Buttons, pushed.

GRR!! He's done it AGAIN. See for yourself:

Am I late? (I know am I am, but I’m not sure HOW late.)
Yup. (Read: NOT amused.)
Thirty minutes. (It’s verrry late for him and he has to work in the morning.)
Damn, sorry. (I really am.)
What did you do? (He said he would tell me what he had to do for his hour when I returned. He likes his secrets.)
You'll never know now. (Button, push.)
What kept you?
You said you'd say... (He literally said, ‘I don’t make promises, but a man’s word counts for more than promises.’)
Your word is shit.
I would have said…
…but too tired now. (Button, puuuuush.)
Nope.
You said you would. (Clearly, I am agitated.)

Sir grins. (He finds some sort of sadistic pleasure in this. I can’t blame him, but I do.)

Word.
Shit.
Forever. (Read: Mini tantrum.)
Won't trust you ever again. (Read: Better fix this.)
Oh well. (Read: No. You won’t tell me what to do.)
Don't you 'oh well' me. (I know, ballsy right?)
Shouldn't be always late, should you? (Oh, a lesson! Is THAT what this is? Grr.)
I shouldn't, but it wasn't my fault. (Hmm, sounds like an apology to me, but then I DID apologize. See above.)
Oh no. (Sarcasm, and plenty of it.)
Come on then.
Excuse. (Button, little push.)
I told you.
Right.
And you couldn't do than in an hour because? (Read: Not good enough. Excuse NOT accepted.
Also eating and renting movies.
And going to the bank...
My excuses are good. (Read: Please drop it.)
Um hm.

Sir leaves. (Button, push, push, PUSH, PUSH, PUSH!!!)

He leaves, without a word. Does not even tell me he is leaving, that this is his punishment. He just...goes. I have told him time and again how jarring this is for me. Yet, he seems to think that this will do what? Demonstrate power? Keep me on my toes? It is that moment your foot looks for the step that is not there. Fuck. I hate it!!

Dear Abbies: Fuck.

My posts have been so sexual lately. Not that I am surprised, really. But, it would seem reflection is in order. I am twisted now. Wretchedly twisted. That post, that On Exacting Pain post, was true. All of it.

B and I play together, erotically. And it's hot; he's so strong and composed. He knows how to control, to contain; he's really fearless that way. But, that said, with all this play, and with all these stories, and with all the possibilities, I am left wanting for something different, as well. Punishment. B can't understand this. He tries, harder than I could ever expect him to. He can't punish me; he doesn't understand the place you punish from...the sadistic, exacting, enduring place. He couldn't hurt me for the sake of exacting punishment for sins; he is full of forgiveness. He realizes my humanity and would feel awkward calling me on deficiencies, inadequacies or limitations that he, himself, has had. He doesn't understand that his own fallibility is irrelevant.

Maybe it's all naughty_one's spank horny energy, or her spank-o-fest (damn her!!); maybe it's something else. Maybe it's the way that Sir can reduce me, can remove all my opposition by simply insisting upon it. I have wanted punishment lately. I am pushing hard in every direction, taking risks that are dangerous, saying questionable things to questionable people. I want limits and I want them enforced.

Today, I was late to meet Sir; I wouldn't say I was that late, an hour and a half, two maybe. It was late for him, and he waited, but his mood was foul. He has a habit of punishing me in other ways; he looks for buttons and when found, pushes and pushes hard. If he thinks he's found one (which may or may not be the case), he is not hesitant. If I recognize what he's doing, I am quick to manipulate him. This makes him angry. But I am good at manipulation, really good. It frustrates him to have to undo what I have done.

He would be angry that I have written this. He finds me to be presumptuous and assuming; he thinks that I should stop trying to read him. I can't stop that; it's how I hold my own barriers in place. Perhaps this is why it is so irritating to him. I think (and I am presuming again) that he is a pompous ass and does not want to feel 'figured out' (I say this with immense admiration and adoration) by the likes of me. [bubbles and blossom...this gets back to him and you're both D.E.A.D.] He wants to break down my barriers without addressing his own. Perhaps I should be a good little submissive and let him win this, let him have me without me having had him. There are so many contradictory messages in that last sentence.

But what is a good submissive? And furthermore, can I be that? I don't know how not to deflect, to avoid, to build higher and thicker, to dismantle. I am desirous of this empty-headed space where I can give it all to him and let him help me find a way out of myself. But when he punishes me, and I mean punishes in terms of detaching and disconnecting, it is harder for me to stop doing this. I hate the distancing. I want to fix it; I only know how to give, and give endlessly.

I want to learn to take. I want to learn to let him pace and plan, deconstruct and rebuild. I still am working on the trust that it takes to do this. Tonight, Sir told me of a girl he had begun fucking. He made such a big deal the other night about what I intended as a 'passing comment' that I knew this could not have been meant that way. He was looking for jealousy. My knee-jerk reaction was to slap him on the back, "Awesome. Right on. Fucking finally!" He was non-plussed. I was jealous, of course, but I am not about to give him what he wants. No way, no how. Protect, protect! But when he was disappointed, I felt like I had failed. I worried that he would think I didn't care, that I was glad his attention was on someone else. But how to say that now? How indeed. Sarcasm of course.

"Oh, you fucking ruined my life. I adore you and you are out fucking some other broad. Woe is me."

You can imagine this made it worse. Now, it seems that I am making fun of his pushing, that I am being condescending. This clever game we play, checking and countering each other, each afraid to be bested. Was I not agreeing to be bested when I began this? Did I not agree that I would submit to his will? Where is that line? Where does my Dom end and he begin? It would be argued that in this situation, my Dom never ends, but that's not me. I am not capable of not desiring to give back, to help him in return.

I could wax philosophic incessantly on this subject, but my clarity will continue to degenerate and the questions become so much larger and paradoxically, so much smaller. For tonight, I will end. Sigh.

Spent

After the Reminder:

Mmm. And he left me there, feverish and battered.

I couldn’t move, I could barely breathe. My thighs were tremors; my pussy so blissfully split, spilt, spoilt. I felt nothing as he untied me. I was for him, for use, and my thoughts were evaporated, dissolved.

I hated that paddle. Each slap clung to my bruised skin, sunk deep. My tender cheeks were ruined by it. I can tell I will be pink, blushed and raw when he comes back for more. And he will come back. He knows this; I know it.

I am a reflection of him and his needs. I will be accessed when he wishes. I will be beaten for his pleasure alone. He knows what I want; he will masterfully dispense what I need, disregarding my cries, my begging. Push me farther, harder. And I will succumb, submit, because he wills it so.

My ass is hot as I turn onto the cool sheets, looking for comfort. He will choose how I am soothed, when. Whimpering dribbles from my lips and I rub my backside tenderly, praying for it to end and quickly. But I have no choice now. I did this to myself.

I took matters into my own hands when I went looking for him, for this beating. It was insolent, impertinent and I will learn to wait for him in the future. The price is great, but I can’t say it isn’t delicious. My slit is honeying just thinking about his return; I chew my wet lips, waiting for more.

I am so ungrateful, so defiant to hope for more. He will come back and I will cry for an end that doesn’t come. Not before my bottom is fire-trampled and burning; not before he employs my mouth, my cunt for his fiendish delights.

That wicked giggle tickles my throat. I will not disobey; I will wait for him. I listen hard, petting myself. He will be angry, but I can’t help it. Thoughts are incoherent, mind twisting anxiously. My body instructs itself, and it wants only him.

