Black

by The Provocateur

(U)nless one wants to live a stunningly boring life, one ought to be on good terms with one’s darker side and one’s darker energies.”

She is a dominatrix and I am standing at her iron gate, waiting for her to answer. I don’t say this out loud, but: I come to her not to be dominated by her – nor anything else outside myself.

My lips are the color of a Clockwork Orange and when she opens the door, I do not tell her that I am here to violently reconquer myself. I do not tip my hat and tell her that I am here to put myself back together again.

Couple that with my broken heart and clearly: I am not very smart at all. The evidence is in the previous weeks of my life where, the stars have reflected exactly what the days have said: I am weak. This is weak. This week. The week before.

I believed that I was giving shape to love. And I was ready for love to shape me. But I lost track of minutes and murky moments. I started to drown. And then, I did.

Ever the exhibitionist, she neatly crawls up onto her purple couch and sticks her ass in the air. We joke, saying that, clearly, this must be her first time in front of a camera.

I can feel the blood surging to my midsection. My face becomes flushed. And, unbeknownst to me, for the next couple of hours I will forget everything beyond that front door and swelling darkly inside me.

Apart from that, I am no master at all. Laziness and pride has infected me. My internal world, a detritus which has proved caustic to everything outside of me, or,

Swirling in the unbelief and ethereal uncertainty that the death of love carries under its vulture wings and I have broken myself completely down. Taken everything apart. Bolts and screws and plugs and radiators, all laid-out before me now as a ghost; me as an empty vessel. Me as something that is the sum total of all the parts and bolts and gaskets.

I am snapping away and she crawls onto the teal bed. There is a wine glass full of water on the nightstand that her cat drinks out of. In the background is the sound of the ocean swelling and receding. Industrial music in the other room.

She tells me that she is wild, but it is unnecessary. I know this already. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t return like I have. Whichever way, without words, you can see it in her eyes. In her tattoos. In the way that she begins to run her fingers up and down her clothed cunt as she splays her legs open before me.

On the other hand, I fear the simpletons. I revile the medians in the middle of my road. I am not impressed by you, but always astounded and intrigued by what you do.

I do not want network television and sit-coms and remedial tasks, boring college degrees and shopping in malls, for leisure. I do not care about your pedestrian celebrities, or the fact that they fill that dying place in you, one of many, where you are hollow and infantile.

I want something developed. If it is light, then shine on me. Burn me. If it is dark, let me crawl into it. And let it crawl into me.

However, I feel it: I am beginning to resurface – from the nearly irreversible sadness that I believe I will carry with me for the rest of my days. Yes, it is this serious: When you gamble with your heart, you gamble with the whole fabric of your entire being.

Only days later and: I am older now. Now I am changed. Now I do not think about her as much. Now I do not wonder where or what or how she is doing. This despite the fact that I would still kiss her cheek softly, or race to rescue…

The dominatrix is completely naked and writhing on her bed. She is contorting into every conceivable position. She opens her legs and shows me all of her wet sex. She teases me the way she teases the camera.

I conceptualize the word “naked” and as I am unbuttoning my shirt I think about how I didn’t even remember putting on the fabric that I came with. I have felt so bare for so long. As I peel my shirt off, the dominatrix snaps away and I feel that my skin is charred. Sore. Burned.

My cock is being pulled from my pants. I am only a half-participant in the reveal. She is peeling me out and away from myself. Her cold hands and manicured fingers make my head light.

She snaps away on the camera and then cups my cock in her hand as she shoots with her one free hand. I can see the vibrant lust in her eyes, licking and clicking away.

If you cannot burn on your own, then please recede from me in peace like the dream that you were. For I want not your counsel, nor your arms…

She is between my legs, helping me give birth. In this regeneration, my cock is alternately in her hand and in her mouth. Sometimes, when she clamps down on me with all of her wicked sensualism, she uses both hands and her entire, wet mouth.

She gives me the camera and turns the light toward us. The light is hot and bulbous as the sun and drowns-out the world beyond her between my splayed legs and my cock sliding in and out of her wet mouth.

