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Posts Tagged ‘BDSM’

Moved to the Verse tab (https://gearjammers.wordpress.com/verse/) under the same title (https://gearjammers.wordpress.com/verse/the-depth-of-your-darkness/)

Thanks for stopping by,

G

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Rant 1 – 05 May 12

I just saw something on the net; where I saw it is of no consequence. It was a saying, one of those series of a few words that are supposed to contain paragraphs of truth. It was a rather simple one:

Feminism is the radical notion that women are people.

No, it’s not.

Common decency is the notion that women are people.

If the “feminism” that is being defined here is the activist, visible, operational version of “feminism” then THAT feminism is the radical notion that women deserve a huge amount of revenge because a hell of a lot of men showed no common decency for a damned long time.

It’s really that simple, but it doesn’t cause the waves that the original statement does. It’s kind of calming, not inflaming, and therefore, it has little value to the activist who needs attention to feel useful.

Those of you who know me know that I am not an unreasonable person. Ergo, if I am going to rant against the mistreatment of women, when it is bona fide mistreatment (and I am), and then I fail to rant against the mistreatment of the recovery from the original mistreatment of women, I would be a hypocrite. I’m human, but I try hard to avoid being a hypocrite.

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Will You Help?

A good friend of mine has been taking writing classes in college.  She tells me that her paragraphs usually need to have 10 to 12 sentences to be considered paragraphs.  I find that odd.

I find that odd first because you’ll pretty much never see a newspaper story written like that.  I grant that newspaper stories are perhaps not the bastion of correctness on that point.  However, I’m pretty sure that they are the most written kind of story, and that should count for something.

I find that odd, also, because my English teachers pounded into me a principle that I now recognize as good sense: Change thoughts, change paragraphs.  Even taking the next step in the thought process dictated a change in paragraph.  Additionally, if an average reader might lose track of what you’re saying in a longer paragraph, break it down so their eyes can help their brain sort it out.

Therefore, I ask you, my loyal readers, all 3 or 4 of you, which of the below do you find easier to read and follow?

I will appreciate all comments on the subject.

Thank you,

G

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No more gardens.  Well, no more that produced anything.  He had one, but it hadn’t produced anything at all for years and years.  He kept it cared for out of a sense of obligation.  There was a place deep inside him that knew: no more gardens, not real gardens anyway.  He had one for a couple of years, a couple of years back.  When he found out that someone else had been taking all the produce out of it for a few months, he gave it up.  Then there was one he tried to keep at long distance by telling someone how to care for it.  He got a little produce from it, but it wasn’t long before life got too complicated, and he passed that garden on to someone who could tend it.  Then, he thought he might get another garden, a fine looking garden, one that he knew produced extremely well.  He was sad when the owner that was perhaps not going to keep it anymore turned his behavior around and kept it.  Looking back, he realized that one may have been biting off more than he could chew.

Then there was the last one.  He knew it was not a garden he could keep for a long time.  It was a young garden and it held all the promise of good earth and discovering what grew best in it.  He was an old man, or at least, he was old as compared to the garden.  Still, he felt that he’d kept this garden the best, leaving aside the early years of the first one, the one he’d had for so long.  That first one sort of didn’t count, because while he put far more effort in back then, he knew so much more now.  This last one, however, was gone now, too.  Gone to a young fellow who, he had to admit, had the energy and stamina and… well, “natural force” was a term the old people had used when he was a boy.  It fit the young fellow.  The young fellow’s natural force was strong, and frankly, the old man knew he didn’t have much of one anymore.  He’d tried to get his back when he took on that last garden, but it only worked slightly.

“That last garden…” The word “last” rang in his ears all the way to the front porch.  It pounded in his head as he sat in the old rocker that was one of the few things he was able to save from the house he grew up in.  He watched as the world went by in front of him, and all he could hear was “last” until he slept.

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No more gardens. Well, no more that produced anything. He had one, but it hadn’t produced anything at all for years and years. He kept it cared for out of a sense of obligation. There was a place deep inside him that knew: no more gardens, not real gardens anyway.

He had one for a couple of years, a couple of years back. When he found out that someone else had been taking all the produce out of it for a few months, he gave it up.

