from albany power exchange, an information resource about BDSM:
1. Start by insisting that she is in good physical shape, her hair is well done and her eyebrows, nails, makeup and choice of jewelry are all of the highest level
2. Instruct her to wear no perfume of any kind and to desist from routine washing of her genitals to ensure that a good aroma starts to build up
3. To improve the smell of her pussy, fuck her regularly and leave copious amounts of cum inside her – two weeks of that regime should have her nicely ripe
4. Before dressing her, have her stand naked and wide-legged before you
5. Pull hard on her nipples and clamp them tightly either with nipple lassoes or small elastic bands. They should be painful but not extreme and should be tight enough to make the nipples swell up
6. Then bind her breasts tightly at the base to force them forwards and out. The ideal effect is to make the breasts swollen and very firm, jutting out directly forward from her ribcage
7. Briefly fuck her to provide extra cum in her pussy
8. Make her pull her pussy open and with a teaspoon, scoop out all fluids you can find and spread them liberally over her swollen breasts and coat the insides of her thighs too
9. Wet two fingers inside her, then probe her arse deeply. Smear her breasts with the extra goo you find in that way and repeat until there is a strong and unmistakable aroma rising from her
10. Take a narrow plug-harness and push a buttplug and dildo into her, strapping it tight around her. Use one that leaves her pussy flaps free
11. Attach clamps to her pussy lips and hang weights from them. I use some lead “paternoster” fishing weights that I have had for years on about 2 inches of line. If she is masochist enough and can stand the pain, you could try using real fish hooks pushed through the flesh but there are not many girls who can tolerate that
12. Dress her in a very short skirt – the base of the weights should line up with the hem of the skirt when she stands
13. Other items of dress will be to your taste, but I would certainly choose a top that does as little as possible to conceal her erect breasts and nipples
14. Then take her out to be admired
All posts by manny@savo.us
there is – no
there is no proper response to anything, only gauges and pressures.
no.
there is no proper response, only the imagination.
no.
there is no proper response to the imagination.
no.
there is nothing here i haven’t already given up on.
no.
there is nothing that i have imagined that gives me comfort.
no. a lie.
there is no proper response to what i have imagined.
no.
i fall in the dark stumbling after you, the not-you, i might have been.
no.
leave it alone
let’s leave it like this then. let’s leave it crippled, hobbled without crutches. let’s leave with its back broken and twitching on the floor. let’s leave it licking up dust bunnies and fingering the floorboards. let’s leave it naked and grimy and unclean for days. let’s leave it shivering and thirsty and blinded. let’s just leave it wretched but not yet dead. let’s just leave it alone.
fragile things
eventually we are all meant to be broken
fall walking
the moment of suspended animation, the absolute clarity, pitch perfect silence & sound-there, right there, you can almost see it all in its entirety.
i had moments like this, walking home often times late at night, often times in the fall, the wind would whip and there was some sort of crackle.
everything became vivid, i was surrounded, immersed, engulfed, i can feel the snap of a leaf, the groove between two slabs of concrete in the sidewalk.
and it was wonderful and real, for once, i was aware, i was it, i was this, i was a part of this and i was nothing, all the details pressing in, pressing thru.
and i disappeared save for the seeing, the breathing, the hearing, the being, the moving about, panorama perspective without the vertigo just sheer fear.
where am i? where am i? where am i? i don’t see myself in any of this.
upon a man
and she came upon a man who was a horse wearing a diaper and shit trailed down his leg and there was a pacifier in her mouth and a riding crop in her hand and she would steer him by choking him this way or that with her other hand and we were all amazed by how far he had come, his palms and knees pink and raw and scabbed over and over, and she took offense and beat him with the crop, flogging him left and right until angry welts arose from his flanks and we all stifled a nervous laughter.
tug
i unbuckle my belt and slip it off. she watches. sitting on the edge of the bed, she waits for me to take my belt off and slip it around her neck. she waits and i hesitate. i’ve never done this before. she never wanted this before. we were all waiting. the room was impossibly hot. she takes my belt off tugging it out of the loops. i wait for her. i wait for her to come into the room and take off her robe. i place the rope around her neck. she splays her fingers against the pane as i tighten the belt. i watch. i untie her robe and pull it down to her elbows, not any further. i kneel in front of her. we’ve never done this before. i am waiting. she pushes me against the glass and kneels. she watches as i slip the belt around my neck. she laughs as i turn her over and tug on the robe. the sheet was impossibly cool.
its entropy
leave me here in this puddle, this brain damage, this twisted syringe. there is no hope here, there is no kindness. i am twisted sheet metal and serrated edge, i am maggots feasting on a corpse, i am dead and lurking. my daughter is all life and desire and a frequency of that shatters me. my son is all need and happiness and incessant joy that ruptures a room. my wife is patience, kindness and grace that lynchpins the whole thing together. and i am the tear. i am the disruption. i am its entropy.
thickened by the seasons
and i ran my fingers over wood splinters sharp and remembered. not many, precious. here underneath the tongue, by the window where the blinds are thickened by seasons. i had the cord around my neck and my feet dangling from the sill. it was wonderful to see a sky free of everything. the promise of concrete cracked aside by persistent roots. to be the seam of the world, where her lips remember my name and my children slip in and out of the sun.
sex-love-rice
there are things, like sticky white rice, the kind that sticks to the roof of your palette, in between your gums, feverish things, like the sweat between her breasts, the gasp from her throat, the rake of her hand across your back, the taste of her deep, gleeful things, the lazy caressed leg, the spittle of a penis spent, the sound of her voice drifting into sleep