Now clothed again, for some etiquette’s sake, she begins to pull off her clothes. I hear her reach under the nightstand and when she comes back out, she wraps my cock in a sheeth and says, now I’m going to fuck you.

When I flip her over, I violently pin her legs up in the air. With all the rage of everything torn and reversed inside of me, I fuck the dominatrix. She is not fucking me.

I am forceful. I am not weak. I am pounding everything I have deep inside of her, and beyond. This is my fuck you, I do not need you, I do not belong here.

As I feel parts of me melting away, dripping from my body, I can feel the condensation of my matter, as though I am in a centrifuge. I can feel the ugly particles, the ugly, black thoughts separating. I can feel something even stronger reanimating my white particles – the particles that I will need two hours from now when I am hunched over my knees and sobbing in the deathly silence of everything behind me.

Where I once had a heart, I am now left with ignorance and sadness. And where a girl once stood before me as a representative of all the love I have to give and receive, I now only see a shadowy figure, blackened and coal.

“I have often longed for peace and tranquility — looked into the lives of others and envied a kind of calmness — and yet I don’t know if this tranquility is what I truly would have wished for myself.”- Kay Redfield Jamison

*****

The Provocateur  — this writer of words that elevate erotica into the realm of  literature — speaks to my heart, my very soul, every single time I find my way to his blog.  Here is where — in the hungry blush of sexual expression, exploration and need — sex is therapy is stigmata is truth is poetry is transformation is introspection is celebration is promenade is psalms is nexus is oxygen is the very marrow of our human-ness. 

Oh, dear reader, please do give yourself the pleasure, the gift, of reading his blog.

xo, Angela

Showtime

by Porno Person

"Five minutes!" came the warning over the loudspeaker.

"Showtime," I muttered under my breath as I checked myself once more in the mirror. Decked out, head to toe, I was in a second skin of latex. It covered every inch save for my mouth, eyes, and behind. The latex gleamed in the light of the dressing room. I adjusted everything just so and looked myself in the eyes, wondering how the person who looked back at me had gotten into such a strange position.

"Places!" came the voice again. No time for introspection. Time for action. Time to be a "star."

I followed the labyrinthine hallway into today’s set. It was dressed like a prison cell. Inside just a bunk, a sink, and an incongruous padded sawhorse.

There were no lines to memorize. Hell, there wasn’t usually dialogue other than what was improvised. Without having to be told, I bent over the sawhorse, my ass in the air and my mouth held open by the O-Ring atached to the latex headpiece.

It didn’t take long before I was joined by two of my co-stars. They were well-built, their bodies gleamed having been rubbed down with oil. Their faces were covered. I always wondered if I passed any of these anonymous men by on the street, not knowing that they were the ones paid to use me on camera for Her amusement and profit.

She had conceived of this "service" a few months prior. Humiliatingly enough, I was to carry through Her plan — setting up the space, the servers, the secure site — all for her to enjoy seeing me being fucked nightly by a variety of different men while subscribers all over the globe could log on and do the same for $9.95 a month.

She would email in her requests for different scenarios / outfits. Men would apply via the website and, if they were approved and could make it to our studio, would have the pleasure of partaking in whatever fantasy She wanted fulfilled. I never met the men — they were taken care of by our production assistants. I only heard their voices, smelled their sweat, and felt their hands over me and cocks in me.

There was no foreplay, making the website one of the highest rated online. The sex acts started almost immediately.

I felt the hands of one of the men and he ran it over the latex outfit. My ears muffled the sound of his comments but whatever he said was met with agreement by the other man. My peripheral vision blocked, the appearance of one of the men directly in front of me shouldn’t have been a surprise but it still seemed to be. I gasped a bit and he seemed to take this as a compliment about the size of his engorged cock. He stroked it for me, getting it even harder and larger before sliding it into the O-Ring that kept my mouth available.

I tasted the salty sourness of his cock as it pushed across my tongue, all the way to the back of my mouth. I gagged at first and he backed off slightly. He felt my tongue caressing the underside of his cock and fell into an easy rhythm of fucking my face. Meanwhile I felt his friend push the head of his cock against my asshole. Never sure if these men would bother to use the lube provided, I had prelubed my ass with a one-time use of KY Jelly. I was glad I did.

