Sorge’s Magic Numbers

Sorge’s Magic Numbers (a story)

Sorge had been in a car accident when he was fairly young. And every hour on the hour, the nurses came in and checked his status. His BP, pulse, breathing, blood oxygen levels. And to explain it to him, they said that some of the numbers on the screens they watched were magic. They kept him safe. To help him thru some of the tasks they had that caused him pain, they had him count. And when they had to put him under anaesthetic, they had him count. So he grew to believe that numbers were magic.
Then his mother got involved in numerology and I Ching. And she reinforced this message to him. Numbers are magic. They have power.
So young Sorge began counting… Whenever he wanted to distract himself from a bad mood or a bad experience, he counted.
He spent a lot of time in the hospital as a kid. And he watched as the cleaners wiped down every single surface. It seemed like they were always cleaning.When he asked, they said there were superbugs that got into everything and they had to be really careful to be sure the place was clean. For kids like him.
And Sorge’s dad was ex army. So he was a fanatic about how things had to be regimented. And little Sorge watched and asked. He got platitudes back about being tidy from his dad. Having a tidy environ was a sign of a tidy mind. Work was easier when you were in a tidy place.
Sorge thought these things made sense. He wanted magic, he needed magic. He had no control. He was a sick kid after all.
So he started counting. And whenever he was home, he cleaned. He did ask if the hospital cleaners were coming to their house and was told no. So he did what he could. And he got good at it. He became better at it.
He wish he had more control though. He was still a sick kid, whether he was at home or the hospital.
Sorge counted and he cleaned. And he counted and he cleaned. And he counted and he cleaned. Until he was a grown man, then he counted and cleaned some more.
He went into a job that made it possible for him to continue counting and cleaning. He worked in a white room in a tech facility. And to keep himself occupied, he volunteered at a small library. Stacking books and shelving them after hours. He played math games on his computer.
It doesn’t sound so bad, in fact kind of adaptive. But Sorge was a romantic. If he had his dream life, this wouldn’t even be close.
He wanted to act in a small theater. But couldn’t bear the thought because it’d be dusty. So he read plays and practiced his emoting at home.
He wanted to go ATVing in the mountains. But it’d mean mud and all kinds of foliage, bug dirt and mold all over him. He couldn’t bear the thought. So he watched sports’ channels, scouring them for people riding ATVs.
And he wanted to have a family. But he spent so much time cleaning and counting and finding ways to vicariously live his dream life, that he didn’t really have a lot of time to date, to love, to have the family he wanted. So he got sadder and sadder every year. Esp when his mom was yelling at him and his dad wanted to know if he was gay. Because he wasn’t out with girls. His dad tried to, wanted to believe him, but wasn’t sure if he could.
Until it became so bad that the numbers, that had been signs of life when he was sick, were now signs of imprisonment. Or so it seemed to him.
And the cleaning that had protected him as a sick kid, was now a torture. His skin was raw, and he had developed allergies to almost every known cleaning agent. And wearing thick gloves didn’t seem to be enough.
But he couldn’t stop. How do you stop something that you thought saved your life? How do you stop something you had done for hours a day, thinking it was helping you? How do you stop, even when you know it’s making you sick?
Sorge didn’t know. He just knew it wasn’t the life he wanted. Not even close. But he kept at it.


it’s not the things

It’s Not the Things! (a story)

The house was draped in mourning. All the mirrors were covered, all the things that belonged to the deceased were packaged and put away. Their name wasn’t spoken. For fear that the spirit would be called back from their journey to the afterlife.
And in that house was a mother who had lost their baby. a father who had lost their hope, a wife who had lost her lover and children who had lost their father. People who were so wrapped up in grief that they couldn’t do the work needed.
So they called in my crew.
We cleaned the house from top to bottom. Emptied his chest, his dresser, his closets, his desk, even changed the bedding and towel sets. Everything was wrapped up and put in thick plastic bags. And put in a corner of the garage, along with his tools. His car was driven to a long term storage lot and it would rest there for the next few months. Till the family was ready to have that reminder of him again. Or traded or sold.

. . . .

And the family sat in mourning. They wailed, they gnashed their teeth. They refused to brush their hair or their teeth. They wore the same clothes they wore when they found out that he was dead. For seven days. No showers, no hip baths even.
They nibbled toast and PB if they felt hungry. They drank water or milk if they were thirsty. And they used the toilet as needed. Some of them dozed in their chairs when their eyes just couldn’t stay open anymore.
Except for the kids.
They were put to bed when night came. And given proper meals. They were hugged and loved up by all the adults. Because they were still little souls in need of nurturing and had just lost their father.
One of the distant teen cousins took the kids to the park every afternoon to get their energy used up and get some fresh air. Let them run around a bit. And the adults said prayers for the departed.
All without saying his name.
Until finally the week was up.
They took turns taking showers, changed their clothes and brushed their teeth and hair. Then they sat down to a meal their church ladies had put together. And they toasted his life. They told stories abour him as a son, a father, and a husband. And they smiled at his good deeds and humour.
They pronounced him a good man. They uncovered the mirrors. And they left the house.
They left the family to pick up the pieces. Well… at least to begin to pick them up.

. . . .

The next day, the man’s friends got together and had a memorial for him. They told jokes and stories about the man. They smoked his brand of cigar, drank his fave hooch, ate his fave meal and laughed and cried together. Then lit candles and passed the hat for his family. Whatever they could give was appreciated.
Then they went home and got on with their lives. As they could.

. . . .

On the day he died, the man was wrapped and spiced and preserved. Till the crew could put him in the ground or burn his corpse. A member of the family and one of his friends witnessed his internment or cremation. And his body was disposed of. All without saying a word, so his soul would not be called back.

. . . .

When the week was up, the crew helped the wife go thru his belongings and decide how they would be disposed of. Some were kept as momentos. But most were given away.

. . .

And all that was left was his memory. As it should be.

. . . .