On Exacting Pain

“Where do you want to start?” she asks, pulling his shirt over his head. She leans down and kisses his belly, unbuttoning the waistband of his shorts.

Before the last of his friends had left, she had been making crude gestures at him through the patio window, promising a good time. She slides his shorts down, pulling him close and stroking him through his boxers. He is already hard; she smiles.

He always started good-naturedly, letting her stroke him and press herself against his large frame. She backs away from the door, into the center of the room, bringing him with her, dropping to her knees. He looks down at her and strokes himself, grinning. He knows how much she loves to suck him.

She pulls his boxers down, red with skinny white stripes, chewing her lip happily at the sight of his firm cock. She licks her lips, licks the tip. He groans, slipping his dick into her wet mouth. She swallows him without a sound, digging her fingers into his thighs and clinging tightly to him. It is a million priceless sensations; lapping him, licking him, on her knees in the dark room with his eyes on her every move. She sucks him diligently, opening her throat wide so that he can fuck her face, sliding into her slippery smile.

He wants fast, faster; he yanks her hair into his fists and grinds past her tongue furiously. She squeaks, throat fighting his vicious plunging. Her mouth is soaked, drenched and saliva is dripping from her swollen lips. His fists tighten in her hair and she rises on her knees, moaning with pain.

She can only feel raw, exploited; her pussy is sizzling, sopping.

His thrusts slow and she rips her mouth from his cock, sucking air past the strands of wet on her lips. She is gasping hard, but before she can right herself, he is back in her mouth again, choking her, gagging her. Tears spill from her lids, flooding black paint down her cheeks. Her groans and squeals punctuate the desperate slurping.

He grabs her hair, clenching it forcefully. Her eyes water and he yanks her from his dick again, pulling hard on her locks and leaning down to her face.

“You like that, don’t you?” he smirks, slapping her hard across the face. She whimpers, nodding. She’s not ashamed of her wantonness, not yet. He slaps her again, then grabs his dick and forces it back into her mouth, her jaw still aching from his heavy palm. She sucks him hungrily, but she is no longer careful.

He growls.

Tugging her hair again, he pulls her off, snapping her neck back so that her eyes meet his, “I want to fuck your ass.”

She nods, flinching. She knows how much this will hurt her, but she is delirious with desire to please him. Anything for more—anything.

“I want to fuck your ass,” he repeats, twisting hard on her hair and slapping her face again. She nods, trembling, cowering.

“Y-yess,” she says, peeking up at him. His eyes flash and he shakes her head roughly, slapping her cheek again. She cries out, remembering, “Yess, yes S-sir.”

He lets go of her head, furiously, “That wasn’t a request. Take your jeans off. Now.”

She stands quickly, rubbing her face, aware of how ridiculously wet she is. She strips quickly, yanking her jeans and panties down together, afraid to make him ask again. He shoves her toward the couch and she lays over it, pressing her cheek against the arm and whimpering.

“You like pain?” he asks, slapping her ass angrily. She shrieks, darting up and rubbing her backside.

“Shut up,” he commands, pushing her back down and slapping her harder. She screams, whining pathetically and trying to stay bent.

“I said,” he snarls, pulling her head to his lips and hissing, “Shut...up.”

He pushes her back down and slaps her in the same spot two more, three more times, making her howl and choke back cries. She tries very hard to be good, be still; it’s difficult when she knows that what is coming will be much worse.

He rubs his cock against her ass and she flinches, hugging the couch tightly, soft mewling escaping her wet lips. He shoves it hard into her snug asshole; she gasps, scratching at the couch. She can’t help it, she moans miserably as he stretches into her cruelly, holding her down.

“Shut up,” he reminds her, pushing slowly but determinedly. He groans; her asshole is so tight. It’s been awhile since he has used her this way and she feels good, real good. He closes his eyes, irritated by her faint cries.

“Ohhhh,” she whimpers, feeling him slide all the way in, neatly. She grinds against the couch, taut and aching. After a few moments of letting her acclimate to his thick meat, he pulls out mercifully and smacks her again. She squeals, pain dancing exquisitely across her naked flesh. Her legs are shaking and she is gasping, moaning.

He slides himself into her again; her eyes squeeze shut and she squeals.

He’ll break her soon; the pain is unbearable and she knows that she will feel it for the next few days. He scrapes into her ass slowly, shuddering with her tightness. She has sucked him too long, she is too tight, and he knows this won’t last. He doesn’t care; this isn’t for her anyway.

He pounds her furiously; her pained squeals become ecstatic groans. The feeling is absurd, is unexplainable; she knows that tingling seesaw in her pussy. She’s going to cum, and it feels like a plummeting rollercoaster.

He fucks her fast, crushing himself against her. He makes sure she knows he is about to cum in her ass; he needs no permission, he simply wants to remind her that it is him in her most private of parts, leaving her soiled.

Panting hard, she welcomes it, battered and trembling. She can feel; pain...beautiful, blissful, cleansing pain.

What's to be done?

I am sitting at your office at work right now.

Don’t be too afraid…it’s late and there’s no one around. I had a…talk…with the night janitor downstairs; he likes me now. He likes me like you like me, like a number of men like me. He’s given me a key to your building, a key to your office.

I am sitting at your desk in my jean mini, a loose sweater falling off my shoulders. I am playing with your computer, your company computer—surfing the internet in many dodgy places. I’m downloading pornography. I’m printing out DIY pipe bomb instructions. I’m shredding important letters. I’m emailing dirty messages to your coworkers.

I’m all alone and thinking naughty thoughts. I want you to come find me; to bend me over your desk, in your office, slide my snug skirt up over my hips and spank my bottom until that night janitor downstairs can hear my screams, my repentant begging. I want you to press my naked ass against the cold window and spread my legs, find me drenched-soaked-sillywet with need. What will you do to me then? My head swims, frenziedly. I am desperate.

I am calling the operator, “What is the number for China? For India? For Siberia?”

I want to leave a trail of my misdeeds in my wake; I want you to punish me for days, exquisite torture, pain and humiliation. I want you to make me cower, to cry, to trickle sloppily between my thighs, to growl, to moan. You make me want, and then you decide what I am allowed. I want. Oh, I want.

I know that you could thrash me for the sake of thrashing me; you can do whatever you desire, of course. But you threatened to take that away, and so I have become crafty, devious, chaotic, trying to get what I need from you. What I want. I am a bad girl…and I’m calling you at home right now.

Hopefully, I’ll get your wife, I think, grinning wickedly.

To be continued with S...
And continued with S...

Public Penance

For Jezz:

I'm not a nice girl but I should have tried harder. I am sorry that I pissed you off. I'm sure you are indeed a fine man with excellent engineering abilities. No matter what you said about my career, I shouldn't have poked fun at you supplementing your income with various criminal activites.

You're not hairless. I know. I shouldn't have said you were.

I started this fight, admittedly. Your typing's not crap; it's passable and I was being judgemental. Your self-corrections, though insanely arbitrary, were done in friendship and I should have been grateful.

He should go back to Emma.

I'm not a witch; I haven't cast spells on you. Jesus didn't ask me to tell you that you sold him shit drugs. Jesus doesn't want you to supply the party favors for the rave he's throwing the next week. He's actually not throwing a rave at all. Sorry about all the misrepresentations of truth.