He was rougher than the man fucking my mouth, pushing his cock deep inside, withdrawing, and plunging in again, not allowing me to adjust to his girth at all before he was plowing into me. I cried out, my scream muffled by the cock in my mouth. Tears streamed out over the latex mask and I heard one of them laugh.

Rather than slowing down, they both seemed turned on by my tears. It didn’t take long before the man in my mouth was shooting his spunk down my throat. He pulled out and gave one final squirt onto my latex-clad face. His friend finished a few moments later, pulling out and shooting his load onto my back.

I knew that this would never do. She would be disappointed at how fast these two men had orgasmed. I soon found that I had nothing to worry about as two more men soon joined the fray. They soon took the place of the men who had just finished.

And so it went. These four men were joined later by two others before they rotated and I was being fucked by the man I had sucked off while the one who had fucked me put his cock in my mouth. They all took their turns and, all the while, I knew that She was watching at home.

I wondered if she was watching it on her computer, if she had put it on her television, or if she just left me in the background. Was she watching alone or did she have people over to enjoy the show? I only hoped that there would be an email waiting for me at the end of the night with a favorable review of my performance.

***

I feature the work of Porno Person when I can because, well, he’s just so damned kinky and happens to be a very good writer.  His blog, Prurient Interests, is a veritable smorgasbord of sexual fetish and deviant kink.  PP happens to like me a lot, which kind of amazes me when I look at the women who turn him on (he posts lots of sexy pictures), since I am pretty much just a poor little orphan girl — very white, very middle America, very low key and subtle (except when spinning a dirty yarn.  but that doesn’t really count).

I consider myself blessed.  Thanks, PP.

xo, Angela

An Innocent Transsexual’s Quest for Meaning, Commitment, and Gender-Dysphoric Redemption amid the Wormy Venality and Squamous Debauchery of the Worst Hell-Hole in Texas!!  

Chapter VI:  Enlightened Penology Comes to West Texas Correctional.

In a pensive mood, Senior Prison Guard, Mary “Biff” McGurk, swirled her steaming mug of morning coffee with her pudgy right thumb – a mannerism that she had picked up after watching a documentary on the lives of lumberjacks in the Pacific Northwest. Starting every morning with a cup of java and two or three unfiltered Camels in the prison cafeteria was a long-standing ritual for Biff. It gave the burly lesbian a chance to relax, meditate upon her schedule, and organize her thoughts prior to another day devoted to disciplining cons. For Biff, this particular day promised more responsibilities than usual. Among other things, it was the last day before The Warden’s anticipated return to the prison. Biff wanted everything to be just right on his arrival. 

The Warden had been gone from the prison for two weeks, attending an annual educational seminar in Galveston. As Senior Guard at West Texas Correctional (and the only WTC employee possessed of an Associates Degree in “Modern Criminology”), The Warden had left Biff in charge of the institution during his absence. 

The importance of her selection was not lost on Biff.  She saw it for what it really was — a test. 

The last time Biff had been left in charge, there had been an unfortunate inmate knifing.  Worse, the institution’s fabled basketball team had abused its gym privileges and effectuated a daring mass escape.  The Warden had been displeased with these occurrences and Biff, wrongly blamed, had been in his doghouse for a long time afterwards. 

Given a second crack at responsibility, Biff wanted to be “pro-active.” She was determined to use the two weeks to institute several reforms in the prison’s operations.  Upon his return, The Warden would find that not only had nothing untoward occurred at WTC, but that Biff’s changes had improved the operation of the place!   

Biff’s first innovation involved a much-needed security upgrade. Now, instead of nightsticks, each of WTC’s 57 prison guards carried spanking-new “X-27 Musculo-Electrical Debilitators” in their holsters.  