Then there was one he tried to keep at long distance by telling someone how to care for it. He got a little produce from it, but it wasn’t long before life got too complicated, and he passed that garden on to someone who could tend it.

Then, he thought he might get another garden, a fine looking garden, one that he knew produced extremely well. He was sad when the owner that was perhaps not going to keep it anymore turned his behavior around and kept it. Looking back, he realized that one may have been biting off more than he could chew.

Then there was the last one. He knew it was not a garden he could keep for a long time. It was a young garden and it held all the promise of good earth and discovering what grew best in it. He was an old man, or at least, he was old as compared to the garden. Still, he felt that he’d kept this garden the best, leaving aside the early years of the one he’d had for so long. That one sort of didn’t count, because while he put far more effort in back then, he knew so much more now.

The last one, however, was gone now, too. Gone to a young fellow who, he had to admit, had the energy and stamina and… well, “natural force” was a term the old people had used when he was a boy. It fit the young fellow. The young fellow’s natural force was strong, and frankly, the old man knew he didn’t have much of one anymore. He’d tried to get his back when he took on that last garden, but it only worked slightly.

“That last garden…” The word “last” rang in his ears all the way to the front porch. It pounded in his head as he sat in the old rocker that was one of the few things he was able to save from the house he grew up in. He watched as the world went by in front of him, and all he could hear was “last” until he slept.
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Take 2

Well, I received a few compliments (thank you) and a bit of good advice, and none of that pointed to a short term change to Chapter 1.   So, Chapter 2 “It’s Not Kansas Anymore” is posted for your review and comment.  See “OK, Let’s Try This” below for initial information.

https://gearjammers.wordpress.com/kansas-for-comment/

G

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OK, Let’s Try This.

So, it’s been since September that I’ve posted a blog, and that one was merely me saying I had to post something.

What I’m really wanting to do is to finish a story, then post it chapter by chapter. “Finish” is the key word there. I have started several, but finished none. So, taking a page from @greymia (see Twitter), I intend to do just what she did. I’ll post the chapters, but ask you folks (there’s at least two of you, maybe no more than four, however) to give me ideas as to where the story goes from there.

In the meantime, this is from another blog, and I think the fellow has hit the nail on the head: http://www.theviewfromthestreet.blogspot.com/

As soon as I can figure out pages and sections and all that stuff (@DomSigns, help!!), I’ll put each of these “books” in their own place. Until then…  (edit: I’ve got it!  see below)

The working title is “It’s Not Kansas Anymore” and Chapter One is pretty much dedicated to setting up who is who, and married to who, and fucking who, etc, etc, etc.

Please feel free to suggest, critique, or otherwise comment. I do not guarantee anyone that I will incorporate any suggestion or comment, but I guarantee everyone that I will read them and give them each due consideration.

With that said…

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There is  now a page labeled “Kansas” and currently “(for comment)” so go there for the story.

https://gearjammers.wordpress.com/kansas-for-comment/

G

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I am so bad about not writing. Just too much going on, I suppose, but still, it’s possible. My little girl reminded me of that today and yesterday by just posting a little blurb. Something. A little bit to say “hey, I’m still alive and kicking here, just not often enough.”

So, here I am, as anxious as she is for her to get here. There’s lots going on in my reality these days, and I need this time with her.

So, hopefully, more stories to come. I really need to do that, and thought I was going to get there recently, but life took another left turn.

In the meantime, two very worthy places to look are http://mollysdailykiss.com/ and http://aslutsbdsmdiaries.wordpress.com/

So, until I have something better to say, these will have to do, but I hope they will do somewhat more often.

G

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First, read My baby girl’s blog.

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I watch her twitch and twist ever so slightly.  She doesn’t want me to see her testing her bonds, but she also can’t stand to simply hang there.  She must fight it, even if ever so little at the moment.  Her arms are over her head, her wrists secured with a figure 8 wrap, then the center of the wrap lashed (thank you Boy Scouts) and the center is what is secured to the overhead hook by a separate piece of ½” nylon rope.  Her face tends to point upward a little, normal for someone who is blindfolded by a wrapped cloth.  There is a feeling that one can see out of the tiny slits under the wrap, but it is not so.  She tries, anyway.  She has to.

