied behind your back, which I thought was the reason why we climbed slower than I would have liked - in reality, the walk speed is drilled in each Officiant, like a musician learning to keep her tempo, and for very similar reasons.

The rites are a spectacle, after all, done for a God that do actually review it, every now and then!

>>

The girls in the great hall gasped, and Emily took it as an invitation to make one of her impertinent questions - spoken with an irreverent tone, too:

- "Review?"

Granny A darted the little punk, while the vision of a Ziggurat in the middle of Antarctica's Greater Plain pleasantly replaced that of the tyke's smirk - "Of course... they draw the dices, afterward, and the Rites session get a punctuation, 2 to 12  - or, to get rid of that offset, 0 - 10" - Granny made a Pause, thinking whether adding yet another Service "secret" - "Every three years, we are re-presented to the God, and dices are then drawn, to see what it thinks of each of us, whether on our body, our commitment to the rites, our sex-appeal... a whole set of categories. Very rarely, after these evaluations come in, an Officiant is forced to leave the service prematurely."

- "It seems to me that Xhristian's master, that never make his will known, is a far better deity than Noxon" - Emily, smirking again... Boredom Hell will be her destiny

- "Maybe. The few times I saw it happens, it was for women  who had developed resistance to the Black Oleum, so that they could not climb The Walk without accumulating definitive damages any more, and yet refused to leave the service. The 'god' asked that they were relieved and dismissed from the service, with full honors. The Xhristian's God never stopped any of them from killing herself in one of their publicity stunts, did it?"

- "No, but..."

Granny A lose her patience, and waved the young girl to silence, getting back to her tale

<<

We started climbing the pyramid - the first time, it is the hardest, mostly because you do not expect it and, also, because the training is never really enough, if you do not spend time actually climbing and downing THOSE stairs. Also, the rhythm of The Walk is thought more as a way to induce the Officiant into an altered state of mind, together with the drum beats from the colleagues on the side of the pathway, than as an efficient rhythm to climb a very long staircase

When we finally reached the square right below the top one, my legs were full of lactic acid, and cramps were imminent - and I was not the only one.

Each of us novices was in that condition, apart the little Black Guard who, probably, could have gone down running, and come back a couple of times - I kind of hated her, seeing how relaxed she was. 

Cezanne left the leash in the hands of one of the priestesses, and went over, climbing the last set of steps, going up to the smaller terrace where the proper rites are conducted.

The priestess took us in hand, and driven us so that we were aligned in front of the smaller terrace wall, and thee other priestesses joined her, to free us of our bindings.

We turned facing toward the Equator, where them 'god' is said to be, and undressed ourselves, looking to the gulf and the great ocean beyond it.

I suppose that, behind our back, the flashes were more than ever, but I could not see them, and I didn't really care.

The top of the Fraglbar pyramid has one of the most beautiful sights in the world, with the gulf a small inner sea and yet, at the horizon, the mountain of the Corinthian Ism break the continuity of the skyline, and the Kirimanjo's glacier is a white spot in the middle of brown, green and blue.

I think that the same sensation of peace came over all of  us, as we recited the Pledge Of Service,

Then the two younger priestesses started applying the piercing clamps - one to each nipple, and one t the clitoris' hood.

They hurt but, soon, the clamped parts went numb.

We  heard some whirring rumors, behind us, as electric winches raised four stones from the floor, to become the beds on which we would be consecrated.

The priestesses accompanied us, as we walked backward - without turning our faces away from the 'god' - till the stone slabs.

These were raised only about a foot and a half, so  that we could lower ourselves on them and sit on their edges, with the minimum of movements.

Then, the winches came back to life again, and raised the stones up, leaving our feet dangling in the void.
 
At the first stop, the senior priestesses arrived with the piercing needles, and proceeded to apply the Symbols of the Officiant, three solid gold rings.

Nothing in my life prepared me for the sensation of the gauge 10 needle that went through my nipples,  thought the clamps had really numbed the area. It wasn't the as much the pain, which was really quite moderate, it was the sensation of the sound that it made, sliding inside my skin and through my flesh.   

I I hadn't already been sitting on the stone, my legs would likely have ceded at that.