Biff had become aware of the X-27 Musculo-Electrical Debilitator from a promotional video she had cannily retrieved from The Warden’s office wastebasket – where, for some reason, it had apparently been discarded without first even having been viewed. According to the video, the X-27 had the advantage of allowing its users to zap miscreants “musculo-electrically” and “non-lethally.”  This had immediate appeal to Biff, who always viewed innovations in police technology with the same sort of respect that a Catholic schoolchild normally reserves for the Pope.  

“Damn!  That sucker’s just like one of those phasers that Captain Kirk and Spock used to use on Klingons and Romulans!” Biff enthused, raptly watching the X-27’s promo. “It’s like what happens when ya put a phaser in the ‘stun’ position. Ya don’t kill the aliens. They just wish they was dead!”  The thought of transferring this new Star Wars-technology to West Texas Correctional, and using it on aliens of the Hispanic variety, immediately occurred to Biff. 

There were added selling points. The X-27 came with lots of nifty gadgetry. There was a laser-guided sighting element and an optional mini-video camera that could be rapidly turned on or off with a quick finger flip so as to avoid, if necessary, unpleasant Rodney King-like situations where videotaping would be inappropriate. There was a “Sim Suit” – which looked like something Neil Armstrong wore during his famous moonwalk. The wearer could then be targeted “to allow for safe live-training simulations” and “scenario firing at a ranging dynamic target.”  The Taser even came with a fashionable and professional-looking leatherette holster “ideal for rapid extraction by trained law enforcement officials.”  

“People like us prison guards, they mean,” Biff translated, nodding her head in emphatic approval. 

The Musculo-Electrical Debilitator had the additional advantage of being manufactured by child laborers in grimy sweat shops on the Asian rim, enabling it to retail for 49% less than its closest competitor — the American-made Z-78 “Police-Buddy.” This cost differential was not lost on the always-pragmatic Biff. 

But what really “closed the deal” for Biff was the video’s depiction of actual “field use” of the Taser.  Here, campus police were shown using the X-27 to administer multiple “musculo-electronic bursts” to the body of a student radical that had been hell-bent on disrupting an otherwise peaceful university lecture.  

“Probly a fuckin’ Commie!” Biff noted immediately upon viewing the radical.  Biff knew a Red when she saw one.  

At any rate, after repeated beatings from their wooden truncheons had failed to totally silence the stubborn radical, two of the alert campus police shown in the video began blasting away at him with their X-27s.  The effect was immediate and telling.  Upon “musculo-electrical” impact, their target was left twitching violently on the floor of the university lecture hall, completely immobilized and at last susceptible to expert handcuffing by the alert campus deputies. Viewing all this left Biff entranced.  

“They shoulda just zapped him right away and not bothered with their nightsticks!” Biff exclaimed, grinning happily as she watched the electrified pinko flop about like a spastic chicken.  “We gotta get those things issued to every guard in this place. Mark my words, that baby’s gonna revolutionize prison discipline!” 

Aside from its obvious utility in dispatching students, Biff’s agile mind readily conjured up other potentially useful prison applications for the X-27. Biff envisioned herself using judicious bursts of the X-27’s high-amperage firepower on inmates handcuffed to chairs, thereby ferreting out secret escape plans, clandestine marijuana rings; and cleverly hidden pornography stashes. 

“Hell, I bet some of the bozos here that are always trying to kill themselves would think twice about it if I zapped ‘em a few times!” Biff mused.  The potential “non-lethal” uses of the X-27 at West Texas Correctional did, indeed, seem endless. Therefore, using her authority as “Temporary Warden,” Biff wasted no time in placing the necessary order and insisting on expedited delivery of the fantastic new weapon. 

To help pay the $30,723.00 cost of arming each of the prison’s guards with the X-27, Biff implemented another long-needed change at West Texas Correctional — the installation of a souvenir stand bearing the wholesome name of “Ye Olde Prison Gift Shoppe.” 

The thought of establishing a gift shop at WTC had been percolating in murky areas of Biff’s cerebrum for a long time. It strongly appealed to her mercantile instincts. Relatives and loved ones usually arrived at West Texas Correctional on their visiting days empty -handed.  Most had learned from prior visits that all gifts or packages intended for cons were seized and subjected to thorough searches by WTC’s ever-vigilant coterie of guards.  Furthermore, following such searches, no visitor was ever permitted to give anything directly to a WTC inmate. Instead all deliveries were made by WTC’s turnkeys. 