His wife’s parents moved into the house to help her with the children. Because he was gone. And life goes on.

breaking in the furniture

Breaking in the Furniture (a story)

(opens the door when the bell rings)
Hello! So glad you have come for a visit. I’m thrilled to see you again. Can I take your coat? Lovely! I have tea ready for us. And some great sandwiches and cookies. I hope you’re ready for a nibble.
Let’s go into the kitchen and get the stuff. Oh please don’t sit there! That’s where my lover likes to sit me on the edge and eat me out! It holds special memories for us, you see.
No! Not there either. He makes me bend over that chair and takes me from behind. It’s one of our fave things to do in the kitchen. Would you like a cookie?
Oh of course! We can go into the living room. Would you like to see it?
(walk down the hall)
You can sit anywhere, but the couch. We often snuggle and cuddle-fuck on it. Oh and the love seat is our fave place too. He likes to put a leg over the back when I blow him. It’s just the right size for our comfort.
In the den? Why sure! We can go there too. It’s so cozy.
(walks to den)
Please just don’t sit in the lazy boy. I sit on his lap in it and edge him when we watch porn on the telly. It drives him crazy. He likes to play with my boobs while I do that.
Yes that rug is so soft and furry. We love the feel of the fur on our naked skin when we have sex by the fire. It makes our winters so much more bearable, ya know?
The dining room? Sure, we can go there if you want. Our set is very classic, with captains’ chairs and all. They make handy rests when one of us wants a spanking. It’s just the right height.
Yes they are a lovely colour. Are you feeling ok? Your cheeks are quite red. Ae you sure? Well yes, there is a lovely rest room over there. You can wash your face if you feel ill. I’ll get you a fresh towel. Because we had sex in the shower this morning before he went to work. I forgot to change the towels.
Sure I can dampen the cloth for you. Bring it to you, but really the bathroom is right there.
Or would you like to lay down perhaps? We have a lovely four poster that we like to tie each other to. Oh please don’t be shocked. We mostly just tease each other there. There is really no reason to be disturbed. Not over that bedroom. We have our dungeon furniture in the guest bedroom after all.
It depends on the toy who it gets used on. We have quite a range. Would you like to see them? No? Oh that’s a shame! We’ve built up quite a collection, you see.
I’m so sorry to hear you feel you can’t stay for tea. But why would I put plastic on the furniture? It wouldn’t be comfortable for us at all!
Can I make you a baggie of the cookies? No? Of course I washed my hands before I made them! Do you think I was raised in a barn?? A bordello? Oh that might be fun!
Well I am sorry you feel so uncomfortable here. I certainly was trying to make you feel at home. Maybe we can go to your place next tiime? No? Of course I wash my clothes! Why wouldn’t I?
I am sorry. I thought we would get along well. If you ever change your mind… No I guess if you feel that way, there’s nothing I can do about that. Is there?
Well do drive safe! It was nice seeing you anyway.
(Shuts the door)
Was it something I said? (pouts)

Psychopomp ( a story)


People are energy, or soul. We exist outside of this life. And we go somewhere, we change our form. We have to, because energy is perpetual. That doesn’t mean that there is a heaven or hell. It simply means we exist beyond this life. So if that is accepted, then it’s easier to accept what people do to ease that transformation, isn’t it?
I am involved in two types of situations.

  • The first is for the family.

When I get called into a case, the family has been told that a member is dying. And they want someone to help them thru their grief and other emotions as well as easing the journey as the soul changes form.
Some families see omens and have them read and determine the person who needs this help. And some see Western Med practitioners and are given a diagnosis. They go thru that process, then when the doctors say there is nothing left they can do, they come to someone like me. And in that case, in many ways, I become a family grief counsellor. I help them come to terms with the relationship they have with the departing soul. Help them say goodbye. And after the death of the body, help them process the loss and remember they will be reunited when they change form. Whatever their belief system is, based on culture and rearing.
That’s the easy part. (Well not for them, but living people act in predictable ways. So it’s not woo wooo stuff)

  • Then it’s for the transitioning soul.

(the woo wooo stuff)
Their energy needs to change form and for most people this means going directly to their cultural heaven or hell, or land of the dead, or becoming part of the universal energy or part of the dark or shadow. Depending on their beliefs and their life experience. How they have lived. Most cultures believe in a heaven and hell, or land of the dead. .
For the holy and for the sinner. This belief actually intrudes on the soul’s willingness to be guided toward that.If they fear consequences, they don’t want to transition . And they want to stay here, to finish things up or look after their grieving family. If they know they are dying, they usually finish things while present. And the ones who want to stay to look after their family, usually need reassurance that someone they trust and respect will keep an eye on them till they can cope on their own. That makes them more willing to change. And move on.
Then it’s just the process.
Gathering the energy of this soul and moving them thru the changes as smoothly as possible. And keeping intruding energies back until that process is done.
That’s when it becomes hard.

And that is the one type of case I do.

  • The other is to clean up energies that were never properly dealt with and become “ghosts”, or “demonic forces”.

Sometimes that is due to confusion, guilt, or rage. And I have to determine which and deal with that.
But bottomline, the soul needs to move on. Nothing good can come of them wandering the earth or becoming attached to a place, thing or person. They certainly aren’t meant to intrude on the living.
So I need to be firm about that, but kind and supportive in their change. I’m not the type who screams and swears. It’s just not necessary. And the last thing I want is them attaching their confusion, guilt or rage on me. So I try hard to be calm. I am invested in the process going well, not in them. By taking that step back, I find success to be easier. For them and for me.

  • All of this fascinates me.

Each case is different. Each soul is unique. Yet there are common rules that make it easier to deal with the human emotions involved. The family who are grieving. Or the energy that is wrongly attached to a place, person or thing. And I treasure these experiences. All of them.
Yet there are some that are more treasured than others. We all have our fave things we look for. Something unique. Something poignant. Something fun.

  • And these are mine. I hope you enjoy reading them.

Inner Life Story?