I think that about covers it. Again, very sorry. Need to be spanked for this. Will be, I'm sure. Hope we can be friends and I will indeed sell my car to buy you booze, first chance I get.

Very sincerely,
lola

PS. Shakespearean quotes are a perfectly acceptable indicator of education, despite what I said. I'm sure you're highly gifted.

The Turkish

This is a long ass story, but written at the request of a motorcycle enthusiast (funny, there's much more motorcycle implication than actual bikes). Giggle. It's hella five-and-dime, busty wenches, cheesy romance, but that's the kinda girl I can be...give it a shot and tell me whatcha think.

When he walked in, her eyes swung immediately toward the door. He wasn’t as dirty or as weathered as her regular customers, but he looked just as mean. He took a seat at the bar, set his helmet on the counter, and cocked his fingers at her.

Not even a second look. He wanted a beer and she wanted a way out.

She set two glasses of whiskey in front of Cy and Farrelly, and made her way to his end. Cy’s good eye followed her the entire length of the bar and came to rest on the stranger, narrowing suspiciously. Farrelly was making conversation quietly, but Cy was no longer listening.

She stopped in front of him and waited. He seemed to invite distance, this one, so she kept back, glancing anxiously down the bar at Cy, who was curling his meaty fists into tight, tough hammers. She nodded at the stranger.

“Beer,” he said, barely wasting movement on looking at her. She bristled a little, used to the way bikers treated her like a servant, but no more enamored with it. Her eyebrow jumped up, a sardonic twitch in the corner of her mouth.

“Yeah, fine,” she said, her hopes for him vanishing. She turned and grabbed a glass, tilted it under the tap and filled it, drifting back into her dreamy silence. Cy too, seemed to loosen up, his fists uncoiling and his eye back on his acquaintance. Farrelly chattered on with a definite stutter; he shook when he started each sentence, so it took him a long time to communicate. But the days were long in El Paso, and the nights longer. Cy had all the time in the world. What they were planning needed privacy; The Turkish was an ideal location for miscreants, deviants, criminals, and wanted men. A shadowy bar in a forgotten place where the windows were dustier than the highway outside.

She set the drink down a little harder than she intended and the foam spilled over the side and onto the bar. She swore softly. From under his breath emerged a faint, but distinctly intentional, tut, tut. She boiled, head snapping up and glaring fire at him.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, you lowlife fuck?” she hissed, throwing a towel down on the spill and mopping it furiously. His hand snuck out and caught her wrist, squeezing it tightly. He jerked her forward and leaned onto the bar. She could feel his breath on her face.

“A paying customer…and you had better watch that mouth,” he said, voice low and clipped. He peered down the bar at Cy, who had noticed the commotion and gotten to his feet. She almost smiled; an English fella in The Turkish? She had seen some odd things in the four years she had been employed here, but this was a first. She shook his hand off, glaring at him.

“Touch me again and Cy’ll snap your legs like breadsticks, you limey fuck,” she smirked, nodding at the twitching behemoth, who had yet to decide whether he would sit back down.

“What, him?” the stranger laughed, taking a big gulp of beer. He liked her sauciness; he liked her look. She was small but solid, doggedly carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, her head still held high. She had long, thick hair and grayish eyes that had clung to him from the second he opened the door. She was too sharp to be in a dump like this. He wondered what she was doing here, but didn’t ask.

“Cy has been known to do many a bad thing, stranger. You feel free to try that again and find out how many ways he can break you before you drag your worthless ass out of here,” she whispered, grinning at the thoughts of him begging for mercy. His face darkened, but the smile did not fade.

“You don’t worry about me,” he said, finishing his beer and setting it down in front of her. Cy turned back to Farrelly, but did not sit. She got the stranger another and leaned against the bar near him, aware that Cy was dangerously close.

“What’s your name, Britain?” she asked, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. He shrugged, preferring to drink in silence, though watching her intently. She inhaled slowly, then ran her fingers through her dark hair. Tilting her head, she studied him, quietly approving his frame and build, his dark hair and intense eyes.

“Lola,” Cy shouted, shaking his empty glass at her; she groaned and dropped her smoke into the ashtray.

Cy banged the glass on the bar and snorted impatiently. She took long, determined steps toward him, swearing profanely under her breath. She got a bottle of whiskey and set it down hard in front of Cy; without blinking, she took his glass from him, turned it over slowly, and dropped it in the trash can.

“There, fat man,” she said, irritably. Cy’s eye narrowed piercingly and he leaned forward and grabbed her by the throat. She gasped, clutching his fleshy wrist and pulling hard. His sweaty fingers tightened—then, just as suddenly, he let her go, flicking her backwards.

“Just do your job, woman,” he said, brusquely, opening the bottle and pouring the liquid down his throat. She whimpered and rubbed her neck; then, noticing the stranger’s eyes probing their little scene curiously, straightened up quickly.

She walked back over to him, and picked up her cigarettes, turning. He grabbed her arm again, before she could leave, “Not so tough now, are you?”

His eyes were more compassionate than his grip; for an instant, she wanted to cry. But instead, her lip curled and she growled at him, “Don’t ever fucking touch me.”

From her hip, she pulled out a knife and slid it easily, superficially, across the top of his hand. He let go immediately, with a look of surprise. She flicked the blade back down and pocketed it again, eyes never leaving his handsome scowl. He clutched his bleeding hand; Cy erupted with loud, jagged laughter, mean and hateful.

She turned away, grabbing the dirty bar towel and throwing it at the stranger. Though the wound didn’t hurt too much, it bled wildly. She seemed to have opened him like a fish, blade flat. He wrapped his hand, fuming. Who the hell did she think was? He prickled, torn between his desire to walk out and leave her to this dump and an itch to bend her over and thrash her until she cried. He looked up at her, she was leaning against the bar, lighting a cigarette in front of her wicked smile. He growled.

Without a word, he caught both of her forearms in his strong hands and yanked her across the bar. Lola shrieked, the cigarette falling from between her plump lips to the stained bar floor. She kicked violently, and caught herself on a barstool on the other side; she was bent precariously across the counter, her ribs digging into the front edge. He took her hands into his wounded fist and crushed them between his rough fingers.

“What the fuck are you d—”

“Shut your mouth,” he snarled, spanking her soundly on the middle of her squirming bottom. She screamed indignantly, flailing and trying to scoot over the bar. She could see Cy watching, considering; he rubbed his ample neck and squinted at her with his good eye. She gasped as Britain slapped her harder on the left side, her jeans warming under his wide, solid punishment.

“Cy, what the—oww—fuck are you—owwww—paid for youstupidfucking—ohhhh.... Pigman—fuuuck!” she whined loudly, her backside angry-hot and her face flushed with resentment. She leaned up, glaring at Cy. He took a few steps forward, but the stranger turned toward him, planting his hand firmly on the small of her back.

“Listen, tough guy…why are you taking orders from this one?” he sneered, giving her a heavy slap where her rounded cheeks met her thighs. She squealed, her hips bucking against the counter. Cy paused, not sure what to make of this implication; he was a slow man, but big, easily outweighing Britain by eighty pounds.

The stranger returned to the girl, pulling her across the bar and dragging her bodily to a nearby table. She slipped her hand in her pocket again, but he was wise to it this time. Catching her wrist, he tucked it behind her back and searched her, pocketing the knife himself.