“Leave it with me, Ma’am.  I’ll see that he gets it!” was a public pronouncement solemnly made by solicitous guards to every tender-hearted donor bringing a package from home intended for a con.   “Leave it with me, Ma’am, I’ll see that he gets it!” was also a statement certain to generate peals of private laughter among WTC’s bevy of jovial and fun-loving guards, who after mouthing it, invariably confiscated anything of any potential worth or value. Biff had personally obtained a dandy set of Ray-Bans, as well as a regular supply of homemade cookies and several appealing nude photos of prisoners’ wives through her participation in WTC’s inspection and delivery process. 

Thus, to Biff’s way of thinking, “Ye Olde Prison Gift Shoppe” made a lot of sense.  For one thing, it was a lucrative way of profiteering on visitors’ well-intentioned impulses to give incarcerated loved ones pre-approved tokens of their affection. For another, the same visitors could buy a little souvenir of their own – like a key chain or an ashtray – that would suitably memorialize their own happy visit to the penitentiary.  

“Hell, this way we’ll get ‘em coming and goin’!” Biff grinned, as she shared her “Gift Shoppe idea" idea with Tansy Delgado, The Warden’s Tex-Mex secretary. 

Tansy did not share Biff’s enthusiasm.  “I dunno, Beef,” Tansy responded.  “I yam steel kinda wooried bout alla thoze Tazeer theengs you buy.  Now yoo wanna do thees.  Maybe yoo be better wait an’ ask The Warden wen he come back foorst. The State maybe haf a law or sometheeng ginst all thees.” 

“Don’t you worry about the State, Tansy.  I already checked the regs,” Biff responded.  "There ain’t nothin’ about no gift shops in any o’ them books one way or t’other. I’m a-doin’ it!  I gotta pay fer them Tasers some kinda way and this here’s a sure-as-shit money-maker! Get me the phone number fer Hallmark Cards!” 

Biff’s resultant brainchild — “Ye Olde Prison Gift Shoppe” — was strategically placed next to the Visitor’s Entrance to the prison – just past the institution’s row of metal detectors.  On opening, the emporium featured a display area containing a festive assortment of trinkets, high calorie comestibles, and items of cheap clothing. Cards, coffee mugs, candy-bars, ashtrays and T-shirts were all on prominent display.  

The cards were specially ordered by Biff to be “Prison-Specific.”  The delivered product featured poignant thoughts like: “To My Darling Husband in Prison”; “My Heart’s There With You in Jail, Honey”; and “I’m Still Waiting For You Here Beside the Old Oak Tree“(opening up to an arboreal feast of gnarly trees festooned with yellow ribbons).  

The Gift Shoppe’s specially designed souvenir T-shirts were in red and blue. The fronts of each depicted, in white, the silhouette of the prison’s guard towers as seen from a distance in the moonlight. Their reverses offered several lettered options:  “I’m the Proud Parent of a WTC Inmate”; “My Husband’s a Model Prisoner at West Texas Correctional”; or “My Loved One’s Getting His Mind Right at WTC.”  

Biff provided a cash register for the Shoppe and installed a Trustee to oversee its activities.  A large sign behind the counter read: “GIVE THE PRISONER YOU LOVE A THOUGHTFUL GIFT! – WE ACCEPT ALL MAJOR CREDIT CARDS! SE HABLA ESPAÑOL!” 

Uncertain whether “Ye Olde Prison Gift Shoppe” alone would generate sufficient revenues to pay for her much-needed X-27s, Biff had presciently hedged her Gift Shoppe bet by administering another imaginative tweak to the prison’s commercial affairs. 