It seemed like a typical eve at home for her. The night was warm, so she sat out on her porch with a magazine. Just enjoying the air, the sounds of the city and relaxing.
She heard the traffic first. Cars and trucks going over the bridge near her house. And stopping and starting at the corner on the other side of her building. There seemed to be an unusual pattern for her neighbourhood, but she didn’t really pay attention.
Till she heard the clip clop of horses’ hooves. Horses?? She looked up and saw a very old-time coach and four going down her street. Say what now?? She hadn’t heard of any historical fairs or antique shows in town this weekend. So she watched it go by to see where it turned. Huh! Toward the highway. Not toward the stadium or flea market, where the shows would go. Ok just weird.
But there must be an explanation, right?
So she went back to her magazine.
Until she heard her neighbours. They were in their bedroom and were chatting and there were pauses between, which got longer. And longer. Then she heard the bed banging against the wall. She grinned. She would be teasing her friend about getting laid tomorrow. But meantime, she tried to give them their privacy. She put her headphones on and listened to some music.
Def an explanation for that one!
After a bit, she saw some flashing lights out of the corner of her eye. So she looked to see what was happening. The sky was a really odd colour, almost a green and there were lights sparking thru that. Almost like a fireworks show, but … not? She had no frame of reference to put it into. She watched until the lights stopped and the sky went back to the almost twilight colours.
She thought about going inside then, cuzz she didn’t want to deal with mosquitos or gnats.
But then she saw the coach and four come back around on her street. She looked to see if there was an insignia or crest on the coach, so she could look it up online and find out what group it was with. But there wasn’t anything. Ok weird and weirder. The coach went back to the highway.
She took off her headphones to see if her neighbours were done having sex. Their room was quiet. So she went inside.
She dropped off her magazine and headphones and went down the building’s hallway to see if there was any mail. Before she went into the bath and retired for the night.
She was looking thru the flyers and envelopes to see if there was anything important, when her neighbour came in. The one she thought had been having sex just a few minutes ago. The only one she could have heard having sex a few minutes ago.
She grinned and asked what her neighbour had been up to, figuring she’d get some dish. Her neighbour said she’d been at her mom’s and just returned. So she asked if someone was staying with her at her apt. Nope. So she went with her back down the hall. Made sure there were no surprises waiting for her friend. Nope.
Ok maybe someone had been watching tv a bit loud lol.
She shrugged it off. And went to take a bath.
She liked to lay in an almost dark room and listen to music, an oldies station, when she had a bath.
She was laying there, with her eyes closed, and listening to the music. When she heard voices just outside her bathroom, where nobody was. A man and a woman seemed to be having an argument. She grabbed a towel, and went to investigate. But no one was in her unit. Nothing was disturbed.
It was a really strange night. She was confused and a little upset. But she put on her long tee and got into bed. And shortly afterwards, she went to sleep.
All that happened thru the night was her being woken by thunder and lightning.
Well… she had heard that storms were conduits. So maybe nothing she had seen was real. Or was it?

The Rudest Ghosts

You can blame TV… I love to watch shows where houses and bldgs are haunted and the crew comes in to document the “proof”, the “evidence”. So I always thought ghosts were all supposed to be scary. Till I moved into my current house. My spooks seem to enjoy embarrassing or annoying more than scaring.
You see they seem to have read too many comedians rather than Jacobian dramas. I do appreciate the humour of writers like Moliere, but it gets old after a bit.
When in life, these ghosts were probably the type who kept putting woopie cushions on your seat or had fart buzzers. So having company over is … noisome. I warn people at the door, just in case they feel playful today.
And it’s not just that, they also like to make it seem like someone desperately needs a bath, like it’s been a year or so since they had one, when you go to hug someone. It makes it a challenge to finish the hug, even though you know it’s not the person.
I rarely have overnight guests. Cuzz the last time I did, as they lay on the bed, they were right on top of a pair of lovers at the cum stage. It made it more unfortunate that the dear guests were my pastor and his wife. I have to give them cudos for taking it with grace. But they haven’t stayed since. Somehow they really got busy.
And then there’s the main floor bathroom. I have a few guests over and everytime they go in there, they get treated to the sound of someone wretchng or vomitting. My one dear friend was pregnant when last she was here. Poor thing! She joined in the noise making. I directed her to the upstairs bathroom for the rest of the night.
For a lovely treat, the ladies who wear skirts get them lifted over their heads. It was bearable, till one friend who was wearing a longer skirt had sadly left her panties at home. I loaned her a pair of mine for the evening. I’m ever so grateful none of my lady friends wear butt plugs to friends’ houses. It’d be more than I’d want to know about them.
These were just not the demonic or ordinary poltergeists I had heard of before I moved here. No dishes were broken by them, though an occasional glass dropped when my guests were surprised by the noises or smells. No doors or windows were slammed, though the occasional guest left in a huff and were emphatic in their exit.
And either I have a bunch of sensitives as friends, or these ghosts are really powerful beings who like to prank more than scare. Who knew?
I’ve tried to sell the place a few times. Obv not cuzz I’m scared. But I’m a social being and I’m not certain I want to have the kind of friends who’d find this funny for long. Would you? But who would go to a viewing and tolerate that enough that they’d actually buy the house, actually move in?
None of the paranormal groups that I’ve cold called buy what I’m saying. I’ve gotten a few stern lectures about not mocking them for their beliefs. That the supernatural is real. And I’ll know it some day.
I didn’t know what to say. I was telling the truth. My truth. They were telling theirs.
I did try to sage the place, but all that did was make things worse. Ugh!
I’m about fed up enough to burn the house for the insurance. Do you know any arsonists?