“That’s mine, you fuck!” she cried, shaking back her hair and stomping hard on the ground.

“There you go with that mouth again,” he said, pushing her over the table and pinning her to the sticky surface. She wailed, defiantly, alternately threatening and cursing out Cy, who had stood by watching the scene with great, though removed, interest.

“Now—Lola is it? Now, Lola, I…am…a…customer,” he said, striking her aching backside with each syllable, “Cus-to-mer. I know that fucking useless brats like you don’t understand complicated things like reciprocity, customer service, or supply-and-demand—”

She turned sharply, and spit at him, hating the very sight of him.

The sight of him.

She shivered; his eyes were fire, were ice. He pulled her up and into his arms; she felt real solidity there—firm, strong, safe. She froze; he wrapped his arms around her waist and unbuttoned her jeans. Before she could really understand what was happening, he was shoving them down her thighs and pushing her back over the table.

“You refer to customers with respect. They are paying good money to frequent your establishment. You will call me Sir,” he admonished, yanking her flimsy panties down.

“The hell I will!”

When the first of the vicious slaps connected with her bare skin, she was plunged back into reality. She was a grown woman bent over a table in a dirty bar, being spanked like a child…by a stranger.

She had to get out of her life.

Her ass was scorched, bronzed patina; she was close to tears and it was infuriating. What was that big ox doing? It was his job to throw this sort of scum out of The Turkish.

“Cyyyy!” she howled, writhing in shame. The scarlet curtain of pain was falling over her backside, leaving her thighs with a dull throb. She was aware of another throb as well; it was too much, too much, “CY!!”

The mammoth seemed to have finally realized his obligations and begrudgingly began to drag his heft across the bar, grunting petulantly for a giant man. Britain gave her one more thick slap; she groaned, pushing up against the gummy surface. He turned to face Cy, Farrelly a couple of steps behind.

Cy was a wide man; his arms hung out at the sides, fleshy muscles making it hard to close them in around his belly. He wore a dirty flannel shirt and faded black jeans. His scowl was intimidating, to say the least, the glare in his eyes present despite the patch he wore over the bad one. Britain had considered each of the characters in the bar as he stepped through the door, his senses always heightened at this type of establishment. The one called Cy was only a mild concern, but he would not be stupid enough to let the big lug get close.

Britain glanced around the room, surveying the space and opportunities. He pushed the girl back, out of the way; he smiled inwardly as she yanked up her jeans, grimacing. He knew she would feel that for a few days.

“Now, now, buddy,” the stranger said to Cy, as the bigger man closed the gap between them, “You don’t want to do anything you’ll regret.”

From his pocket, he pulled Lola’s knife. Cy’s good eye went immediately to the blade; he laughed, his loud, deep chuckle rolling through his torso. He held up his arm, displaying the shredded, scarred skin. Britain knew that the girl had done that to him, most likely to keep his filthy hands off of her, and somewhere in his chest, he felt sorry for her. It would seem that this knife would not be useful in terms of damage; it’s a good thing that is not what I had intended for it, he thought, backing up against the pool table.

Cy followed, eye gleaming at the idea of smashing the foreigner’s face in. Lola was still enraged, but beginning to soften, not wanting to see this man beaten like she knew Cy would. She watched him, hugging herself, but not feeling as safe as she had felt in his arms. Britain’s face was stone; he flashed the knife low and Cy’s eye dropped to it. Before his head could roll back up to the danger, Cy felt a violent crack as the pool stick struck him in the side of his head.

Vibrant black filled his head and he reeled backwards; Britain stepped forward, swinging the stick furiously against his knee caps. Cy grunted, dropping blindly to the floor. He reached into the ankle of his boot and Lola screamed, picking up the blue two-ball and chucking it at his fumbling hands. He growled, fingers crushed, and the gun in his hand clamored onto the ground.

Britain stepped forward and kicked it away from him. Farrelly had disappeared into the shadows, but Lola knew she was done at The Turkish. Cy tried to stand, swinging wildly for the stranger. Without a second thought, Britain shattered the pool stick across the back of his neck.

Cy fell forward, unconscious.

A moment passed; only the hint of a moment, for breath. Britain walked coolly back to the bar and picked up his helmet, turning for the door. Instinctively, Lola grabbed her jacket and followed him, spitting on Cy’s slack face on her way out. Britain heard her footsteps and stopped without turning.

“Where do you think you’re going, missy?” he asked, head tilting arrogantly to the side. She was prepared for this, but she certainly could no longer stay here. Cy would kill her when he woke up; Farrelly would tell him how it had been her to break his fingers with the billiard ball.

“With you,” she shrugged, stepping past him and out the door. He caught her and turned her to face him.

“Oh, no, you’re not,” he said, smirking at her. In the light, she could see a humor in his face that hadn’t been present in the bar. She sighed, putting on her jean jacket.

“Look, Britain, you did this. I couldn’t let him shoot you dead; you owe me,” she licked her lips, squinting up at him, “Just get me out of here and you’re welcome to drop me in the next decent place we come to.”

He glanced back at the slumped man on the floor. He hated feeling responsible for her, but all those ribbons on the bouncer's skin…the slash on his own. He shook his head. Her eyes darkened, hysterically.

“He will kill me,” she said simply.

Britain sighed. Just until the next town, he thought. Her eyes were pleading but she said no more.

He nodded and shoved her out the door toward his motorcycle. It was a custom job; a soft tail chopper, black with gold leafing. She liked him more already.

She pulled her hair into a pony tail and pressed closely to him on the seat, her bottom still warm and aching. He kicked the bike on and she wrapped her arms around his waist. She felt good, he thought, promising himself he’d dump her in the next safe town, but already contented with the way her hips were hugging his body.

“What’s your name, Britain?” she called over the engine, pressing her cherry lips against his ear.

He looked back with a grin, “Johnny. But you…will call me Sir.”

A Day at the Beach

I went to the beach today...saw a bunch of my colleagues in their bathing suits. What a trip! Allow me to elaborate:

Um, PE guy: More body hair (gray back hair) than I imagined, but nice abs for a guy in his 50s.

Humanities guy: You should never go from daily three-piece suits to a snugly-skimpy pair of shorts; it's just jarring. Plus, he's got those eyes that never focus on you...you know, sometimes there's the one that does, but him...neither.

Secretary: Ew. Built like a boy with these rock hard abs and no curve whatsoever. And the way she walks is so jerky; chest first (with no chest to speak of). It seems okay, but she's mid-50s too and has skin like cheap beef jerky. Shudder.

English guy: Too small for me, but Abercrombie all the way. All American blondie with blue eyes and rides a motorcycle.

Oo, the History guy: That made me nearly pee my pants!!! He's so unnecessarily ripped. He has this teeny body with hee-uge muscles EVERYWHERE. He rubbed himself down like fifteen different times...it looked like a cheesy Fireman calender. And this is a school function! He's got that swayback thing going on too, where he looks like Pan (the half man-half goat), but laquered in tanning oil.

The rest of us had the forethought to keep our nudity to ourselves, as it's just too much for the children. I get too many breast-level hugs as it is. My boss didn't go. Total workaholic...but then, I already feel like I could draw his junk from memory. Haven't been able to repress those images yet. Where's my hammer?

Oh, Christ, don't get me started on the kids! Lemme just say, lots of breasts...and we only had six girl students with us. Teenagers are so gawkward (okay, it's not a real word, but it seems to fit).

