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 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— Not beside 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 never rise 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. Lick it Suck it Kiss it Love it 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. Panting, panting on top rocking while Slave sprawls trapped, locked in below. He calls He pleads 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.) Nancy Miller Albuquerque, New Mexico                          XxNercoChanxX  
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