She is aroused, a lot, I can tell.  Little signs, feelings, all without touching her, I know that if I slide a finger or two in her, there will be no resistance of dryness.  I won’t touch her now, however, for a little while.  I walk around her, not attempting to be silent, letting the heels of my boots thump the floor with each step.  Then, I silently step sideways two steps and stand.  Dead quiet, like I was in the woods when I was 15 that time and the fawn literally touched me with its nose to see what I was.  I wonder if my father would approve of how I’ve co-opted his outdoor training, but not for long.  The game is afoot.

I bend over slowly, deliberately, hoping that my right knee doesn’t crack.  She’s rolling her head around trying to locate a sound, and my knee cracking is not the one I want her to locate.  Thankfully, it doesn’t and I unzip the warbag.  Now that’s a sound I want her to hear.  She turns her head toward the sound, still rocked back, trying to see out of the bottom of the blindfold.  I lay the canes down, not being particularly careful; I want her to hear them tap against each other.  Then, I get the candles out of their sealed bags, and slip around the room, lighting each one and putting it in the next place I come to.  Vanilla, tonight, I decided a while ago.  Vanilla smells clean to me, and this is a cleansing night.  Besides the aroma, there may be a practical use for all that hot wax, of all different temperatures because of the various colors of the candles.

Returning to the warbag, I rustle around in it long enough and loud enough to torture her a little bit while she wonders what I’m looking for.  Finding the egg, I try to remove it from its box as quietly as I can, but the styrene that holds its pieces in form fitted cavities makes a crinkling noise.  “She’ll know exactly what that was” I think to myself, chuckling silently.  “Ah well, now that she knows…” and I finish assembling it without regard to stealth.  When I test it, the look on her face, what of it I can see, is a cross between hope and caged cat.  Turning it on, I run it lightly it across her body, slowly…  in unpredictable patterns… down across her mound but not to her slit…  and last, after all that teasing, across her nipples, which somehow get harder than “hard as hell,” which they already were.  Turning it off first, I rub it then down across her slit and unceremoniously push it as deep into her as I can.  I chuckle when I realize how right I was, she is soaking wet.  Standing there silently, I can see her thrusting her hips again, like she was when I was trailing the egg around her body.  I walk over to the warbag, chuckling again about it all, put the egg’s box away, and check the carabiners on her ankle bindings on the spreader bar.  Stepping back to check height, yes, if she’s still, she can support her weight on her toes, but any twisting or other tom foolery will shift her weight to being supported by her wrist bindings.  “That won’t last long” I think to myself, knowing she will try to escape, it’s just who she is.  She’s submissive, but she’s not a timid little mouse.  This girl has moxie.  I kiss her on the forehead before I leave the room.

She’ll need a little while, but not too long.  I fix a small cup of Earl Grey, not my 20 ounce usual, and drink it rather quickly.  The Earl amplifies my mood.  If I’m mellow, it makes me mellower yet.  If I’m “on my game” it sharpens me.  Tonight, I’m on my game, but I really wish I didn’t have to be.  Time to go back into the room, she’s had long enough, and I’m ready.  I turn the egg on halfway down the hall and hear her moan.  Just before I reach for the doorknob, I turn it off, and when I enter, she’s the epitome of immobility, posing as if she’d never moved.  She doesn’t realize, of course, that I know just where her toes were on the hardwood floor when I left, and they are not in the same place now.  The grain and knotholes serve as markers for me.  “My beautiful slut, still restrained I see” I say, as a way of letting her know that I know that she tried to get loose, and so her mind won’t latch on to that, I say, “Hmmm, some things are still missing, I think.”

Rummaging through the warbag, no reason for stealth now, I locate the snack bag clamps I use for nipple clips.  The rubber inserts on the gripping surfaces means they will not slip, even when rocked back and forth, and being metal, their weight comes into play as well each time her body will jerk, and I expect that to happen somewhat this evening.  Additionally, the rubber is small, so she will still feel the metal’s coldness on her areolae, another sensation I don’t want her to miss.  This is a night of cleansing, but there is a coldness about it, too.  I am good at this, but I do not necessary like having to do it.  I watch her adapt to the clamps.  Damn, she’s centering on the clamps alone.  That will not do.  The egg will distract her from that, and I turn it on.  She jerks upright where she had been slumping forward a little, and the clamps bob around suspended by her nipples, making her attention dart back and forth from nipples to cunt to nipples to cunt; not letting her concentrate on either one too long.  Now, before she gets the idea this is about her cumming for me, I need to act.