At least this year, my food wasn't frozen and raw in the middle.

For 'S'...my secret fantasy.

Re: Why This, Why Now?

“What do you want?” he asks. He is sitting in the dark room; it is almost empty…the couch, his chair, the television. A stark space with only the moonlight coming through the naked window, a little breeze. She is overwhelmed by his presence. She clicks the door shut and turns to face him.

Her lips part to answer.

“I don’t care what you want,” he says. She can hear the flatness in his voice. His legs open wider; he sits up straighter.

“What do I want, girl?” he asks, his eyes focusing on her in the dark. She puts down her purse, squinting at his silhouette. He is motionless, silent.

“You want to be pleased,” she says, softly. She licks her lips, leans against the door. He nods, liking her answer.

“How will you please me?” he asks, shifting in his seat. He looks her over, impassively.

“Your wish is my command,” she replies, smiling a little.

“Of course it is, slut,” he nods, grinning wickedly. Her smile disappears. He motions for her to come closer. She steps forward into the silver light, eyes adjusting to the darkness.

“Everything off, immediately,” he says.

She pulls her shirt over her head and shakes her long brown hair free; she unbuttons the front of her jeans and slides them slowly down her legs.

“Faster,” he commands. She kicks them off, unclasps her bra and drops it onto the growing pile of clothes.

“Where are your panties?” he asks, his voice cool and jaw tight. She shrugs.

“That is not the answer I wanted,” he growls softly. She swallows and he stands, taking quick steps toward her until their bodies are inches apart.

“Where are they?” he repeats, mouth inches from hers. She looks at him, silently…preferring no answer to the truth.

“Down. Now,” he orders, fingers curling into tight fists. She drops immediately, penitently…knees slamming into the hardwood floor, wincing. He slides his foot between her thighs and kicks them apart. She keeps her eyes on the floor.

“Are you wet, slut?” he asks, softly. She nods, slightly. Blushes. He looks at her, cloaked in moonlight, bowed and obedient for him. He can see her heart pounding between her breasts and her gentle, steady breath lifting her shoulders. He steps around her; the curve of her backside is inviting.

“Show me,” he says, voice rough gravel. Her fingers slide slowly across her thigh and between her legs, weaving them into her slippery folds. She trembles slightly.

“It’s not for you, slut. Show me. Now!” he commands, his neck flushing with anger. She quickly holds up her hand and he can see the moon glistening across her slick fingers. He smiles to himself, then slaps her wrist away.

She flinches, cradling her smarting hand. He tucks his fingers into her hair and yanks her head back; she winces, squinting through the pain and staring at his upside-down face. Her lip trembles and she chews it calm.

He leans down, “It would seem that you are pleased…but this isn’t for you.”

He pushes her forward and she catches herself, palms slapping the floor as her hair spills around her face. He likes her on her hands and knees. He steps farther around her, circling her and stopping again in front of her bent head. She can hear the zipper, see his pants pool around his ankles; her belly flutters, deep down and her pussy is hot. She knows better than to look up.

“How will you please me?” he says, evenly. She can hear him stroking himself and she shifts on her knees, whimpering.

“I will suck you,” she whispers, nails scratching into the floor anxiously. He almost laughs.

“Yes, you will. More,” he demands.

“I will swallow you into my throat, slide your thick, hard cock over my warm, wet tongue. I will choke on you, I will stop breathing for you. I will cough and gasp, but beg for more. I will slurp your dick hungrily until you cum; and I will eagerly swallow every drop.”

He strokes himself slowly, enjoying the sight of her desire. He can see her trembling, knows she is dripping, melting.

“Do you deserve to swallow me?” he asks, cruelly.

She whines softly, peeking up at him. He glares at her and pushes her head back down, roughly. Groaning, she shakes her head.

“You don’t,” he tells her, ice in his voice, “I will cum on those beautiful lips, but you aren’t to swallow any of it, girl.”

She moans, but nods.

“Good,” he says, yanking her by the hair to his lap, “Please me.”

Sexy Letters from the Bard

Okay, so JB wrote me this email asking where I was in like, six different styles. Not to be one-upped, I composed the following Shakespearean monstrousity. It amused me. When he read it, he was able to pick out the spanko parts easily, of course. But I snuck in many an insult...grin. If you want to look up any individual word yourself, click this:

My dear Sir,

Oh, good and gentle bawcock, where art thou this day? Hast thou been alarum'd? I have so wantonly wished for thou to amerce and berattle me as thou list, as our meetings have been of beggarly account. I wish to bite thee by the ear if thou not think me a callet or flirt-gill, as we have but changed eyes.

But, alas...ye are a clodpole and cozen, and my crochets are unobliged hence. Fie! Dismount thy tuck and the dallying shall ensue.... Pray thine is not enchafed, not filled with spleen, lest ye set to vailing my drawers and I feel thy fable fadge.

Come hence, my fustian floweret as it were gross and scope that I have been gulled. I hest it so, hie, ye Jack!! Come be jointress, incarnadine my nether region with your hardiment, Sir. I am loathe to remain masterless. O proper stuff!

Your naughty deeds leave you on the hip and I shall nay but pout'st upon. Prithee, anon and end my puling, for I am rheumy and seek to set cock-a-hoop. Have you grown wary the sweet friends, the suit? My weak supposal grows, ye whoreson varlet. Weraday increases my worser genius. Love me not?

I know this sounds skimble-skamble stuff and by now thy must have sow'd a grizzle on thy case, but rest you merry, Sir.

In LA English, as JB loves to point out my Valley Talk:

My dear Sir,

What's up, bitches? Where you at? You got something else going on? I've been thinking about you spanking my ass, like you like, since we haven't been able to see much of each other lately. I wanna jump ya but you'll think I'm a slut, but I do luv ya.

But, you're being an idiot and a skank, and blowing me off. Damn! Bust out your piece and let's get making with the grabby-grabby.... Hope you're not pissed, as then you might consider ripping off my panties and blistering my poor bottom.

Come on, you big stud horse--you liar, you are totally standing me up!! I insist you show up, you jerk-off! Get off your ass and turn mine red with your wicked smackin, Sir. I hate being abandoned. Sucks!

I'm pissed and you'll pay for it. Come on! Hurry and shut me up, cause I am all wet and want to have fun. Are you tired of me already? I'm starting to think so, you worthless oaf. I'm getting brattier by the minute. Don't you love me anymore?

I know this sounds like jibberish and that you have grown a beard trying to decipher it, but cheers!!

I really need to be more productive with my free time. Damn, this is getting ridiculous. I promise, more, um...serious posts to follow.

An Explanation of Sorts

Why can't B be my D? Okay, long story short, I suppose.

B is my boyfriend...has been for nearly five years and I love him, seemingly unconditionally. Smirk. He's my best friend and soulmate and hunky, in a big caveman, ass-kickin' sort of way. He's got great Dominant instincts (especially in the sack...swoon) and he can manhandle me very easily. So, why not my Dom?

I guess it comes down to wills. First, B's generally intimidated by my ability to out-think, or at least, verbally out-maneuver him. He's also lazy...a quality I both love and hate about him...on the one hand, he'll never do the dishes; but on the other hand, there's no pressure for me to do them either. Grin.

