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Session #23:
Operative: Mistress Drown.
Date: The Sun in the 19th Degree of Pisces: Anno IVxx aerae novae.
Total Elapsed Time: Three hours and 21 minutes.
Price: 500$
Location: An abandoned factory in south side Terminus.

There is an exquisite gratification that comes with the absolute obedience I have given her cruelty, but do not be mistaken in thinking that it is one limited to the flesh alone. Cross-legged in my rough asana and stripped to her satisfaction. Face wrapped in a welding mask, insulated to cut off all external vision and interiorly wired with a small blinking red light. Back lavished with lashes from a bundled electrical cord. Her sigil painted with lipstick across a pair of only worn once white panties and stitched across my chest. Fingers locked in lotus mudrā and palms up hands fishing wire sewn into my thighs. The body trembles with the cold and the pain. Through agony’s fire, I draw breath into my belly to give birth to a small universe. It expands into perfection’s fulfillment before fading steadily through the nostrils back into oblivion.

Her damage grounds me to the illusion of now, while the red light flashing against the screen of my eyelids pries open the secret gates leading to the Garden of Assassins. There, deep in the cartography of a venomous paradise, I will learn the slave’s strength and with it break free of the shackles that bind me to this prison-shell called ‘I’.

Session # 9:
Operative(s): A shifting collective of prostitutes picked almost entirely at random.
Date: The third Monday of every month.
Total Elapsed Time: One hour.
Price: Fluctuates per session depending on variables of the operatives and theatre rental.
Location: Shove Shove Theatre.

Let’s get one thing straight right off the bat. I am not like the rest of you freaks!

So, you like to get what… spanked? Whipped? Insulted? Forced at crop point into your mama’s bra? A little hot wax on the balls with a plastic bag wrapped around your head, perhaps?


That’s not punishment. That’s a response. That’s a reaction. That’s something. Now this… this is real punishment.

I rent the theatre out for the night. Usually at three or four in the morning when the last show’s safely through and even the most persistent talk back is over. Don’t worry, it’s cool, I know the owners and they need the money. Which, as it happens to be, I got more than enough of here lately. Can’t really get into the specifics, but let’s just say maybe you’ve caught my cameo in a recent Tyler Perry comedy on the big screen? O, who knows, maybe even noticed a small recurring role on a certain locally shot vampire soap opera? Well, point is I got the cash to rent the theatre with no questions asked. From there I borrow my buddy’s pick-up truck… long story, drive around Voodooo Town for an hour or two and proceed to picking up as many hookers as I can fit in the back of the cab. I used to use an escort service…, but while I’m flush, I’m not stupid flush. Anyway, we drive back to the theatre. Then, after being assured it was all ‘cool’, they receive their instructions, file into the theatre, get butt naked and take their seats for the big show.

From there I take to the stage go right into my routines from there. I give them my best material. The Real A – List shit. Giving them, basically, the performance of a lifetime or at least, my lifetime. Mannn, some nights I’m juggling lit torches, some nights I’m belting out songs at the top of my lungs, some nights its Beckett to Marlowe to Aristophanes to the Bard and back again. Some nights it straight up acrobatics and puppets and poetry and…

… no matter what I do or how good I do it, they’ll just sit there quietly. Without expression, with the only exception being to yawn or fidget uncomfortably. When my hour’s up, they rise without applause and file wordlessly out of the theatre and hop back into the truck. When I come out to give them a lift back to the corner, they’ll refuse my obvious attempt to extract even the vaguest feedback from them.

After all it’s what I pay them for… because real pain, real pain is giving everything you’ve got and getting nothing back in return. Everything else is just masturbation with props.

Wait… maybe I’m thinking of improv?

Session # 47
Operative(s): Madame Never & her Scalpel Minions
Date: His birthday.
Total Elapsed Time: Off the clock.
Price: One original painting by the client and always of the Madame.
Location: Classified.

The first art, the first paintings really, appeared on canvases of stone walls and depicted the wild animals that our distant ancestors both hunted and were hunted by. A time when art and language and magic were one craft and wielded in defense of the tribe. Outside the caves, the primal night sky and the hunger of the monster gods waiting beneath it.

