Black or White (The day of Saturday)

Sunday, 26 May, Year 11 d.Tr. | Author: Mircea Popescu

You're curious, aren't you ?

Well... okay. So for the first time in many weeks, we stayed in for a weekend. Therefore, there'll be no picturesi, just narrative.

First off, I woke up, and over breakfast convened the harem around the kitchen table, where I proceeded to ask them some very hard math questions (not objectively, they're learning). This resulted in some very frustrated girlies, some tears, some harsh words... it reminds me so of my own happy childhoodii... My mother'd tear out my pages, and I'd cry and scream and we'd argue and then I'd do it over, and fuck it up again, and... over the few years' worth of primary school I amassed I think 8-900 "solved problems", their count stated in paranthesis behind my name on the outside cover of the -- empyreal at the time -- Gazeta Matematica. No publication ever achieved (or ever could achieve) such heights of fearsome respectability as that modest, obscure monthly did back in the day ; nor was I that angry, or upset, or frustrated, or depressed, or melancholy, or furious, burning with untold emotion, including sheer hatred and... and yet, for all the intensity of feeling I did no-one any violence by consequence, I didn't poison my mother in her sleepiii, I didn't set the god damned redaction building on fire after replacing their waterlines with gasoline lines so they can't even put it out, I did none of the terrible, horrible things that in all truth and in all fairness'd have constituted but little portion of revenge for the distress they caused me, growing up. Because that's the problem with learning, especially important things : it fucking hurts. It does.

After which, one started cooking while I sent the other for the belt. I own (through taking posession of my slaves' previous possessions) a belt, antique, wonderful, metal rings reinforcing holes in three rows all down its ancient leather length. It's especially good to roll around the ankles in a tight knot. Then I had her hop downstairs (except I forgot something so made her hop back halfway -- accidentally, of course). Then I handcuffed her to the stairiv and left her there to spin in her head -- she does this, too, anticipation runs through her mind at such feverish pitch it makes her palms sweat. I sat for a while conversing with the cook, then went upstairs for the captive's boa.

You know what a boa is, right ? This feathers-on-a-string arrangement, sure. And what does your mind associate with it ? Bad wanna-be burlesque shows, perhaps ? Instagram part-time "dark and disturbed" goffy teenagers ? Really old women with false teeth, sweaty decolletages and bad wigs ?

Could you guess, perhaps, what that boa connotes to this slavegirl we've left chained to a post while we're doing other things, in complete disdain of her... needs, shall we call them ? Humanity ? Personhood ? Sheer existence ?

In any case, I grabbed a thing of steel wool from the dishwashing supplies cabinet, and while her mind spun on the boa casually thrown on a stool within her visual space I gave her a good rub. Ever rubbed down a horse ? They love it, you know, the harsh brush tickling their coat while you talk softly and coo at them...

Girls love it too, especially the ones that do. You tell them all about how they're just like a head of cattle, tied down for a rubdown, while working that unforgiving thing all over her soft skin, red, irritated marks streaking from neck to heel and on the side, and under the tits from nipple to hip and everywhere. The streaked red hide, glistening with sweat's quite the sight, you know.

Maybe you even break out the rubbing alcohol afterwards. Safety first, right ? Besides, it smells nice, and perhaps you even get a box of long grill matches and place it demonstratively by the boa before getting the alcohol. You wouldn't set a poor girl on fire just like that, now would you ? And she knows you wouldn't, too. Doesn't she ? After all, mutual confidence's the cornerstone of traditional marriage, is it not ? Not like you have a bunch of spares lying in wait, ready to take her place at any moment -- spares you forced her to go out and find for you half the time anyways!

So then... you let her sit there another while, while you sexually molest the cook just at the most difficult moment in her work, because why should anyone have it easy in this house ?! And then you, by which you I mean me, leisurely fetch a garbage bag -- not a shopping bag but the very soft, the very thin, the very clingy garbage bag, and now you, by which you I mean you, suddenly realise what the boa connotes to the poor nude captive. Oh, did I need to mention she was naked all along ? I scarcely perceived this need, see. The girls are naked all the time.