A Dom has to be in control at all times (for me--you know what--for the rest of this entry, assume I am only speaking for me and not all submissives everywhere--it's just less messy that way), meaning intellectually, physically, and emotionally. Can he relax and have fun? Sure! I mean, he's beating my ass...what's not fun about that? But, in the end, I want to know the control is his. So my Dom can't be lazy and he can't back down.

JB asserts this control daily. Domming is hard work and generally, not as self-serving as it appears. No matter what you think, it's not suck this, and lick this. I don't know how he puts up with my bullshit so consistently. Do we have fun together? Oh, yes (this is where he gets payback for my bullshit). Wink. Do we need to be in the same place for him to Dom me? Nope. It's an attitude; he is both nurturing and finite. He works me through shit, specifically, giving weight to my issues as an extension of himself. I deal with my shit because it pleases him, and thus, we both win. Well, I never win...but that's part of our understanding. Sigh. I'm working on that one. Wicked, evil grin.

JB is my soulmate of sorts too. There are people who have the whole Dom/partner package. That isn't my case, but both men seem to be okay with it for now, so I'm not rocking the boat. I am a lucky girl to have them.

Aye Papi!

He's back. He's back! JB's back!!! Sigh. Well, J will be happy as my beatings have begun again...seemingly, for nothing. In fact, this particular smacking was, in some way--though I am still perplexed as to how he weasled this one--for giving him a Barcelona lap dance.

No, it's just a lap dance with extra wiggles and poorly translated Spanish taunting, like this:

Deseo aspirarle: I want to suck you.
Quisiera que usted llenara mi culo de su verga magnífico, guapo: I want you to fill my ass with your gorgeous dick, handsome.
Te quiero venirse en mi cara: I want you to cum on my face.

Now, to be fair, these are very rough translations, as I took a mere four years of Spanish in high school. I can only talk to children, aged five and below, with any sort of fluency...and their parents generally frown on me testing my seductive phraseology on them...so, forgive me. Good intentions and all. Wink.

But, sweet right? No. JB is never fair. Somehow, I ended up getting both a metal hairbrush and a cane to my aching tush. Where's the justice in society? If I could get away with it, I would totally say his negative reinforcement taught me that lap dances were dirty and evil and not to be performed on, near, or within his eyeline. But, he knows me too well. Sigh. Since when has dirty ever stopped me?

It might have been an employable excuse in the future but, alas...he made me come up with something to apologize for after every five strokes with the cane. I was doing fine. Until the last set when I couldn't think of anything and ended up apologizing for the fact that he had overpaid for the lap dance. Cute? No. He was nonplussed. I had to beg him not to beat me in front of my friends. So, now I have to be good. For real. How humiliating would that be? He'd do it, too. Fucking bugger.

Heh, heh...kidding of course, Sir.

Oh, while on the subject of swoon-worthiness...B is a big, meaty guy. In fact, one of the most attractive of his many attractive qualities, is the fact that his own mother thinks he looks scary. So, when I was picking him up today, he had to help a coworker push/start his car. He just told the guy to get in, and shoved it--instantly--to moving. I've never push/started a car and he swears it's no big deal, momentum and shit...but it's fucking neato watching him handle this sedan like a shopping cart. Blush.

Dear Diary: Hit the nip hard today...

Okay, okay, okay...I'm not saying my blog is top shit or anything, but I found this other blog today that moved me up a couple of pegs on the judgement ladder. Are you ready for this?

William of Mass Destruction

That's right. A blog written from the point of view of...not one cat...but several cats. I mean, I knew shit was getting out of hand, but there are multiple entries!!! Oh my GOD! This is just too much. I might have to get out of this business.

This cat is listing it's dinner meats, bathroom time-outs, and grooming habits. I can't believe someone is writing...nay reading this!!! I'll have to go kick my cats now...just to remind 'um who runs shit in my house!!! Fuckin' unbelieveable.

AND...there are links to other cat journal sites...people DO this. Where's a hammer when you need one?

Flush

He didn’t want me; he wanted sex. And what was worse, he was my best friend. But I loved him because he was and so I let him stick his tongue in my mouth. At first, there was a pretense of softness, of possible romance. He swept his lips over mine, lacquering his wet kisses to my yielding face. I wished to God that I wasn’t there, that I was anywhere, that this wasn’t happening.

I was not new to sex. I’ve been poked and jabbed, rocked and pounded, thrashed and ground; I’ve been a pool for thick salty waste. I’ve obliged drunken fucks and charades of tenderness because just like all of us, I wanted love. I knew that his pissed-faced babbling wasn’t sincere. But I also knew that he could be grateful. I provided a warm, wet hole for him to pump frustration into.

I didn’t expect a Valentine.

And so he was unbuttoning my shirt, peeling back the blue cotton. My bra was plain and white. There was no lace, no ribbons, no frills; just paper-doll white. I studied the ceiling as he traced its virginal line over my breasts, stamping his soggy lips on my agitated pulse. I wished he would stop trying, and fuck me quickly.

He sat up and removed his shirt and jeans. He was that poor, lanky beautiful--that unshaven, boy-smell beautiful. He pulled me to sitting as he kissed me again, twisting his gluttontongue into my mouth. I felt the shirt slide down my arms and I shrugged it off my wrists. His fingers scratched my back while he wrestled with the three clinging clasps, violently holding hands, holding out. He won, and my tan, pendulous breasts were exposed. He had been interested in them ever since I had lost a bet and had to let him sign them. With a blue marker, permanent that he had spent his smoke money on, he scrawled the four letters of his name across them. After that, I had quickly covered back up.

Now he studied each one, laying me back on his bare mattress, inexpertly pinching and thumbing my nipples. I wondered which porno taught him to do that. He looked at me, looking at him. Again, he leaned his head in, kissing me on the lips aggressively.

I secretly wished for the love he had for my breasts.

He went back to my chest, scouring his cheek against my ribs. He took my right nipple between his crooked teeth; polished, it was his shiny penny. He was straddling my lap and kneading both tits; evaluating the weight and size like you would a basketball. He was so focused; I was beginning to want him and it was making me uncomfortable.

I noticed for the first time that his chest was wide and long, but overworked. His muscles were hard and lean like fish scales. They swam above me elegantly while he palmed my breasts. He asked me if he could, if we could; I made no promises. Unbuttoning my jeans, he unwrapped me like a Christmas present, yanking them to my knees where they stayed. I blinked slowly and he slid his hand between my thighs, tucking one itchy finger on the trigger. His nails were jagged. I shook my head. He didn’t stop though, just burrowed deeper and rubbed. Pressing his fingers into me, he lay down beside me and stroked faster. He kissed me; I kissed him back. He smiled.

I was close and he was my tour guide. My hips were waking up; my muscles were clenching and bucking. I reached into his shorts and found his dick. He was Formica-hard, ceramic, granite, and I traced a curving vein around it. He took his hand out of my panties and forced them to my knees, knocking my palm away from his body. He didn’t want me to touch him. He grabbed a condom from the windowsill and I open my legs like a phone book. As wide as I could with my jeans choking my knees, he fucked me, slamming me like high tide.

Tell me I’m pretty, I thought. Tell me you love me.

He fucked me and I came before he did. The bed frame steadily humped the wall, as he mashed my breasts, stretching, hurting them; I knew they would bruise, but I let him continue. His caterpillarhands inched up my shoulders and he pressed me into the mattress, grunting and struggling with his orgasm. I looked away and it was over.

