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stella41b -> RE: Proper Manners (7/26/2008 10:59:18 PM)
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Ah yes, manners. The old dom and sub routine. Gotcha.
Oh yes. Why ever not? I realised some time ago that I was on to a load of old bull and trolloped the idea of enlightenment through weedy old strumpets whacking the shit out of my arse in sight of 'the higher plane'.
There's much more fun having a sweaty old trollop squeezing my cheeks between her cheeks whilst she sings 'Rawhide' lest we be thinking of reaching akin the next dimension or parallel universe through sadism. It might have worked for the Indian tribes but I'm a white European with a checkered history of a people renowned for using any excuse of getting some jiggy jiggy in.
Indeed, there are stories abound of those with beloved Masters/Mistresses and supermarket or retail management taking you to another dimension - actually the next housing estate, after he returns home from a day at the office, market, chicken factory, blowing your mind and your nuptuals in the privacy of your bedroom with little more equipment than his cardboard flogger and rolled up newspaper, while you float into nether space feeling all juiced up and nary an earthly feeling between your legs that no other sub, pwincess, or even checkout girl has ever had an inkling before in their pretty young life.
"You're doing it all wrong," they tell me," you play with the wrong people, you don't concentrate, and don't ever eat baked beans before you play with anyone." I get such advice time after time. "My Dom takes me to heaven and hell in good time before the commercial break," they simper. "My Dom's wonderful.." "My Dom's the dog's bollocks.." After attending a small impromptu play party in North London this week I have to agree that some of them smell like the dog's bollocks at least, but let this not detract you from my latest attempt at literary garbage with relation to the gurls and their views of subbyspace.
What happened is Wurzel Gummidge slipped a couple of Beechams Lemsips into your ginger beer and rogered his todger on your botty whilst you dream of Adonis sweeping you up to the heavens on a whippy chariot of goodness, heaven help you if you dare open your eyes and see old Herbert drinking his second bottle of wine (or working his way through a six pack) watching sports and passively whacking you with a slipper in between searching for belly button fluff and scratching his todger.
Time and time again we see the pretty, young, well-dressed, usually freshly graduated subettes sat next to someone who looks as if they obtained their wardrobe from a rubbish skip, complete with complimentary odours, the seven o'clock shadow and a couple of days' groceries stuck between the teeth.
'Hello' I say..
'Harrrrryaaaaahhhhh' they breathe back, leaving me looking at the trait of heat distortion from their yaps, like the after burn of a jet aircraft. (It really buggers up my make up).
'How's it going?' I continue.
'Ahhhh zzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzz sorry nodded off there. You see I've been up half the night teaching that buxom young wench over there how to suck like an Electrolux.'
'But hang on, I thought you were married?' I interject.
'Yeah right. She's over there too, spent the other half of the night teaching me how to suck like an Electrolux.'
'So she doesn't mind you having another subbie half her age?'
'Nahh! You see, besides like, the house is in my name, and if she gives me any shit I'll just toss her out and move another slapper in. I got this ad up at the local college you see. Free room and board to any half decent bint. I'm offering help with all the oral examinations and will cover the costs of accommodation.'
It gives me a cold feeling to recall the day 'Charlotte' returns home on holidays with Herbert in tow, twice her age, retired from work at age 50 on health grounds (bone idleness) and carrying a 'play bag'.
'Ohh Mrs Charlotte, it's such a pleasure to meet you at last, your young un' has told me so much about you, usually whilst I got her tied upside down on the balcony and I'm buggering her with a spatula. Fnarr! Fnarr! Oh by the way, do you fancy a spot of rope bondage after dinner? I'm really very good, some would even call me a 'Master' even.'
Poor Charlotte, having to call Wurzel 'Sir/Lord/Master/My One and Only Shining Light in This World of Misery' sat across from her parents and having to serve his food whilst kneeling.
'How's college dear?' croaks Mrs Charlotte.
'Soak Hay Mawm!' Charlotte mumbles through the ball gag Wurzel insisted she wear during dinner to show the love and bonding sub and Master share.
'Try not to dribble so much on your plate dear.'
'Sorry Mum. It's been a problem ever since I got my tongue pierced for my oral examinations. You see Master's a bit limp and needs as much stimulation available. By the way if you hear me screaming at night please ignore me. It's just a habit I have developed in getting through my nuptuals with Wurzel. I'll have soon finished my course and can return to the fold, though I'm probably never going to be the same ever again and besides I now have this penchant for middle-aged scruffy looking uneducated men suffering from ringworm and expert at flaking high incomes from the welfare state.'
'Oh but please don't worry yourself Mum. I will still have an education and a degree even though I have no desire to use it. Instead I will spend my days tied to the bed of my Master while he sleeps off his hangovers and limply tries to do me blindly in any hole that's available including the 'betcha they've learned their bloody lesson' house pets who won't come near our bed not for love or Whiskas.'
Those were the days.
All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to anyone whether real, twue, wannabe or fake is actually pretty much coincidental.
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