Status: If I cared about what you did on your days off, I would put a shotgun in my mouth and pull the trigger with my toes.
[ View Gallery (165 Images) ]
[ My Journal ]
~I am most likely going to offend you. If you think I am a threat to you I probably am. I also learned today that I am better than other people. So fuck you all. Don't read this profile if you are easily offended or generally just a douche. My profile contains dirty words, thoughts, and pictures, so you are forewarned and there is a button right above this to go back to your little VF home, so fucking leave.~
~You're not your job. You're not how much money you have in the bank. You're not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet. You're not your fucking khakis. You're the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.~
~I am a Birder, that means I watch birds. My favorite are owls.~
A Poem of a Slaves Place
A slave’s place
is half a pace
behind the striding Mistress—
unless she longs to grip his hand
or slip a strong arm through his.
A slave’s seat
is at the feet of Mistress,
groveling, debased—his place;
clinging firm to sturdy legs,
warming ankles with eager fingers,
gazing up toward open cunt,
and the stern stare of Mistress.
A slave’s eyes
to confront that stare.
And where lies Slave in bed—his place?
His head rests—
hemmed in by Mistress’s thighs—
beneath the throbbing cunt, that salty space
dripping juices, blood, and piss.
till the order comes to cease.
And if he slows
the strap will crack upon Slave’s sweating skin.
His cock grows thick
and stiff as oak
as Mistress guides it in.
on top rocking
while Slave sprawls trapped,
locked in below.
Says not to stop.
But she slaps his glistening face.
To ask? To order? Not Slave’s place.
She might then surround the cock
with lips and tongue and mouth and spit.
Though it is not Slave’s place
to ask or whimper
should instead she force a finger
tight into his virgin ass.
And what of it?
So that finger touches shit.
So his mustache tastes of blood,
sweetly reeks of slit.
Boundaries start to blur between them
while all sounds intermingle
till one can’t tell
who speaks (or thinks),
or farts or moans—
he or she or both.
Her face mirrors his face
as Slave recalls his rightful place:
Owned by her, he also owns.
Once a storm came pelting down,
and all around—the grumbling thunder,
a saddening song of rain,
like longing for a child now dead (or grown).
Another bed, another man
Mistress kissed and touched.
Altho’ it seems her brain
has broken free of cranium
and lifted from the sweaty room,
sailing like a toy balloon
up above the churning clouds
beyond the damp, the bleak, the chill—
broken free against her will,
fleeing from that other one.
(His cock now in, he has
her pinned to crumpled sheets.
She behaves accordingly:
hinting quietly of love,
the moans, the straining,
while high above that shadowed room,
she and Slave have rendezvoused,
interlaced as souls can do.
Slave’s place, she knows,
is her place too—
beyond beyond some groaning man,
floating far from blackened rain.)
Albuquerque, New Mexico