He stared down at me and let go of my skin. I was a basin again. He panted for a minute, then reached over the window ledge, captured his soft pack of Newports and shook one free. He lit it without offering me one and inhaled deeply. Some of the ash settled on my stomach, burned and faded, leaving coal gray smears like winter shadows. He asked if I wanted a beer.

Yeah.

Thinking Out Loud

Two more torturous days.

At least I have had activities to keep me preoccupied. But as absence makes the heart something something...I have been fantasizing for long hours. Faculty meetings will do that to you:

"So, how'd the meeting go?"
Shrug. "It went."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I, uh...didn't go."
Sigh. "Oh, no?"
Shakes head.
"lola. You know that if you ignore the problem, they will not feel obligated to take you seriously either..."
"I know."
"You know that they put undue stress on you, and you are letting them."
"I know."
"You know that that's very unkind to Sir, as I have to deal with your mood swings and brattiness when you are stressed out. My schedule is just as demanding as your own."
Shrug.
Glare. "What were you supposed to do today?"
Pause. "Talk to my boss."
"And you disobeyed and left early, avoiding the issue; yes?"
Swallow. "Yes."
"Then bring me the paddle." Stands.
Whimper. Pause. Reluctant searching and return. "Sir, I'll reschedule for tomorrow."
"Turn around and place your hands on the floor."
"B-but, but..."
SMACK!! "Not another word. You will reschedule, but first..." SMACK!!
Whine, groan. "Owwch."
"Bend. I'm going to paddle your pretty bottom until you cry. There will be no forgetting or disobedience tomorrow."
Pout. Fidget.
"Bend. Now."
Pout. Sigh. "Yes, Sir."

Such productive workdays I am having. Hee hee. Damn, I am straight insatiable. Poor JB, what a full-time job I am. Two more days. Two more days. Two more days.

G.I. What?

Seriously, who wants a Body Massage?

Big Dogs

I have been JB-less for three days now and I am feeling a little antsy. I got an email, but that was not nearly enough to tide me over. I miss his weak attempts at disguising his critical analysis of my mental stability...and the way he refers to himself as the Big Dog. Everytime he says it I think of those horrible shirts.

You know the ones.

When I was in high school, my mom was dating this wretched mastadon who I will call Morris. Morris was a large, large man with, at best, a lacking personality. Once, at a restaurant, B spilled an entire glass of iced tea on his lap...twice...and he didn't even get off his phone. What a pecker. He was always rubbing my mom's back with his big ol' hamhocks and leering at her like a lunatic. And he had those frilly, ruffley valences over every single window in his house...a house he purchased and decorated on his own. I mean, what man has those? I don't even know women who have them!! Highly suspicious. But, I bring him up because one year, my little brother and I had to get him a Christmas present. I bought something at a department store and threw it on my brother's floor for him to wrap. He picked it up, felt it--paling, and said, "Oh, God. It isn't a Big Dog shirt, is it?"

God, I wished it was...it could have been; they make up to XXXXXL. That's right. Five Xs. Now, here's why that's disgusting:

Yeah. Yeah. Fucking gross. Can you imagine that slogan tarped over the gut of some furry behemouth?

...I don't know why my brother was horrified, it's not like I had ever purchased a Big Dog shirt in the past and given him reason to believe that I would be likely to do so again. But, my brother can be a little, um...effeminate at times. He's totally straight (or so he says...he does have an awful lot of jewelry and shoes) but this is what happens when you're raised by women, I suppose. I couldn't tell if it upset him more that I would buy the shirt or that I would give it to Morris.

In any case, he put his name on the card, so fuck him.

School House Sucks

Gahhhd, work blows.

I know most of you have jobs like, working the 9-5er in some shitty cubicle fifty weeks out of the year, and I truly feel like an asshole complaining...but fuck you all. I work hard (most of the time) for my salary (which is basically dick) with the children (of RICH people). So, summer vacation is over and now it's back to that fucking Bastille. Sigh.

I know what you're thinking: You work with children?

Oh, yes. And quite possibly...your children. And if you think I won't fuck 'um up because of some sense of moralistic integrity--you are very, very wrong. There is no low I won't stoop to in order to teach your children that this world is an untrustworthy, spiteful place that can-and-will fuck them over when they're most vunerable. But, when their trustfunds run out and they have to get 'real jobs' at Daddy's corporate office, they'll know...at least Ms. Lane never lied to me.

Yes kiddies! Strive hard for mediocrity. You may indeed surprise yourselves, but you'll rarely be disappointed.

And another thing...if you are a dude in a position of power: think--I mean really think--about the snugness of your trousers around the area. I spent the entire afternoon staring at my boss's swaddled junkage. I think I'm going to be sick.

Text Tag

I'm playing Dirty Text Messages with a buddy of mine (which is an uncreative, yes, but self-explanatory title). We started a while back. This is today's episode. Think I'm winning. Here's where we're at right now (Him/me):

So, where are you?

I'm in LA...keep working that dick solo, hot stuff. You know what you want me to do with it?

Got me touching myself. I can't even drive straight...quick where's my lotion?

Lotion? PUSSY. I've got your lotion right here and it tastes like SLUT! (It's in the bag now.)

LOL. You're funny and sexy. You're my favorite...slut is my favorite flavor. Yum! I got something for that ass.

Oh, ass too? Well, I am a dirty girl...what can't I be talked into? Bring it, big boy.

Why the fuck are you in LA so long? I know there's hot guys there but damn, save some cum for me! And my dildo too! Cuz some of these girls like a dildo in their ass while I fuck um. 2 for 1 special. (Admittedly, he was reaching here. I knew I had won.)

I'm wet and slippery enough for three men twice your size, junior. I have videos to prove it...mmm!

My friend and I will have you running out of film with this 9 inch dick. It's primetime, champ! Wet pussy rules! (What's he? In the fifth grade? Wait, that was my fifth grade...still, I mean 'rules'?)

You and your friend share a 9 inch dick? Kinky...but I'm still in...so long as you start with my mouth...and end there too!

Thought I would let it end here...but then this:

(I told him of an accquaintence we now have in common...again.) No way? She left me high and dry...so I'ma take it out on you...and I just know you have a TIGHT PUSSY. (So, you understand I had to get back in the game. I play to win.)

You ain't gonna want anything else after this, slick. I'm gonna taint you...but you can spank me for it. (GOAL!!!)

Then this was unexpected...a marriage proposal:

Yeeaah!! If you can suck dick good and make me a sandwich, I'm marrying you...women love when this hand smacks their ass.

(Here lola ponders backing out. Not too long though.) Suck good? Baby, I'll blow your mind...choking is only second to swallowing...make your own damn sandwich.

First one to crash their car is the loser. Anyone who wants to offer suggestions about where to take this, I'm all ears. I will shamelessly say ANYTHING...take your best shot!!!

PS. Ladies, it turns out men DO want to marry the whore.

Note to self: Learn to make sandwiches.

Why BHG is for Me.

Okay, I know...third blog today?!? But I couldn't help it. I am a lunatic for The Bloodhound Gang and have been since early high school. My best friend turned me onto them and they changed my world. Jimmy Pop is a boy wonder, lyricist extraordinaire. Let me show you some of the lyrics from the new single off Hefty Fine (2005):

Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo
Vulcanize the whoopee stick...In the ham wallet
Cattle prod the oyster ditch...With the lap rocket
Batter dip the cranny ax...In the gut locker
Retrofit the pudding hatch
Oh la la
With the boink swatter
:::::
Marinate the nether rod...In the squish mitten
Power drill the yippee bog...With the dude piston
Pressure wash the quiver bone...In the bitch wrinkle
Cannonball the fiddle cove
Ooh la la
With the pork steeple

This man is pure genius (and the rest of um ain't so shabby, either). If you want to know more, check them out. Dirty, like everything I touch.