A few moments later, when the old woman - a lot younger than me now, of course - used a gauge 8, horizontally under my clitorides, it was worse but not unexpected any more.

These were not the "real" rings - those would arrive only after the wounds would have cicatrized properly.

These rings didn't have, for example, the engraving "Noxon owns me" on their side, and they had a simple friction hold, so that they could be opened regularly, to clean them and take care of the healing process.

The gold was only a thick plating over a lighter, brass metal.
The real ones would be heavier, real gold, and have a one-time-only internal spring lock - once in place. the only ways to take them out would be using a saw, or a scalpel on the flesh.

Or, just, yanking them out with brute force.

>>

A frisson of horror ran across Granny A's public, at the thought of such a barbaric act - Granny A, that had been a recipient of this four times, knew better: in its grandguignolesque way, it was fun.

<<

The temporary ring in place, the priestesses make us distend , and raise our feet on the stones , leaving our intimate parts well exposed, near the edge.

An assistant made a round, passing a tube of lubricant to each of them, who used it profusely on the glove of her non-dominant hand.

They started fingering us, one finger, two fingers at a time - slowly, calmly, while they used their other hand to caress and relax us.

I came, then the priestess that was serving me stuck a third finger inside, and continued to manipulate my body till I came again, and again, and then she added the little finger, and continued.

Once every few minutes, she used the dominant hand to reach the lubricant can, and renew its layer on the hand that was violating me.

They continued it for one hour, then four other priestesses took their place.
After another hour, the new priestess could slid her hand palm inside me, to the point that she could use the middle of her thumb to rub on my clitoris, when she was well in.

Then, the fist priestesses re-took place, and continued for some minutes, till they decided to add the thumb inside our cunts... and I passed out, which meant the end of my first consecration.

I was not the first, to fall unconscious, nor the last - the little black guard continued to hold her ground, to the point where the full hand of her priestess could easily slid in and was replaced by a first ritual dildo and then by a second, bigger one - at which point she was allowed to rest, the second dildo firmly assured to her hips by a strap-in harness, for the rest of the day, 

When we were finally awoke, after sundown, the priestesses helped us to the elevators inside the pyramid.

None of us was really able to walk on her own - the black guard, also because the priestesses had left  her in the strap-in, with the second, enormous dildo well stuck in its rightful place... maybe to drive home the point that it doesn't matter which are the limits of an Officiant, only that she is willing and eager to reach them for the sake of Noxon's pleasure. 

From that point on, we truly became Officiants and, as such, our training would go beyond sheer physical conditioning like running and yoga, to include pre-torture specific exercises.

In some moments, I would feel that I was going to die but, in reality, it was the best period of my life. 

>>

- "Being tortured daily? Really, Granny? The best period of your life?" - Sarah, Emily's sister, was skeptical.

- "I was a masochist, dear - that's what made me thrive... and so will you."

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.

Tribal

"Why did you draw something like this?"

   Because I can.

Au Pair

A typical Sunday Afternoon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In other words, a submissive masochist's heaven.

Officially, Lucy is now a full time housecleaning maid.

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

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

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

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

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

Too Late

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unspoken words sometimes can be felt just loud enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Four inches from the floor, she starts gasping. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I spent hours polishing my masterpiece, savoring this moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She will lose control and completely impale herself.

And she knows this way better than me.

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

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

I look at the slave in the mirror. 

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

My right hand gets dirty another time. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe, it's already too late.

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

Is there a name...

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

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

The Gathering

I, personally, find her lovely

The festival of the Deaths is the second most important festivity in the Empire of Sassafrakkaswacthsawesan  (called, by whoever  cant's stand long absurd words, just the "Sassa Empire").

During these three days, the most gorgeous girls from every corner of the Empire reach the capital, SassaFrakka, in order to participate to the fertility rituals so important for an agrarian and quasi underdeveloped society like the Sassa Empire.

The Empire is also quite loosely knitted, with local authorities, usually in the figure of head of villages or small bureaucrats, holding sometime an excessive amount of power and acting arbitrarily.

Religion is among the few centripetal forces that compensate for the local powers tendency to consider themselves as free agents and and, as such, its strictly centralized control and the repression of every form of heresy are among the Emperor most important duties.

The Festival of the Deaths is not only the main religious event in the Empire.