So it is, once a year, I paint her.

Deep in the basement of her wharehouse. Through a speaker attached to the ceiling, I can her and her assistants dispense their barbed chastisements, casual brutalitiesand calculated debasements to men desperate to rent penance. Many rank powerful amongst their tribe, great hunters of currency and plump gatherers of commodities. I hear them beg, whimper, cry, groan, slurp, coo, whine and suffer gladly. The music of their punishment is the model in which I paint her, my terrible and unforgiving muse.

At the stroke of midnight, when my birthday has officially ended. She cuts off the speaker. Walks down to the basement. Unlocks me from the cage and when I step out, I immediately hand over the painting to her, whether it is finished or not.

Madame Never always stares at it intently, sometimes for an entire hour… sometimes for a few seconds. But without fail she destroys it right in front of my eyes and then leaves. I follow her upstairs and no matter how bad the sufferings I’ve heard inflicted upon those who have passed before me… I know my punishment will be a hundred times worse.

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Mood Music

Aug. 15th, 2009 04:26 am
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In a fit of narcissistic insecurity I once faked my own death just to see who would attend the funeral. Made all the necessary arrangements before hand, laid out serious bribe money and cashed in my stash of favors. Had myself a little 'going away party' first. Held up in my Spartan tomb of an apartment. Put on Miles and Strummer and Cash on the shuffle, a summoning of the dead to bring forth their heralds. Drained the last of my bag into one thick wand and lit it. Next, downed a 'Voodoo Cocktail' - the acrid bite of the zombie powder refusing to be diluted by the rum and open flames that lapped off its surface. Immediately fell into a sleepless death, a waking dream of paralysis and relentless consciousness. Neither sense nor thought would abandon me but being unable to pull the strings of my muscles to make the puppet-bones dance, they grew restless, threatening brazenly to riot with madness and panic.
Read more... )
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Tiki couldn't get off by any effort of hand, man or woman alone. Better souls than me had tried to climb that paticular mountain, believe you me. An expeditionary force of Jack's and Jill's lost in the fog of their proud expectations. Each had blindly searched for a peak that would not come, before tumbling down fatigued in quiet failure. It wasn't their fault, nor was it hers. Tiki required a certain finesse that's all. I used to tease that she was a real "Hot House Flower of a Venus Flytrap". But when you boil it down it was simple. There were rules to observe and for the breif time in which I would serve as her lover, they were mine alone to follow.

Let's start simple.

I'd skip the last half of the job after lunch to drop by her place. If I hustled and the Gods of Public Transportation were willing, I could be there with plenty of time before her next door neighbors got home from work. Tiki rented the bottom floor of a fashionably delipidated two story home just a few blocks from MJQ. Per the rules of her game, each move towards her had to be planned out, a ritual executed with the precision of a chess game. So it went. Get off the bus one block early. Sneak up the side alley just before her street. Arrive through the backyard, dressed business casual and ankle deep in dead grass. Commando-ninja tip-toe up to the house. Hugging the walls with the back of the shoulders slide around the home going window to window, peeking in each one quickly. There was only one correct window... but it was never the same one twice.

Through the small oval portal embedded in the basement door. From a view of her bedroom available only by standing on the exhaust box of her air conditioner. Into the often fogged up bathroom glass where Tiki idly drew bulge eyed screaming faces in the condensation. Pressed against the pane running recon on a kitchen that hadn't been cleaned since she moved in. Risking an open glance across her minimally decorated living room lit up magnificently by the triptych gate of bay windows facing the front of the street.

Eventually I'd find the frame that would reveal her.

Sometimes she'd be abandoned of all modesty and would stand as defiantly ravishing as Eve in the morning of her Garden. Sometimes she'd be in a state of half-dress, thoroughly ravaged by whirlwinds of some great unseen force. Sometimes nothing more than the discreet hike of a dress or tuck of the palm down the front of the pants revealed her intentions. There she would be consummed in a self-induced trance, invoking raw fire through a clairovoyance of inspiration and imagination.