Buttercup Beats You Up

So, I'm Buttercup. This is what the PPG Village has to say about her. Let's see if that's true:

"Buttercup is the most likely Powerpuff Girl to say exactly what she's thinking and is quick to react. She's a tough one when fighting bad guys."

I'm thinking, I'm thinking. You think? I'm definitely a kick-ass broad when it comes to fighting bad guys. I had wanted to say that's not me, but then I remembered our most recent series of secret team emails.

I'm not referentially organized like our leader, Blossom:

"(She points out several ways in which a particular...MojoJojo, shall we say?...is categorically wrong in his assessment of her kink outlet.) That [turbaned chimp] is simply not looking for them or he is being very 'tiny fishbowl' in his thinking."

I'm not nurturing to MojoJojo's potential interior place, like our insightful Bubbles:

"I think part of it is fishing for help.....dare I say it.....on how to be a [Super Villian]?"

Nope, here's me:

"Oh, gallies...why do some of them have to be such RODS and ruin it for peenalicious, mantastic, swoon-worthy [Super Villians]?!? I think yall have made some very valid points and I can't wait to make [MojoJojo] look like a facecock...with my inferior [Super Hero] commentsssss!

--buttercup...taking down my first name: MojoJojo."

Yes...I am Buttercup.

(And I want points for bringing peenalicious, mantastic, and facecock into my mainstream colloquialisms.)

Speak, My Girl

Opening her mouth was getting harder and harder, but he insists. She grinds her teeth together and sucks her lower lip between them, pouting petulantly.

“What do you want, girl?” he asks, grabbing her chin and giving his wrist a little flick. She protests fretfully, casting her eyes downward. He sighs and lets go, tapping her cheek gently with his thumb.

Without a sound, he turns and settles into an armchair across from her, leaning back and drawing one long leg onto the other knee. He traces the stitching at the edge of his shoe and waits, not looking at her. He is not angry—yet, so he says nothing. He can tell her mind is spinning chaotically, swinging between her determination to need nothing and the biological fact that she craves the spanking. He knows she is consciously controlling her breaths, her pulse hiccupping at the thought of having her bare bottom thrashed until she can no longer find words. He knows her flushed pussy is swelling, leaking into her panties and that her eyes are darkening, pupils enlarged and filled with cavernous shadow. She can’t fight this kind of hunger, but she is trying.

He slowly puts his foot back down and tents his fingers, looking sternly over them at her. He can wait all night.

“Open your mouth, girl,” he commands, narrowing his eyes. She flinches, but gnaws on the inside of her cheek feverishly, lips pressed securely together. Placing his hands firmly on the arms of the chair, he shakes his head heavily back and forth.

“I had hoped you were planning on being obedient tonight, my girl,” he says, motioning with his fingers for her to rise and make her way over to his chair. She does, warily, inching across the hardwood floor in her tank top and panties. Her fingers lock and unlock in front of her hips and she stands before him, nerves tight, surely near rupturing. He wraps his warm, hard hand around her wrist and jerks her to her knees effortlessly.

Before she can register the sharp pain in her shins, he slaps her ferociously across the face. She chokes on a yelp as he clutches her jaw a second time, digging his fingers into her smarting cheek. She can’t think, she can’t think. Her mouth drops open like an empty mailbox and she groans as blood surges into her cheek, aching and angry.

“That’s good, my girl,” he smiles, clutching her cheeks tighter and holding her jaw open. She grabs his wrist with both of her small hands and whimpers, eyes flickering wildly.

“Now,” he begins, running his thumb over her lips and teeth, “can you feel that, my girl—that throb that’s begun right above your dirty little pussy? Hm? What do you want, girl? You’ll tell me. I’ll wait. And when you beg, my girl, I will give it to you.”

She whines loudly, yanking on his fingers and trying to shriek over the words that want to tumble off her tongue. She closes her eyes against his intense gaze.

“What was that?” he asks, grinning. She growls, glaring at him icily; he laughs a short, terse laugh, no longer amused. He stands and drags her to her feet, letting go of her sore jaw. He grabs the back of her neck and shoves her down until she is bent, back level, bottom tight and arms dangling by her sides.

He reaches between her legs and strokes her through her damp panties; he pinches the back of her neck between his fingers. Aware that she has began to purr, he presses against her plump, blossoming cunt, stroking her firmly, and tapping her tender clit. She moans, nearly wailing with desire. He cups her pale rump and squeezes it gently, pulling her cheek to the side and strumming her asshole with his thumb.

He is so detached, so efficient; she groans, her belly fluttering and the words thundering up her throat and over her tongue, crashing through her teeth, “P-please—”

She covers her mouth quickly, trampling the sounds behind her lips.

With a snort, he lets go of her neck roughly and brings his large palm crashing down, smacking her pantied bottom precisely where her round cheeks meet her sodden thighs. She screams, grabbing for the floor to steady herself and panting wetly.

“That’s the last you’ll feel,” he says, digging a smoke from his pocket and lighting it, “until you are ready to tell me, my girl.”

He exhales deeply, watching his fingerprints emerge, blotchy red and blistering. She howls, increasingly aggravated, still gasping. The warmth from her bottom is beginning to itch and she bounces from leg to leg. He takes another drag, and she tries to stand, irritated.

He pushes her back down, lacing his fingers into her hair and holding her bent, “Did I say to move?”

She shakes her head, rubbing her hands desperately over her thighs. He exhales and grips her hair tighter, squinting at her through the smoke.

“Excuse me?” he demands, a distinct edge to his voice.

“N-no, S-ssir,” she sobs, squeezing her eyes shut-tight. He smiles and takes another drag.

“Well, well. ‘Sir’? We’re getting there, my girl,” he grins, loosening his grip on her hair and leaning closer to her ear, “You know that you’re mine. You know that I know what you need. You can be a good girl and tell me, or you can stand there…”

He tugs her hair sharply, snapping her head up.

“…bent over like a bad girl…”

He stands and runs a finger down her spine, exhaling a stream of delicate smoke across her back.

“…dirty pussy displayed for me…”

He gives her slit a light slap. She grunts, mouth puckered in surprise.

“…itching for this spanking…”

He palms her bottom and squeezes hard.

“…and wait.”

She groans, a wet trickle sloppily soaking her thighs. Her fingers twitch, her bottom burns for more. Like he knew it would be, her will is surrendered to this craving, crushed like paper lanterns in a storm. She opens her mouth.

“Oh, please, Sir,” rushes impulsively past her chewed and brooding pout, “Please, spank me, hard. I need you to punish me, Sir. I am a naughty girl and I want this spanking so badly….”

Her words are disappearing into her gasping sobs, she trails off as she blubbers into her hands, hysterically. He nods, satisfied, and puts his cigarette out.

He unbuckles his belt and then strokes the back of her head, pulling the leather silently, promisingly through the loops of his pants.

“Now, now,” he smiles, cruelly, doubling the pliant leather, “Save your tears, my girl. This is going to hurt.”