Yes, it's for her head. The plastic bag goes over, limiting her air supply. The boa goes, like all boas ever go, around her neck, making sure the limit's in place. Unremovable, unyielding. Rub as she will with her elbows, twist and turn as she might, the bag's not going anywhere, the air's not going anywhere, the carbon dioxide's not going anywhere, the moisture's not going anywhere... everything's there, and there it stays, matting her bangs, teasing her lungs, echoing her screams and whelps back into her.

It's quite intense, especially from the receiving end. Not all girls like it, sometimes they seek to be excused from attendance -- it's too much like a simple execution, too much like death, plain and unbecoming. While you're leisurely looking for a condom, vaguely inquiring after the lubev the victim's writhing, moaning, feeling faint and turning colors. But who cares about that, right ? Crop her a little here and there, maybe, for encouragement, and when you're good and ready (or when she's well and ready, depending on your feminism) you mount her, from behind. Her asshole's clenched in the throes of asphixious death, but what difference's this to make to anyone ? You defeat her clenching sphincter, mercilessly, manly... so what if it takes a little longer ? You've got all the time in the world. You do. She doesn't.

Isn't accuplation a wonderful thing ? Or should we call it rape, rather, seeing how nobody asked the worthless cunt anything, nor would, nor ever will, and for that matter she didn't even know what next is happening to her, not at any juncture since waking up, or properly speaking at any point on any day for weeks and months before ? This is what you call rape, isn't it ? What now ?

I'll tell you what now : as my cock's sliding in and out of her, and as she moans, pain, fear, desperation comingling in her bursting heart, I... blow. I grab her boa, wrapped as it is around her throat, strangling her in the process, but also thereby making a little hole, behind her neck. You know, where all those cute hairs are ? Did you ever kiss your girl's neck right there, about the fuxx fuzz ? Was it delicious ? More delicious for you, would you say, or for her ? Or how would you know ?

Oh, but I know. I know because... well... you see, when I do that I blow. Not exactly fresh air, it is true, what you blow comes straight from your lungs, and so in one perspective's the exact opposite of freshness. But then again, perspectives are a matter of perspective -- the air from your lungs' been in your lungs but once ; the air from her bag's been in her lungs dozens and dozens of times. Comparatively fresh air, even if it merely extends agony, averting death just enough to keep it within sight... yeah, I think I know. See ?

We fuck for a long time thusly, her girlfriend mercifully tearing (with permission) an airhole in the bag -- no, the point isn't outright murdering the victim, we're not honest animals here, we're perverse humans, we revel in an experiential retelling of the world. After a while she gets a little gentle clit rub -- I keep hot pepper alifie on hand for just such an occasion (it's not an overpowering burn, rather warm and pleasant, from what I hear) and then I'm done, so I leave, to wash my cock complicatedly in the bidet, leaving behind a panting fucktoy, her loosened digestive pore pulsing to cope.

It's called "aftercare" in the license lingo, you know ? That which you do after you're done with the slut, that's aftercare. I did not neglect her entirely, I almost never do. In my generosity I spat on her back from the balcony above the stairs, on my way to the bathroom. It's... well, it's something, wouldn't you say ? Something, always more than nothing, and, importantly -- always exactly sufficient in some perspective. Because love is a matter of perspective, we agree on that much, don't we ?

Then she was released, and permitted to shower, and then we ate (after I made out with the nude cook some, I think -- to tell you honestly memories do get fuzzy in the ejaculatory afterglow). And then we napped.

Except I kinda woke up a little later, and went into the bed of another girl. She gave herself to me, in my arms, so completely... I'm not sure how to explain it, there's this thing women do, when they palpably, pleasantly renounce their body, give it up, entirely and without reminder. I find it intoxicating. I wanted to be in her, just lie there thus, so I had her go fetch a condom. Then she kissed and carressed my growing erection, and then I went in, and we sat there a minute, her fucking herself on my cock imperceptly arriving out of nowhere, and imperceptibly growing into quite perceptible pleasure... I told her things about herself, and had her cum and told her more, and more... it was quite delightful.