But each time she did so, Tiki positioned herself as to ensure that she kept her back to me. This was an important part of the rules and if violated would negate any previous efforts on our behalf. Only through the reflection of a handheld mirror, that she would hold up capriciously, would I be allowed to glimpse her face.

Now came the next step. I would have to dig in my saddle bag and become what she called "The Perfect Stranger". The Perfect Stranger meant un-becoming me and donning an unending series of disguises, each one having to be approved by her the night before. I wore fake beards ranging from Rabbi to Beatnik to Sea Captain. I sported fezes, cowboy hats, top hats, bowlers, wigs, helmets, hoods, paper bags with the two eye holes cut out and once even, a lampshade she found out on the curb. I hid behind a gallery of masks - loose fitting rubber celebrities, old movie monsters, rubber band strapped skulls, burglar domino numbers wrapped around my head, second hand wrestling 'Máscara's' laced up tight. I wore camo war-paint and glam slut make-up. I wore eye patches and thick framed Ira Glasses and 3-D Glasses and an old pair of X-ray specs I found in my Dad's attic years ago.

Tiki had an unerring radar for these occasions. Sensing my approach no matter how quietly I may have arrived and despite my striving to the contrary, knew absolutely when I had found the right window. This awareness of my act at silent witness provided the necessary spark to light up the alchemical cocktail of circumstances preceding it. The somnabulist motions she took in pleasuring herself ignited into a frenzy of activity. She played furiously an invisible cello across her body, which released through the window a symphony of growls and turbulent moaning. Within minutes she would succumb to a violent shiver of convulsions, throwing her head back in a collapse of satisfaction... and each time she did so I would be there for her right outside watching. Our eyes would lock. I would see her, at last, for who she really was - an angel's flight across damnation's valley. Finally she would end the stare off with a wink, a puff of kiss and a tilt of her head to come on in.

So I would, often climbing through the window or kicking in the door she thoughtfully left just slightly open. I would rip off the mask or the hat or the beard. Then everything else that clung to the sweat of my skin. I was a homunculi sculpted out of mud and lava and lightning. Crashing into the cool waters of her embrace, Tiki drained the heat from my rage until we both became a single being of wisping steam. In that moment, without profaning it with a single word, there was no secret we could hide.

Eventually we'd rematerialize back into strangers, mumbling excuses about meeting friends later or having a party to attend. I stuck around long enough to get dressed and sometimes, even for a cup of cold coffee or a splash of a quick shower. Whether this was part of the rules or just a statement on how she thought of me outside the affair was her business, not mine.

On the way home, whether on foot or in the cab of the train, someone would hit me up for spare change. Each time I gave them a fiver along with whatever remnants of my disguise I had stuffed back in my satchel on the way out of Tiki's. They'd spot the five with an excited glow of the face but then look confused at the spirit-gummed Van Dyke or the tubes of lipstick or the crushed sailor's cap I offered. They'd thank me for the cash but politely decline the rest. I'd tell them simply that they had to take it all if they wanted the money. It was the rule.

One no one ever refused.

Love's Silent Luchadore is watching you masturbate!
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Terminus in the 90's: a simple case of right place, wrong time.

Germ was tagging the side of the four foot wall running along the rail tracks seperating it, with the most minimum of boundaries, from parallel Seaborn Avenue that dead ended into the train yards. He was doing the old swatstika in a circle with a slash through it routine. Painted big, bright and bold in day glow red so no conductor nor lineman would ever miss it. A safe protest, sure, but such is the folly and privilege of youth. Problem was he drew the swatstika first. Big time fuck-up. Some old rent-a-cop playing the rail bull role stumbled up on him out of the dark. Laid a calm, light hand on his left shoulder and gave a cool - "Alright son, I think that's enough". Then the old Bull took a look at the wall before them, adjusting his glasses just to be sure and made Germ for nazi right there and then. The fingers went from the weight of a reassuring pat to a clawed pinch. Germ had to think fast now. He knew getting busted for vandalism was one thing, but it would be a completely different story doing lock-up with a white power rep attached to his sorry ass. Remembers this one time he shared a cell with some Aryan asshole with the stars and bars centered on an iron cross inked across the throat. Within minutes he got stomped down with a collective fury. Every cop in the fucking place gathered outside the bars for a quick laugh. He remembers this real well, since it was him who cast the first stone, or in his case, first heel to his balls.