The Inept Incubus

Adrian checked the hall before he went around the corner. He could have sworn that there was no one in it. But he had missed the couple in the corner who were making out. The man shivered and the girl wept. Oooops!
So he went into the bedroom and tried to make things happen as they were meant to. He crawled onto the lump on the bed, and made the human moan. OMG! It was a man! He crawled back off, quickly!
And tried the next room. Well it was a woman, but she had to be 90, if a day! Adrian had been told to get a woman pregnant, and somehow he doubted it would be a 90 year old woman who should be inseminated.
So he went to the next room. Aha! Now this woman was the right age. So he crawled on her. But his head start had him so wound up, he blew his load, before he was even fully on top! (ermergerd!) He blushed as he heard his brothers, who had been watching, howl with laughter.
The woman had woken and was looking at him like he was a clown. He felt like one too.
Finally he calmed down and tried again. Son of a beee!! He got it in the wrong hole! Well you can’t make a woman pregnant with it there, wrong or right. He bowed his head and wanted to crawl under the bed when he heard his brothers howling again. Even the woman was laughing now!
So she guided him to the right hole and helped him get it in. Ahhh there we go! He grooved, and he bumped, he humped and rolled. And had to catch his breath because it was taking so long. He could hear snickers from the peanut gallery. One of his brothers asked if he needed help? He shook his head and went back at it again.
But though she was having a fun time, he just couldn’t place a load in her. He bowed his head and gave up.
Adrian snapped his fingers and she went off to sleep. He wanked off and just as he was coming, he humped it into her so she received most of his jism.
As soon as he was done, he slipped back outside and went back to his brothers. Past a security guard who grabbed his own crotch as he walked by. And a cleaning lady, who ran a portable vacuum over her mound. Adrian saw and all he could say was “Ugh!”
When he returned to his brothers, they were hooting at him. He was so many shades of red, it was ridiculous. But he’d got it done. Now to see if his seed took hold. His older brother said it was his only chance. If it didn’t happen, someone else would be taking a turn.
He watched, and her belly swelled. So he took a deep breath. In and out. And waited for the due date.
She was in pain, she was crying, and finally she was pushing… And all that could be heard thru the halls of hell and the hospital she was in was a very loud FART!!
Adrian sat on the floor and cried. Her belly went back down to size.
Adrian’s oldest brother stepped forward to have the next try. Adrian’s one turn was a flop.

Is it Magic, or Not?


It’s a kind of magic
It’s a kind of magic
A kind of magic – no way

Sleight of hand and misdirection, a flash of cards, a pea in a cup, or rings running thru each other. Great for street magicians.

It’s a kind of magic
It’s a kind of magic
A kind of magic – no way

Illusion- the game of the show and the dance between the audience and performer. The trust and respect while you know for sure the star is putting one over on you. You see the power of technology. You see the theater.

It’s a kind of magic
It’s a kind of magic
A kind of magic – no way

The healer and walker of worlds who tries to manage the prayers of the people. You see the power of faith, in the hierarchy of the tribe.

It’s a kind of magic
It’s a kind of magic
A kind of magic – no way

Those who believe beyond the fantasy, who practice a craft old as time. Where chaos and order battle for our minds. Where the temple is obvious in their mind.

It’s a kind of magic
It’s a kind of magic
A kind of magic – no way

And then there’s the one who has made a deal, where power is demonic. And you have to wonder what the price was… when they gave up their soul for the show.

It’s a kind of magic
It’s a kind of magic
A kind of magic – no way

The society of magicians under the show, where secrets and illusion are the calling card. Where they believe they have their craft and demon in chains. Only to get slapped down to earth with reality.

It’s a kind of magic
It’s a kind of magic
A kind of magic – no way

And the lovers who see the heart in the craft and forget that underneath, it’s driven by supernatural beings.

It’s a kind of magic
It’s a kind of magic
A kind of magic – no way

And into that world, walked a woman who was one of the few female magicians who made it to the top. One of the few who the brotherhood accepted. Because she had grafted hard. Because she had shown her worth. But mostly because she had dressed as a man and no one knew. Till her final show. She was amazing in her craft. And they were stunned when her last reveal was that she was a woman. Just before she disappeared forever.

She called herself Demonica, but her real name was Gloria.

It’s a kind of magic
It’s a kind of magic
A kind of magic – no way

One dream, one soul, one prize
One goal, one golden glance of what should be
It’s a kind of magic
One shaft of light that shows the way
No mortal man can win this day
It’s a kind of magic
The bell that rings inside your mind
Is challenging the doors of time
It’s a kind of magic
The waiting seems eternity
The day will dawn of sanity
Ooh ooh ooh ooh
Is this a kind of magic?
It’s a kind of magic
There can be only one
This rage that lasts a thousand years
Will soon be done
This flame that burns inside of me
I’m hearing secret harmonies
It’s a kind of magic
The bell that rings inside your mind
Is challenging the doors of time
It’s a kind of magic
It’s a kind of magic
This rage that lasts a thousand years
Will soon be, will soon be, will soon be done
This is (this is) a kind (a kind) of magic (yeah)
There can be only one one one one
This rage that lasts a thousand years
Will soon be done – done
Magic – it’s a kind of magic
It’s a kind of magic
Magic magic magic (magic)
Ha ha ha haa – it’s magic
Ha haa
Yeah yeah
It’s a kind of magic

why presenters present?

Why do Presenters Present?

Bottomline, there are probably as many reasons as there are presenters, but there are some larger premises in their motives:

  • they are kinksters

– and there is something new they want to share with the audience
– and/or they want to teach/spread the moral code they support.
Leather, P R I C K, R A C K, The Old Guard…
– they want to build a community

  • they have a business or art they want to promote and the kink community is where they have chosen to display it. They figure it’s the best target audience for what they’re providing.
  • BUT they might also be a predator, looking in a disenfranchised community for an easy target. BDSM and kink might be legal where you live, but it’s not everywhere. It may be legal, but there are still jobs and circumstances where you just don’t want it to be known, which makes you an easy target also. And we do tell newbs to go to events and munches, right? So where better to find newbs? En masse?

I’d guess the only way to know is to watch their behaviour over time and circumstance.

We need to remember that being a presenter might give them cachet they use to pad their resume or inflate their business, to get their name in people’s minds as the first thing people think of.
But very few presenters are there to make your life safer or easier.

  • They get hooked on being treated like an authority. Like a King/Queen for a day. which can lead to patterns of criminal/criminal-like behaviour.
  • pathological lying – lies and secrets
  • assault, rape, molestation – harm to others and themselves.
  • careless disregard for the safety of the humans involved. criminal or gross neglect
  • becoming people who influence and manipulate the audience to their POV by taking seats of power, false humility, charitable acts. etc. So ask whythey want your good opinion of them and what they gain by it.

And at the base of it all, you find a common factor:


Your money and presence support these events, so please be sure you put it where you aren’t forwarding bad behaviour. Watch how they act and who they associate with. Because in business, govt and predatory circles, you know they support each other. You’re known by who your friends are.
Please keep that in mind.

