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stella41b -> RE: Natural Dominant Funnies (7/24/2008 7:16:43 PM)
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Ah yes, for example, natural, true, real Dommes...
As the years roll by their boobs get bigger as their corsets get smaller. Excess flesh spills over the edges like the white dough of bread with too much yeast in it. They sit there, with dimples in their thighs, legs encased in stockings of increasing denier, and their life rolls on by whilst they cast glances, aspersions and cheap insults towards the girls of younger year.
They propel themselves towards men with all the grace and finesse of a 38 tonne articulated lorry backing up to a supermarket loading bay. On goes layer after layer of make up, together with the vain hope of diminishing the effects of biology and nature, smoking, and the vodka they turn to each night after returning home alone or with the dregs of the local haunt.
Out come the chains and the floggers, but she's fallen alseep and snoring before she can get them near you, whilst you notice the solitary hair protruding from her 'used to be sexy' mole and wonder why she looks like a transvestite with knockers.
Her hair is dyed, her lips pierced, and she's taken to sporting tattoos in the deluded way of hoping to catch her now cremated youth which she squandered accidentally catching child, who she claims to love but can't wait to leave for each and every fading club event. Searching for something she never quite found, she flounces around with a hearty 'A hoi' to one and all, before taking a big breath as if she's about to go on stage in front of thousands. It's not your night, only your friends really notice you as well as a few middle-aged men, who will shag anything, including the toilet roll holders they were caught stuck in during their toilet break.
Sucking in cheeks (both pairs of course!) and shoving her bosom into anyone glancing in her directions face and then considering them rude when all she can get is a 'merfff!' Upon you say 'Hi' with your sweetest eyes and dimples long ago since replaced with doughnuts.
'Fancy a play?' The poor fool seems obligated and with a well hidden sigh and longing look at his lager allows himself to be dragged off only to be tied to some cheap piece of Ikea whilst you work up a sweat acting to the uninterested crowd. Armpits are stained, tits are already beaded with sweat and you're breathing like a smoker on 40 cigarettes a day (which is probably true) trying to demonstrate your expertise with a flogger, whilst claiming you were taught by the best (actually unemployed Rodney from Smethwick who has nothing better to do with his time than to practise flogging the back of his bedroom door and is still crap).
You take the pain and more increasingly the boredom and embarrassment of this semi middle-aged old slapper wheezing heavily behind you dressed in rubber that's all but slipped off her due to her misbelief that 'off the rack' fetish wear is just as good as having it tailored. You squirm in embarrassment which she naturally takes for you having a jolly good time and then squashes her sagging boobs to your naked back with the force of an electric magnet attaching itself to the roof of a car wreck in the local scrap yard, and you smell her unwashed 'down below' and wonder why you just didn't stay at home.
'Wanna be my slave?'
'Erm, no I'm actually the manager of the club. I only sat down for five minutes.'
'Well then' she declares in a husky voice made possible because the phlegm built up in her throat has yet to be spat out discreetly into an ashtray or someone's open toybag. 'You'll have heard all about me. I'm well known in the scene you know.' as he thinks 'Mainly by other middle aged slappers who big each other up by indulging in a level of insecurity driven arrogance only their type can generate.' And she wonders why a lightning retreat is employed whilst she's still thinking 'Yes, he's scared of me and my reputation.' whilst all the time knowing deep down that it's the body odour and humiliation of being seen with you that drove him to escape so quickly.
She gets more and more involved in the scene as the years tumble away and eventually starts to look like one of those Dungeon Masters off a game like Warcraft via black T-shirts, completely deluded into thinking she's a club celebrity and doesn't need to make that much of an effort any longer, and besides, those cheap T-shirts off the market are only marginally more expensive than the fet outfits she used to buy from the same stall.
She starts to think of herself as one of the privileged by getting to the club early and helping to set up the knackered Ikea furniture, jokingly referred to as 'play equipment', thinking she's a cock whilst the real crew are out the back having a smoke discussing whether she is actually a dyke.
Upon their return you give a big thumbs up, even though you're knackered and have moved wood the weight of your average Norwegian pine forest, and are grateful for the cup of lukewarm tea someone's poured you from a Thermos flask they filled yesterday morning.
'Better go and get myself ready for the opening then' she flounces, with more than a trace of 1940's Vaudeville to her voice. Changing in the bathroom where at least there's a mirror, albeit not framed with lights or a dressing table, but she's seen much worse. She empties her make up bag into the sink and rubs 'Sure' deodorant into her armpits, squeezes herself into a dress earlier mistaken for a bin liner by the cleaners and squeezes into 12" heels that cramp her calves but make her bum stick out, albeit with the attraction of a hippopotamus giving birth.
She waits by the door to greet everyone, as the first punters file in and wonder whether she's the bouncer or a transvestite. Either way they don't like the vibes and wonder if their fantasies of meeting a sexy domme can be fulfilled in the cheap damp basement with the air of 1970's kitsch.
They move to the farthest corner and light up a fag when you clomp over with your tits bouncing like an advancing tsunami and wonder why their eyes are wide and they've just extinguished their cigarettes in the palms of their hands.
They're shaking, you're perspiring, and you ask them if they would like to hang their coast up. They think it's some sort of slang for kinky play and before you can say 'check out my labia piercing' they've peeled off their outer garments to reveal matching his and hers outfits. He's well toned, she's well=shaped, and your brow is furrowed. Your amiable mood turns to ice and you walk off dragging their coats behind you on the floor. They 'make out' whilst you watch them from the bar and start calling them rude names in a fashion not heard since Margaret Thatcher introduced the Poll Tax. Your friends agree with you, mainly because they really can't be arsed with you any more and you spend the rest of the night with an extra wiggle in your step, telling everyone how you had to refuse said stud as he's already partnereed, whilst said stud stays in the corner for the night with his babe wondering what the fuck your problem is.
You seem to be the belle of the ball, yet you always leave by yourself, usually in a taxi as nobody ever seems to be going your way, unless you slop a bucket load of guilt their way. You're still drinking on the way home, and pour yourself a stiff one too on climbing into an empty bed, apart from your Labrador that still looks at you funny since the drunken time when you offered up your chuffer and he responded. You liked it more than imagined and got off whilst he pushed you around the kitchen floor. Gave yourself a good wash out and thought 'One up the bum, no harm done.'
All characters above are fictitious and any resemblance to anyone whether real or imagined is purely coincidental.
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