"It's not what you think...", Germ said raising his arms up to form a human trident.

"Yeah, well you can explain it to the police when they get here." The old bull sneered, patting his jacket pockets down for his walkie-talkie.

"Pfff... I'm realll sorry about this, man" Germ sighed.

"Funny how everyone's 'sorry' when they get caught..."

"Not for that... this" Germ falls forward but then stops midway to pivot out of the sleeve, freeing his left arm in a blur. Having made his decision before thinking about it, he tosses the can out of his right hand and catches it with his left before sliding his other arm free. The old bull is left dumbfounded holding the empty leather jacket. hand painted Exploited mohican skull with the words "SEX & VIOLENCE" stenciled across the back and then up at Germ. Before the old Bull can say another word he is blasted in the face with a burst of spray paint. Germ's counting on the glasses to absorb most of the damage. Still he feels bad when the rent a cop starts shrieking, stumbling backwards clutching his face.

Not for long though, just a moment to shake his head in a momentary lapse of regret.

Germ snaps out of the guilt funk to swoop down and grab his jacket off the gravel. He dons the jacket with ease, having been long versed in the gentlemanly art of dressing while fleeing. He bolts for the wall, ready to hop it with the quickness. When he reaches it however he skids to a stop coming face to face with the swatstika he painted. He looks around. The old bull was staggering and scream-cursing him out: "Y'vicious lil' prick... I'll find ya, I'll fuckin' find ya, y'hear?". Then a pair of flashlight orbs flare up and begin floating down the distant end of the tracks towards him.

Doesn't matter.

With a rattle of the can he finishes the circle and the slash. Then and only then, with the blinded bull now rushing towards the sound of the aerosol hiss and two husky silhouettes emerging now from behind the flashlights at a dead run, does he take the wall with a pull up, a grunt and a flip of the hips over.

Read more... )
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Feeling a bit better. More later.
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"Wha...? No, no burn it fer chrissakes... ! Burn the Thong of Shame... sweet, sweet leathery shame... ahhuhuhuh...!"

"Gee Golly Willikers Bat-Man, you're drooling again!"

"Well this is what happens when Warren Ellis does a fill-in issue, Old Chum..."
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"Uh, lady... seriously can I see a menu now or what?"

"Silence Fool... for you are now the love-toy of Mistress Mamlaka! Prepare to feast your eyes on 'The Dance of Seven Whirling Deaths..."

"Y'see... this is exactly why I never eat at Moroccan restaurants anymore!"
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Star-Boy is right to be wary of 31st century internet dating services, which in the future are run by a single "Big Computer" that shoots purple "Make-Out" rays indiscriminately at random couples sitting together. For only Star-Boy knows the dreaded truth... that the Big Computer's nascent A.I. has developed some rather lascivious tastes of late and as such has been 'deciding' on a series of curious matches between the teen Legionaires (including but not limited to Triplicate Lass with herself, Element Lad with Mon-El while Invisible Kid watches... invisibly, Superboy with himself thanks to the Legion's handy Time Bubble and Chameleon Kid with Light Lass while Chameleon Kid has shape changed into Light Lass... there are other matches both too lurid and complicated to be mentioned here... but know that there will be Proty!).

Poor Star-Boy soon becomes jaded by the whole scene - choosing to grow a beard and time travel back to the early 21st century where he currently hangs out at bars until closing, collects 'vintage vinyl' and spends his days idly working on a screen play about a terrible future of sentinent voyeur computers.

Meanwhile will Phantom Girl ever get Superboy to do the 'Shrug' with her...?
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Stormtrooper Deluxe
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Know that there are many methods for dealing with writers block... but none so satifisying as the delightfully infamous "Blue Demon/Satanela Dungeon Method".