As Oprah says, “People show you who they are, so believe them”, and try hard to do it the first time out.
Because yes people can change, yes people can make mistakes, but someone who is that arrogant does it repeatedly. And the only thing that stops them, is being in jail.

. . . .

[Mastercard’s priceless ads][]
[definition of cachet][]

2 a : a characteristic feature or quality conferring prestige regarded the possession of real estate as a cachet of respectability
b : prestige
being rich … doesn’t have the cachet it used to —Truman Capote

Plastic Breeding

Plastic Breeding (a story)

Before he went to bed at night, he put a long condom on and made sure it was tight enough it would stay, no matter how often he turned over. Then he looked at a few sexy pix and went to sleep with a smile on his face. Hoping it would work…
During the night, he was aroused by his dreams and had a few emissions. And the condom did it’s job.
In the morning, he collected the droppings and took them to the lab.
The lab tech smiled and gave him a chip so he could follow the case.

She arrived at the lab and lay on the exam table. The doctor collected eggs from her ovary and put them in a petrie dish. He added the sterilized and sorted sperm and sealed the dish. She was given the chip as well.

When the zygotes were ready, he put them into the plastic bag and hooked up the feeding tubes and the sterilized fluids the fetuses would grow in.
And waited…

A few months down the road, he separated the fetuses into individual bags for the last part of the “pregnancy”. And waited for the “birth”.

When the 40 weeks were up, the doctor opened the bags and lifted the babies out. Made each cry and put them into the isolets. And made a note on the case files to contact the parents for pick up.

The doctor was quite happy about the outcome of this case. He’d be using thes donors again.

Artifacts (a story)


Stacy thought she had the greatest job in the world! She worked for an agency that collected artifacts. She’d always wanted to be an archaeologist or anthropologist. And she loved hearing the provenance on the pieces she collected.
Today she was supposed to pick up a few things that had complicated histories. Things that were supposed to be magical. So she picked up a few lead lined boxes from the warehouse and hit the road.

Her first stop was to pick up a book. It was said that a dark magician had spelled it.
a spelled book
Stacy was very careful not to touch the book with her bare hands. She didn’t want to be drawn into the spell by accident. She put it into a small case and into the back of her van. And called into the agency to confirm a successful pick up.

The magical wardrobe was her next quest. She used a dolley and wore gloves again. She also padded the wardrobe, so that it didn’t come in contact with the other object. Last thing she wanted was their power mixing and creating a hybrid. When she had it properly stored, she called the agency again to confirm it’s pick up.

A picture is worth a thousand words had always been her fave saying. But she had never meant it as a magical rune. She watched the edges of the frame carefully. Funny, but she had thought the wardrobe would be the hardest pick up. This picture frame was unwieldly and had almost come to ruin a few times getting it in the van. But it was finally in, so she called the agency to report in.

The collar was gorgeous and very tempting. And she did find herself wondering if she would meet it’s standards. So she asked one of the locals to walk her to the van. She wrapped the box inside a silver mesh bag and put it in a bigger box. That shut down that thinking! So she called in. And reported the extra efforts needed. She was told to get a snack or a drink and not get into the van until a supervisor arrived.

When the supervisor arrived, he was driving what looked to be a refridgerated truck. But it was modified. The storage area was lead lined. He wasn’t taking any chances, since the collar had been so powerful.

Which meant that Stacy didn’t have to drive back to the warehouse now. She could look around the town she was in a bit. Just to sight-see. She always enjoyed people watching, so she was looking forward to it.

Stacy found a bar at the end of her day and had a dinner plate there and because she was driving, she had coffee. She was chatty with the bartender and they were having fun flirting. She might have taken him up on his hints, but she was kind of confused about how many of her thoughts about what he would do to her were so submissive. Not her at all! So she called the agency and told them what was happening. Her supervisor came back to collect her. And brought another driver for her van. It was hosed down with a special solution of silver oxide, holy water and sage tea. It was blessed by several priests and shamans.
And she was checked into a hotel and given some herbal tea to drink and told to take a shower with the solution as well. This was done several times during the next few hours. The submissive thoughts lessened after each shower. And she was getting pretty crabby with her supervisor.

As a final test, she was sent back to the bar, to the hot bartender. This time she felt a bit stiff at first and he noticed she was more aggressive in her flirting. He grinned and offered to take her up on her advances. She took a rain check, said she had to be at work early and still had a few hours drive ahead, with her boss. So she got his card and made a date for the next time she was in town.

And went back to the hotel to meet the supervisor. She’d passed his test. So they went back to the warehouse and made sure the collar was in the area of the place for the stronger artifacts.

Days like this were what put an extra spring in her step. Otherwise, she’d just be a delivery driver. But she was glad it was over, nonetheless.