Then we did more math -- and it went a lot further, a lot easier, which makes me suspect some unspeakable things about holes, but let's pass over.

Then we had serious talks, or no, wait. I think possibly we had the serious talks first and then the maths... or maybe not. In any case, eventually we had enough and also finished the chocolate cake at some point -- I'm pretty sure it was during the maths, but I could be wrong.

And then we went to watch a movie. It was The Apartment, and the only whore to last to the endvi didn't think so much of it -- in part because she had heard the exact same lines seventy years later from the same exact sorts of morons, and it grated her more than the steel wool ; in part because... well ? Why are these people such idiots ?

What can you say...

I took my baby on a Saturday bang

———
  1. I mean... I took some, but to you they'd be straight-up pornography (perhaps not even the best sort) and to me they're cherished memories, so... I'll keep them.

    This is, by the way and believe it or not, my publish-or-archive decision process : if I believe public value exceeds private value I generally publish (with the caveat that the calculations are complicated, such as for instance "the public value for the model as a member of the public" can be a consideration) ; otherwise I do not (though sometimes the calculation is later reviewed).

    I suppose there could also be perceived (I mean "perceived", as in particularly... imaginative, shall we say, perceivers) the shadow of self-aggrandization involved in the process. Yet... consider the extenuating circumstances, if you will. A decade ago, when some "popular blogger" (in his hugbox and there only, femstate-style) made false but general statements, as is the lot of such idiots, I pissed all over him (and in the process also upon the whole countryfull of them). Amply, abundantly and from high altitude I urinated, while that entire country pretended to not have noticed, as if that fucking fixes anything (no, pretense fixes nothing, hence their being exactly in the same place a decade later).

    And the pretense continues today as a decade ago, carried in the same vein by the same sort of people with their "inexplicably" wet hair. Here :

    jayme-langford-jada-jordan-charlie-sheen-celeste-star

    Do you notice something about this inane retard's hirelings ? Well, do you ? But... are you sure ?

    Actually... let me ask you this : are you HIV positive ?

    Whatever, let's move on :

    denni-parkinson-nude-richard-branson

    Leaving aside how the girl's Denise Parkinson, the photographer's girlfriend : do you notice anything, to distinguish these lamers from me ?

    Anything at all ? Today's header, perhaps ?

    Motherfucking idiots already! Bare cunt or go the fuck home!

    We're not even remotely alike. We're not even remotely alike not merely because I own my whores outright. Outright, you understand me ? Outright, without license or permission, without licenses or conditions, without right or rights, without "safe words", without anyone or anything else -- I own my whores outright ; while socialism's cardboard "plausibly-deniable" alt-MPs just borrow from their collective daughters. That much would certainly suffice, but the discusion needn't even reach that far. We're not even superficially, howsoever vaguely alike. Bare cunt, or go the fuck home. Buncha sad fakers...

    What, nobody could ever notice ?

    Go home.

    Niciodata nu o sa puteti sa fiti ca noi
    La noi incepe tot cand se termina la voi.
    []

  2. The girls love zacusca, btw, so much so we have a court appointed manufacturer that ships in the material by the pallet. Tuna + zacusca in a bowl being the gym hoes' fave breakfast these days ; consequently I have in excess of fifty jars sitting in a cabinet downstairs. Just like a normal family! []
  3. "I'm going to poison you while you sleep! But not in the usual way, you're too good for that! I'm going to put it on a knife and fucking stab you with it!" []
  4. Easy enogh to do, have each arm go in through a different side of a pole and handcuff the wrists on the other end. []
  5. Petroleum jelly's the only lube there is -- accept no substitutes. []
  6. Girls sometimes ask to be excused, in this case to sleep, you're familiar with the concept from before, yes ? []
Category: Lifespiel
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