The Warden’s long-standing policy at WTC had been to charge $6.50 per minute for all collect outside telephone calls placed by inmates to their loved ones and attorneys. Trading on her own recent small business experience as a phone sex operator, Biff saw no reason why The Warden had chosen to be so conservative. Using a calculator, Biff quickly determined that at $13.00 per minute, 42 inmate telephone minutes alone would nearly cover the cost of one of her new “Musculo-Electrical Debilitators.”    

“Hell, The Warden thinks small. I think big!” Biff chortled. “I’m doubling the per-minute price!” 

Still contemplating her many reforms, Biff swallowed the last of her coffee. A glance at the clock on the wall near the exit indicated that it was nearly time for her to go on duty. There was still some unfinished work that needed to be done before The Warden returned. For one thing, Biff had to put the finishing touches on a lecture she was preparing.” 

The “Biff McGurk Prison Lecture Series” was the last reform that Biff had implemented. The “Lecture Series” was a concept that owed its origins to the extensive training in criminology that Biff had received at Amarillo State Junior College. That training had taught Biff that prison life could sometimes be stultifying and boring for the cons. Keeping prisoners’ minds active and focused on mentally enriching and educational endeavors served to advance the criminal justice system’s avowed rehabilitative goals. Hence, the “Biff McGurk Prison Lecture Series.”    

As implemented, Biff’s “Lecture Series” was to be a weekly affair with attendance made mandatory for all of WTC’s inmates. Biff delivered each address personally. She would come up with an appropriate topic – always something stimulating and educational — and then be responsible for the content. It was a lot extra work for Biff, but she figured it was worth it. It would certainly impress The Warden and it would also help the cons to reassimilate into polite society.    

Biff’s first lecture was a controversial ethnographic jeremiad entitled “The Latino Threat to American Culture.” It featured 90 minutes of Biff’s own insightful commentary supplemented by selected excerpts Biff had videotaped from episodes of CNN’s “Lou Dobbs Tonight” show.”  

Sadly, her lecture had not been very well received. The prison’s Hispanic element was particularly disapproving – hissing and booing whenever Biff darkened the auditorium’s lights to run the taped excerpts from Lou Dobbs. Despite this inauspicious opening, the Lecture did have some positive aspects.  For one thing, it gave Biff the opportunity to satisfactorily test the efficacy of her new X-27 on one particularly vocal Mexican prisoner. 

Biff had higher hopes for her second offering — a slide show with commentary that she had elected to call “The Many Benefits of Travel.” Although still in outline form, Biff had decided to build her second lecture around photographs she had taken during her recent visit to Amarillo’s famous “Outhouse Museum” (an edifice chronicling Texas defecation architecture from its early adobe days during the time of the Spanish Conquistadors on down through to the present). Biff’s mother, who was the Museum’s curator, had supplied Biff with plenty of color brochures providing in depth descriptions of some of the more fascinating exhibits. Biff hoped to distribute these to the cons as supplements to her lecture. She wanted to have her finished presentation available and ready for airing upon The Warden’s return. 

“Yes, it sure has been a busy two weeks, “ Biff thought to herself as she pushed her paunch away from her table in the cafeteria. “But I guess it’s time I get my ass to work!” 

The first item of the day on Biff’s agenda was a short visit to the prison’s infirmary. 

“I better check the status of that goddamned Mexican I zapped at the Lecture,” Biff muttered, with evident irritation. “How the hell was I supposed to know the asshole was on a Pacemaker?”

Well, there’s my way to do it, which includes writing dirty stories, talking dirty on the phone and featuring hot writers such as Jerotic,  Pervert Savant, Sabrina Morgan, The Provocateur, Submissive Savant and Porno Person.   