A Spelled Book

It looked like any other book on the shelves of this old store I went to. But the moment I picked it up, i knew my life was about to change.
I have a guilty pleasure when it comes to reading. When I just want to kill some time, I read gothic romances. (Vampires, angels and demons, gargoyles, werebeasts, ghosts… ya know?) So I was all set to like this one. The only thing different was, it was a hard cover. A first edition. I was kind of excited by that. It was the first one I’d ever owned with the provenance papers given to me at the point of sale.
So when I got home, I looked up the author. He was apparently well known before his death in the late 1700s. There were rumours of black magic surrounding his life and death. I was excited. And I wanted to see how this genre had changed since the early days.
I finally cracked open the book. And it wasn’t an exaggeration to say that either. It sounded about like you broke a cracker in half. It seemed like I was the first one to read this, or at least in a good long time.
I glanced at the pages, flipping thru them, then skimming the last few pages. Ok so undead was sealed and set aflame and some girl was mourning him. Pretty predictable but that’s ok. Like I said, I like these books. They’re an easy read.
I put the book on my bedside table so next time I wanted a light read, it was ready. Which turned out to be that night, before I went to sleep.
The castle was described. Eerie, damp, covered in ivy and almost a ruin. Surrounded by a park. Perfect. It was night and the heroine came by in her car, I guess lost, because there really was no reason given for her being near the place. Not so far anyway.
The car stalls, so she goes to the castle for help. Just as the sun sets.
The major domo comes to the door and tries to get her to leave quickly. But she really needed the help. By then it was too late.
The master was awake. The major domo went white. And she started to worry.
I was tired, And pretty sure I already knew the plot, so I went to sleep.
Wouldn’t you know, the plot followed me into my dreams.
I was now the girl at the door, looking into the black eyes of the master. Feeling sure I’d met him before. And he was grinning a wicked grin at me. He looked like he wanted to devour me. And other than being nervous from the major domo’s fear, I wasn’t thinking that it was a bad idea. He was the perfect romantic dark hero. Or villain. The dark handsome type. And with the smirk on his face, I was thinking … villain.
I was looking for cues to tell me which he was. But other than the major domo’s fear, there really wasn’t much of anything.
But I was worried enough to wake up in real life. Then giggle at myself. I fell back to sleep and let the dream continue at will.
For the next several nights, I read of her and the master and then dreamt of the master and I talking, flirting, making out. It was an old fashioned book, so it was written for that audience. He had to seduce her. She was a “good girl”. Maybe, probably even a virgin. I was getting more heated. But then, I’m not a virgin.
Finally he got her dress off and things really began. He made promises he’d never be able to keep and he knew it. She believed him. And I went along with it for the romance. He’d take care of her. He’d always be with her. Their love was greater than anything the world could do to it. Eternal love! Sure…
So they had sex! And I went, “finally!” And looked forward to my dream. Gawd! I’d been masturbating for days over this book!
The next night, I saw strange letters or runes on the page. I tried to google them, but they weren’t available. But there were links to magic papers and books. So I thought I had found that the author was in fact into magic. I touched the letters and rubbed my hands over them. Then went to sleep.
I dreamt of the book again. I was in the castle. In the master’s bedroom. And we were lying on the bed, post coitus. He slipped his hands around my neck and kissed me hard and deep. I almost lost my breath. Then all i saw was dark, and his face.
Nothing else. His head was floating. It was a good long time before I woke up. I was spellbound. By his eyes. I was stuck in the book! How could that happen??

The Magical Wardrobe

I love to go to estate sales. But this particular one had a fascinating story. The house had been in the same family for generations. Which was kind of odd, considering the story that went along with it. If I had had the deciding vote for the family, I’d have left the place long ago. Probably burned it to the ground on my way out the door too.
Let’s see what you think…
It had all the watermarks of a murderous lineage. Yet there was never any evidence that anyone had died. That might have been ok in the olden days. People were lynched from this family after all. But more recently they actually had to find proof that someone had died, vs walked out of the house of their own free will. Yet some of the people who had supposedly done this walkabout were in pretty rough shape. Just had a baby an hour before, or were almost on their death bed. They stayed in the same room. Nobody outside the house knew which room it was.
And there were also ghost stories about the house. If noone had died, then maybe the place had haints or demons. And was scaring people off in the dead of the night.
I just knew I was never going to stay there after dark. Not on my own.
The house had been thoroughly explored by people looking for blood, for false walls and hidden passages. And also had had ghost hunters in, looking for signs of the haints and demons. Nothing, absolutely nothing.
There had been a few psychics… or should I say people who claimed to be psychic? They went thru the house, picking up their “vibes”. And they left all kinds of theories, but nothing came close to the truth.
So that is what I walked into at the estate sale. A house and family of mystery. But I wasn’t going to be alone in the house. And I had my alarm set on my watch, so I’d be out of there, and off the land before twilight. I was taking no chances! (Have you ever noticed that “night” is a common piece of a story? Dead time or the witching hour are always in the dark of the night? Like nothing evil or unexplained ever happens during the day?!)
So I was wandering thru the house, going thru the basement, and looking at the tools, some of which were antiques. None of the tools looked like they had been used for anything, let alone had anything that looked like blood on. They were in pristine condition. I hit them with a portable blue light I had brought along for just this type of opportunity. No blood, I swear! Not even in the joints.
I was wandering thru the kitchen and the dining room, looking at the dishes. They were gorgeous sets. And considering the luck of the family, I found it funny that so many of the sets were intact. They’d sell for a fortune! No ghosts or demons were smashing the dishes here. And it didn’t seem like they were feuding in the kitchen or at the dining table either. If you’ve ever lived in a dysfunctional household, you know that meals are a hot zone. So seriously, I was beginning to doubt BOTH those explanations for the disappearances.
So where the hell did they go?
Was it a curse, maybe? Or did they just have a really great mulcher in a shed somewhere? I planned to go over the grounds before I left.
I wandered up the stairs, to the servants quarters first. And they were pretty well treated, if their quarters were anything to judge by. They had lovely furniture, and well spaced and airy, comfortable rooms. And the most beds in one room were two. Mind, they could have added more, but got rid of them before the sale. So I checked the floor for marks. Where bed legs have been sitting for years and left a divet in the flooring. But there were only enough for 1-2 beds max. Seemed like the servants were well cared for and there were enough that the chores probably didn’t take up too much time in their day. At least not in the house. I doubted that the house servants were killing the family for vengeance. They probably loved the job and as a result, the family as well.
And finally, I went to the family bedrooms. The nursery was lovely. The cots were well lept. They had a caretaker suite for the nanny or governess and a classroom. And there was a patio for the kids to get air on. With a nice suite of lawn furniture. And swings and a sand pit too. The kids seemed cared for as well.
All that was left to explore was the master suite and the area for guests. I went to the master suite first. It was pretty and functional, but considering when the house had been built, there was nothing too ornate, or intimidating about it. The furniture was old. Probably antique, Someone had been taking good care of it. Probably the servants.
I went to the first guest room and found a lovely set there as well. I so enjoyed running my hands over the wood. It was all beautiful furniture and in fantastic condition. Very well cared for.
Either these people were OCD in their attempts to keep up appearances in front of the servants, or they weren’t the family of monsters they were claimed to be.The estate was well cared for and clean. Nothing looked out of place. Just the usual traffic of a household could be seen. A wear on the floors where people would walk and live. The furniture used, but not harshly.
I had run out of things to look for to explain why the people had disappeared.
Until I came to the last suite of rooms…
As usual, my hands were loving the furniture. It really was gorgeous after all. Over the bed and desk, over the chairs and the nightstand.
Until I came to the wardrobe…
I found a really strange design, that looked like runes. I opened the one side and saw the drawers and shelves for laying clothes out. And even a press area. For things that were freshly ironed. It was so gorgeous.
Then I opened the door for the hanging area…
And a hurricane force wind sucked me thru the door and into some strange land…. Where I found the people who had been missing. Nobody was dead, in fact they were well. They were still well! Though it had been many years in some cases. They certainly hadn’t left the other plane as well off as they were now either.
Back in the house. people were starting to ask about me. Starting to ask where I had gone. They had counted heads at the door and were trying to be sure everyone got out, before they locked up for the day. And I couldn’t be found.
The police were called, an investigation was carried out. And nothing could be explained. I was just gone.
Another story to add to the house.
Nobody had a clue to look at the wardrobe. It was sitting there waiting for the next person to open the hanging portion of it’s door. And now there was no way to tell if it would be in this house, or another.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