I think she didn’t even hear me take the plug out of its box.  Even if it had a styrene case I don’t know that she would have heard me, actually.  Lubricating the plug, I use my other hand to open her thighs better (making a mental note to use the spreader on her knees next time so she can’t bend them and try to close her crotch.  Once I’ve forced her open, well, not much force was necessary, I insert the plug, firmly but so that I do not damage her.  The sudden sound of air being sucked in tells me she thinks the metal plug is very cold.  Maybe next time, I’ll store it in the refrigerator for a while first.  For now, however, I release the pressure on her cunt lips and ass and let her settle back down into her bonds, on her bare toes.  All the while, she’s been writhing to try to get me near her clit.  I know what she wants, but this is not the time.

Choosing a ¼ inch thick cane from the stack for its ability to concentrate the sting, I bend it twice to be sure it’s sound and when I know it is, I ask, “Who makes the rules, slut?”

“You do, Sir.”

Damn, the sound in her voice tells me she’s not far from cumming.  “Hmmmmm.  I think you need more concentration.”  I turn off the egg.  It’s time to make this point.  “Who makes the rules, slut?”

“Yooou do, Sir.”  Attitude!  She’s always got attitude.  I like that about her, but now…  Well…  An involuntary growl slips out.

“So why then, slut, have you tried to make rules for Me?”  She stutters a bit.  Now she knows why we are here.  I can see her searching mentally for the answer that may turn aside what she sees coming.  Too late for that…

THWACK!!  She screams both from surprise and from the first sharp pain.

“Count”

“One, Sir” she says, but I can still hear the defiance.

! THWACK ! (a bit harder) and as soon as “Two, Sir” clears her lips…

!! THWACK !! (harder yet)

“Three, Sir!”

“Now let’s try this again.  Who makes the rules, slut?”

“You do, Sir”  Ahhh, I can hear the defiance leaving her.

“Good girl.”  Now my daddy told me a long time ago that while a nail will hold wood together without being fully driven in, a good carpenter always finishes the job and sets the nail.  Time to finish this job.

!!! THWACK !!! “Four, Sir”

!!! THWACK !!! “Five, Sir”

!!! THWACK !!! “Six, Sir”

Finally, I hear “Thirty, Sir” in a ragged voice through her tears.  I have a cold bastard I keep in my right hip pocket, and I can bring him out any time I need him, but he won’t come out tonight.

Throwing the cane over near the warbag, I decide to put all this away tomorrow morning.  There is something more important that needs doing right now.  I take the clamps off her and then the egg comes out and gets wiped down with a sterile baby wipe.  Last is the plug, which must be very well cleaned and I make short but good work of it.  Clearing the items off the bed and putting them over at the warbag, to be tended to in the morning likewise, I move in front of her and gently remove the blindfold.  I wipe away her tears with my lips, my first way of stating that I still, and always, love her.  Popping the carabiners, I remove the spreader and ankle wraps as quickly as I can, letting her stand on the balls of her feet finally.  Lastly I pull her wrist wraps loose from the ceiling hook, and remove the rope from her wrists.

Half carrying, half helping, I get her on the bed, face down, and gently rub aloe into the welts on her ass and to the rope burns on her wrists.  Covering her, I quickly strip, turn the bed heater off (with our body heat, no bed heater needed), turn off the lights, and get into bed behind where she has turned to sleep on her right side.  I pull her to me, wrapping her up as much as I can in my arms.

“No more making rules.  You don’t need to make rules, baby.”

“Yes, Sir” is all she can say.  She turns over to face me, snuggling in as close as she can.  Damn, I like her like this.

“I love you, baby girl.”

I don’t believe she heard me.  She’s smiling, but I believe she’s smiling in her sleep.  I lay there a while, watching her sleep, and I think of the Earl Grey I was going to have after all this, to calm me.  Not needed…  not when I can watch her sleep like this.

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