Then there’s the kind of Smut Slinging which is downright nasty and makes me glad after all that I’m not famous — that I’m just here in my own little corner of the Internet, doing my own quiet, little thing my own dirty little way:

Writers on other Writers

“I have tried lately to read Shakespeare, and found it so intolerably dull that it nauseated me." − Charles Darwin

"Jonathan Swift was a monster gibbering shrieks, and gnashing imprecations against mankind, …" − William Thackeray

"Longfellow is to poetry what the barrel organ is to music" − William Thackeray

"Shelley should not be read, but inhaled through a gas pipe" − Lionel Trilling

"This awful Whitman. This post-mortem poet . . . with the private soul leaking out of him all the time." − Lionel Trilling

"[Ulysses is] the work of a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples." − Virginia Wolff

"[Henry James was] one of the nicest old ladies I ever met." − William Faulkner

"Reading Proust is like bathing in someone else’s dirty water." − Alexander Woollcott

"[Dylan Thomas was] an outstandingly unpleasant man, one who cheated and stole from his friends and peed on their carpets." − Kingsley Amis

"[George Orwell] would not blow his nose without moralizing on the conditions in the handkerchief industry." − Cyril Connolly

"[Hemingway had] a literary style of wearing false hair on the chest" − Max Eastman

"[Gertrude Stein] was a past master in making nothing happen very slowly" − Clifton Fadiman

"[Auden was] an engaging, bookish, American talent, too verbose to be memorable and too intellectual to be moving" − Philip Larken

"That’s not writing, that’s typing" − Truman Capote on Jack Kerouac

"It is only fair to Allen Ginsberg to remark on the utter lack of decorum of any kind in this dreadful little volume" − John Hollander on Howl

"[Alexander Solzhenitsyn] is a bad novelist and a fool" − Gore Vidal

"[Writers are ] schmucks with Underwoods" − Jack Warner

"[Rod McKuen’s] poetry is not even trash" − Karl Shapiro

"A sausage machine, a perfect sausage machine." − Agatha Christie on Agatha Christie

And thanks to PQS for hooking me up.  Although you’ve been known to criticize my prose and poetry time or two, you always do it just between you and me … and with much adoration and affection.  Which is probably smart of you.  (*wink*)

xo, Angela

Bottom on Top:  Richard and the Caning

Okay, I gotta tell ya, I've been saving this picture forever, because I think it is just awesomely sexy, speaking to possibilities.  Possibilities?  How can that be, Angela?  After all, there are no naked girls or boys; nor is there anything remotely sexual happening.  And I say to you:  EXACTLY!    The sexual landscape is bare, except for a cane on a nondescript couch.  That's where it starts, where everything begins.  

Can you imagine entering a woman's apartment with her after a first date to see that lying there, so innocently, yet so titillating?  Or being in a submissive relationship and finding that as you walk in the door one night?  What if you were being puppy trained and you crawled into your Mistress's living room to see this?

Now you get it, don't you?  I'm sure you do. 

Well it used to be that Richard, our resident Submissive Savant, would have agreed with any of the three submissive perspectives I just described.  And I'm sure he still would, really, when you get right down to it.  But, my oh my, is he in a mood for experimentation these days, noting in a recent entry that he has separate profiles up at Collar Me … one submissive and one dominant. 

In just such a mood he wrote a most erotic piece…

I dreamt of you last night. More honestly I stroked my cock while I thought of you.

There you were with you wrists bound above your head. My canes cut into your buttocks. First the wooden cane, then the acrylic and lastly the metal one. Your flinched, your breath became ragged but you wouldn’t cry, you wouldn’t beg me to stop.

With the metal cane only I moved down to the back of your thighs. Your twitches told me that each stroke hurt. Still there were no tears. Again you wouldn’t beg. I felt like I was eating you. At least eating your pain. Finally I stopped. Sitting on a tall stool I sat near you and let my hands roam across your body. I licked some of your welts hoping to taste what I’d done to your flesh.

I yanked you around. My cane cut into the front of your thighs. You spasmed, you whimpered. Selfishly you never asked for mercy. Tiring I sat before you and planned my triumph.

I thrust my tongue down your throat. I burned with love for your strength as much as I wanted to conquer it.

Your face assumed so many beautiful expressions of anguish when my cane cut into your nipples. But no tears flowed.

Finally I released you. But had you kneel one more time before me. My fingers rifled your hair. I treasured the shudders that still racked your body and your seeming indestructibility.

Finally I raised you up as friend and equal and hugged you tightly to me.

I think I love the last line best of all.  Which is probably what I love about Richard best of all.  His beautiful humanity.

xo, Angela