Esp this one.
It was worthy of a book or two of how you felt when you first saw it. The colours lept off the page at you. The strokes were breath taking, meticulous. Gentle and yet forward in their capture of the subject. Bold, daring, imaginative, sensual, erotic. Gorgeous! Unique!
It was no great surprise that people were gathered in front of it for the fact that two people were having sex. Most adults would at least pause. Give it a glance and the nervous might titter at the content.
But then the audience should have turned away and gone on to the rest of the gallery. Don’t you think?
It was the breathtaking technical skill that captured you. A true Master had done this. You could tell as soon as you saw it.
But it wasn’t a cold superficial capture of sex. It was so emotionally mature that you felt the passion leak off the page and could feel your own sexual response to the couple’s heat.
It made you wonder if the couple had indeed been right in front of the artist. Right in the middle of making love, or more like rutting in a very primal act of capture and fucking.
It was raw, powerful and yet poignant. You could see that they looked at each other tenderly. They stroked each other softly between the harsh and hard, punishing pace and vigour of their rutting.
Steaming. HAAAAAWWTT!!
And that was without the story that went with the picture, on every tour. People wanted to see the picture. For it’s own merit. It was a brilliant piece of art.
But with the spell…
With the story of the spell…
An ape could have drawn three lines and a circle on a canvas and people would have gone for the story.
The audience went around the block. For days they lined up. Waiting to see this picture, hear this story. Tours were booked for a year ahead. It was a legend piece.
And as the coupe de grace, there was a sympathetic factor. The author had died under unclarified circumstances. They never did discover if it was suicide or murder. A young woman who had lived what seemed to be an exemplary life, just trying to be what she loved and few women of her era could be. An artist. Even with her geniosity, it was a hard row for her to hoe. But some might say that was the day. Though it still seems to be a struggle for talented women, it’s not impossible today. It might not be good tactic, even today, for a female artist to choose this topic. And her excelling at it might offend some. I mean, let’s be real, right?
So all those factors. And you’d have the fans and the protestors.
Why did they complain?
Sexual content brings out the prudes, right? Obv we all have sex or there wouldn’t be 7 billion or more people on earth. N’est-ce pas? (shrug) Besides, sex sells.
And they were both into it, a man and a woman. So could the feminists scream? Um maybe not as much?
The author being a woman brings out haters too. Art is a man’s world they’d say. Bring ten male artists to this one woman. But we don’t listen to that kind. That they exist is bad enough. Let’s not give them a platform.
Then there are the superstitious. Though with the story that this picture had with it of past showings, they might actually have a leg to stand on.
So there’d be doomsday prophets and preachers about sin and devils. Ugh!
But what really got the shit show rolling was the victims’ families… The story always brought out people who claimed to be dearly beloved by those who were harmed by this painting… Were they close? Does it matter if the story is true?
But then you haven’t heard the story yet, have you?
Just the fact that one exists should be bad enough. Shouldn’t it?
Oh you want to hear the story, don’t you?
It’s quite short, but is it true? Judge for yourself!

There is a spelled picture of lovers. It is said that if you touch it, you either lose your mind, or you have a heart attack or stroke. Your brain cannot handle the images you see in your head. YOU DIE OF FEAR!! So whatever you do, don’t touch it for gawd’s sake!!

Is the story true? Or is the fable one to keep many hands from damaging a beautiful piece of art? Or stealing it?

The Collar

There was a rumour that the collar had a history. But it was nothing anyone could prove.
The story was that those who wore it, who had the wrong head space, would be punished by the collar. They would be choked to death.
What is the wrong head space? How can you judge that? It’s so subjective, right? Or is it?
Well this collar was meant for people who engaged in specific types of play. Not for the type who went out for an eve at the club and got spanked. Not for the hubby and wife who spanked and tickled each other in cuffs either. Not even for people who were using bdsm to get laid.
This collar seemed to be handed down thru the groups who engaged in body mod, body art, … things that were more culturally bound. That were seen as group identifiers.
So the collar was intended for people who bonded with not only the group, but also the culture, the ethos. The groups were military, militia, warriors, gangs, prisoners. People who were bonded by ordeals and quest or vision seeking. It was said to once have been worn by a warrior who had gone thru the sundance and died with the collar on. The shaman of the group blessed the collar with the honour, courage and strength.
Those who survived wearing the collar were those who were trying to exemplify those values. Who were trying to rise out of a bad situation, and seeking the help and blessing of the gods to do it. Who were trying to change for the better and give something to the world, the universe. Those who believed.
Those who did not survive the collar were spiritually bankrupt. They were all about hedonism, rather than spirituality.
And knowing this was the risk, the requirement of the collar, the people still came to be tested by it. It got to the point where the guardians started prescreening the supplicants. Asking questions about their health and motives. Turning some away.
Those people were becoming more and more upset. They thought they were entitled to all possible experiences. That none should be denied them. Nothing could stand in the way of their pleasure or thrill. The greater the risk, the better the reward.
So they stole the collar and started trying it on…
They thought by only wearing it for a minute, they’d be immune to the curse. But they weren’t. Every one of them with skewed motives was found dead by the next morning.
At first the police and coroner thought the cause of death was poison. But no matter what test they ran, they couldn’t find any trace of such a thing. There was no medical explanation for the deaths.
And this day added to the myth of the collar.
The guardian of the collar became ever more careful of who got hold of it. And ever more careful of even knowing where the collar was, unless he had vetted them by the standards set. Then and only then were they shown the collar.