Ha-ha-ha-haaaa... ohhh Satanela, is there no end to your concupiscent hi-jinx's?
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Ah, the French... who else could navigate the delicate aesthetic balance between Alex Grey and full-on Hentai Penistude to create a safe sex PSA? Behind the cut are the Bronze medal winners to the Cannes International Advertising Festival. To be fair it's not really Hentai... though it is a psychedelic astral-trip of sensual delights. Fun for the entire family... depending on the family of course.


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Lady Liberty and Justice want a threesome, America! Are you patriotic enough to be the meat in a 'Freedom Sandwich'... or will you remain Madame Tyranny's Bitch?


Oh and that reminds me... congratulations California!
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In the town of Whiplash, Arizona the law was carried out by one woman who wouldn't take "no" for an answer- Sheriff Daisy Belladonna, full-time law-woman, part-time dominatrix, former Grammy award winning country-western singer and one hundred percent red blooded American! Along with her loyal steed, deputy Jethro "T-Bone" Bonsworth the Third, Sheriff Belladonna upholds the law deep in the heart of rattler country with nothing but her Iron between her and an unrelenting tide of vicious puritanical myopia. If your safety word is "Justice!" then you'll be sure to thrill to...

... oh wait, never mind, it's about a "Sex lottery that paid big prizes in after-hour orgies".

Well I guess that could be fun too. What would you get... a 'Pick Six' kinda deal (or would that be "The Love Lotto... you gotta be in it to win it!" I'm thinking of?). Not that I'm a prude or anything. No, sir (or ma'am... or officer in charge!). In fact I remember joining an "Office Sex Lottery" back on the Cube-Farm where we all chipped in a buck and decided to split the orgy between us evenly if we won. Never did though... ended up having to settle on getting those scratch-off orgy tickets you buy at liquor stores (outside a few extra-tickets the only thing I won was a light spanking from a very earnest young woman named Deamonia... no wait, that was the church raffle).

Anyway it's a great cover if you ask me!

Going on a mini-vacation tomorrow with Vee to go see my folks in Mouse-Town. Be back Monday-ish, until then... Happy Trails!
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Lick 3, 2000
cibachrime print on aluminum
~Wim Delvoye

She shows up at my door, though unannounced she insists I called, it is just before dawn and i've never seen her before. I register her in a glance: Short, stacked, violet bangs dangle over a pair of mirrored goggles, a purple velvet corset cloaked under a black motorcycle jacket, her hips hugged by a skirt that covers little else revealing a set of stout fishnet thighs tucked deep into knee high combat boots caked up to the ankles in a dried red mud.

"Hi!" she pops the greeting up at me like bubblegum, snapping me out of my stare.

"And you are?" I rub the sleep out of my eyes and try to place her. She seems familiar. Someone I ran into at a club maybe?

"Here!" she answers and though I can't see it through her lenses, I can feel her wink shiver through me, "You gonna invite me in?"Read more... )
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"The New Sexual Promiscuity - Flying Kicks and All!"

Read more... )
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From one of my favorite places to fuck off on the clock -LPCOVERLOVER.

Is Retro-Sci-Fi Tribal Fusion a genre? A shame if it's not, because this is exactly what bellydancers looked like on Planet Mongo back in the thirties! No wonder Flash Gordon never went back to depression era Earth!

Four more under the cut - One NSFW unless you W somewhere cool!Read more... )
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... or all I needed to know about love I learned in comic books.

Lesson #55 - If you're going to whip an Amazon Princess.. then WHIP an Amazon Princess!:

Seriously lady, she's a Battle Princess from an island of Amazon Warriors, if you're gonna play the Top then you best come prepared to deliver a serious hurting. She's a full time super hero and doesn't have time to be fucking around with amateur night at the Dom-Con! Not when she could be tying up feral women who dress up as Leopards or getting "captured" by Alien Space Queens.

Now lets try it again... only this time how about putting some "umph" into it!


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