It is also a way to - indirectly - gauge the level of  loyalty of the local administrators, in the various corners of the Empire, as we are soon going to explain.

The Empire is divided in relatively small areas, each with about 150000 inhabitants.

Every area, during the Festival of the cinders (i.e. the Winter solstice, the shorter day of the year), elects one or more representatives to send to the Festival - that is celebrated, of course, during the summer Solstice.

It should be noted that, in ancient times, the six months between the two events were barely enough to allow to the representatives of some of the most remote areas of the Empire  to reach Sassafrakka.

In fact, some of these areas, and some beyond-the-sea colonies, anticipate the selection.

Sissiflinning, for example, chooses its next representative with a free election, the very day after the Festival of Deaths, and it takes between ten and eleven months to its representative to reach the capital.

The women chosen to represent an area ( from a minimum of one to  a maximum of five, depending on the censum of nubile women under 33) are, of course, supposed to be the most gorgeous women available, in the age bracket between 18 and 32.

The ideal of beauty in the Sassa Empire is shaped by the interplay of current economical and ancient cultural factors but, as it is a general rule in almost every society, it tends to reward as "beautiful" the daughters of the ruling classes (the so-called male way to hipergamy).

So, in a civilization where most women work alongside their men in the fields, developing since their childhood very tanned, lean and quite muscular bodies, the ideal of beauty is naturally skewed toward  soft , utterly non-athletic pearl-white women with long necks.

Quite tall pearl-white bodies, to be more exact.

So, it is not unusual for one of the daughters of an area's chief, to be selected to represent the area - the selection process being, in most areas, a secret poll among the adult males living in the administrative block who, in some cases, vote with vengeance in their heart (which is a sin they'll have to respond for, to the gods) .

In most cases, the mayor simply write-off the chosen daughter - the Empire is still a traditional society that churns out masses of kids and then manages to cull down most of them before they ever got married - but, in some rare cases, he chooses to risk and sends a lesser girl as representative.

Risk, here, is the correct word, as - while civilian justice in the Empire is quite slow, even on crimes such as corruption - the Pontiff of Sassafrakka is allowed to excommunicate everybody that has infringed the authority for the church.

In this case, by absconding a chosen woman or by interfering in the selection process so that the offerings to the Gods were of lesser than ideal quality.


So, seeing a "daughter of the fields" in the hall of the Cathedral, among the women chosen for the rituals gathered there the week before the festival, is often an indication that her area's Mayor is on the verge of becoming mutinous.

This has no bearing on the woman's destiny - in moder times, roughly only 25% of the chosen die during the festival, as a result of the adoption of first intervention kits imported from the Great Beyond - but it is not unusual for her to go back home carrying with her a Grand Inspector.

This latter is usually tasked to see if - perchance - her town's Mayor needs to be de-necked.

---

Note: in time, this - and a long-lost short tale in Italian - became the inspiration for the Noxon story arch.

Updated on 08/18/2018 - replaced the original illustration with a "Safe For Work" one, checked the language for mistakes. Definitively, my writing is as a first-year VW Beetle in the word of one of VW original managers: it has more bugs than a dog has fleas. 

Sportmanship

From an interview with George Sotomanikos(*), 

 <<

See if you will the simple mechanic of the aero-static harness.

As long as the runner is hanging, the burners are kept in idle.

Once she touches ground, and lightens the weight on the sliding support, burners go to full power.

So, on touching ground, a runner must try to walk as hard as she can, to keep traction on the harness, so that the burners stays in idle and she avoids wasting gas, and avoids being lifted up again as a result of the air in the balloon being heated.

Once every year, the girls in our stable that wants to try and shorten their contract are, all, so harnessed and left free to spread.

The one that manages to reach the farthest distance, before the gas canisters run dry, is freed and receive a very substantial amount of money.

The others have to renew their pledges of absolute enslavement for a year, lengthening their stay.

- The locals? No, none of them has ever freed a runner.

We explained the rules to their elders, who concluded that we are - indeed - crazy, but found the whole thing otherwise appropriate.

They like proper sportsmanship, to say the least.

>>



(*) Of course, the name is invented and no such person exists or, if you prefer, any similarity between elements of this tale an persons, places and objects real, existing or existed is purely coincidental.