Blue Chattel

Blue Chattel (a story)

She called him sache, thing.
He called her Patroa, female boss.
Out in the world, sache presented the same as any other man did around him. He had a job, a car, nice clothes, pocket money… and a swanky address. He belonged to all the right clubs. They were good for business contacts. He played racket ball and golf. Those were the games successful people, esp men, played.
He walked with confidence and a macho swagger.
You would never know, unless you were his secretary or ISP that he called or texted his mother every time he had to make a decision.
You wouldn’t know that she shopped for his clothes, his food, every need he had in his life.
It wasn’t because he lacked intelligence or drive. It was because he had always had it that way. Or else.
Patroa collected his pay packet, paid his bills, and gave him a small allowance. I’m talking about a bubble gum or two a week. Yet he had a six figure income. He had a credit card to pay for any wandering needs, like taxis or town cars, when he had to entertain for work and drink. . Or to pick up lunch if he had a business lunch. But he had to call her to use it. If there was ever a bill on the account that she didn’t know about, he lost privileges the following week.
She also paid for an escort agency to send a hostess or date if he needed a woman for business dealings. Someone to play his girlfriend when he needed to entertain. He looked them over and sighed. They didn’t much interest him. They were his mother’s idea of what a woman should be, not his. They were svelt and wore a tea dress or a power suit well. He liked curves on a woman. They had shoulder length hair that they could easily put into a chignon. He hated chignons. They wore pearl chokers. He hated pearl chokers on a woman. And they made up their faces in the latest fashion. He didn’t like make up on a woman.
He was given no money to date women he liked.
Every week, he went to his mother’s house. They had a meeting in which he was called to the carpet for the length of his hair, fingernails, whether he was shaved properly. In otherwords, he was inspected. If he passed muster, he got dessert. If he did not, he barely got soup and toast. He learned to eat before he got there, because he hardly ever passed muster.
If he ever disagreed or second-guessed her decision, his brother suddenly showed up and took over his day’s bookings and told him to go home to Patroa. She was waiting.
He was barely in the door when she was already hitting him. She was smart enough to hit him where his clothes covered. It was the same treatment he got every time he got a bad grade in school, which to her was anything lower than an A-.
Patroa controlled sache’s life. She always had.
He had no way of breaking free of her. Or so he thought. And that is all that counts. It was the life he knew. He was sache after all.
Where was dad in all this? Long gone. He had knocked up a one night stand, or at least that was his POV. And all his life, sache paid for that. His mother wanted him brought up “right”. So she made all his decisions for him. And he mostly complied. What was the option? He didn’t know anything else.

Dommie Chats

Dommie Chats

  • with an angel

(having lit a candle and gathered my thoughts, I make my approach)

I call an angel to my side
to hear my supplication

  • with a demon

(having drawn a pentagram, laid a circle of salt and lit my candles)

I call a demon to my feet
to obey the laws of nature and order

  • with a beast

(having gathered a leash and a mouthguard)

Here beastie, come beastie!

< here’s your treat, beastie!

  • with a chattel

(having gathered my toys and tools, I call my property and command obedience)

Come now, thing # 1
Today we’re working on obedience training

  • with a friend

(having called and chatted for awhile, to catch up)

I invite you to come over to my place
Would you like a cuppa and cake?

  • with a lover

(having dressed to be sexy and mimic availability)

I invite you to be intimate with me
Come closer, if you wish to make love to me?

These are all conversations. All wanting my attention, my time and possibly even their own level of intimacy. But how would it work if I said and did the same thing, every time I engaged? I’d be in a heap of trouble, and be seen as a bossy lady. Don’t you think?

realistic negotiations

Realistic Negotiation & Possible Places to Call Stop/Red

Maybe we need to review some things, because even experienced players are getting caught up in CVs and that isn’t cool.
NB – This POV is in terms of prevention of misunderstanding, not an afterwards assessment of what someone might or might not have done right or wrong.

So at the beginning…

  • Someone being attracted to you is not a bad thing. You aren’t responsible for their feelings. and you have no control over them.
  • Someone having fantasies about you is also not yours to control.
  • Someone complimenting generally about what they like about you is also not a bad thing.

Egs of appropriate compliments for a non-sexual relationship might be:
(I’m open to correction, but this is my comfort zone) Rule of thumb is if you won’t say it to your famly member, don’t say it to a non-lover.

You look lovely tonight. Did you do something different with your hair? Is that a new outfit? What lovely shoes! You’re beaming! It’s good to see you looking happy and in good health. I hope that’s the case. That’s a good colour on you. Your hairdo really compliments your eyes/face shape

egs appropriate compliments for a sexual relationship
(again my comfort zone)

Your clothes are hot tonight. They suit your body really well. That colour lipstick is so sexy. You know I love it when you leave your hair loose so I can grab you with it. You look fit today. Have you been working out? Dieting? You look amazing.

humiliation words like:

bitch get over here and drop to your knees. I wanna fuck you/choke you till you pass out, whose my toy, what a cunt you are!

See the difference?

. . . .

  • flirting is a cool opener to an adult relationship. I’m a flirt for eg. But when I flirt, we both know what our relationship expectations are. It could just be playing, or it could be a preclude to sex. Just be clear.
  • Someone saying they’d be open to a sexual relationship with you, if you are up for it is also not a bad thing. If it’s in civil language.

ie I’d like to explore an intimate relationship with you. I’d like to be your lover. Are you open to that? Can we discuss our expectations of what that would mean for us?

I’d like to explore a D/s, M/s relationship with you. I’d like to be under consideration as your …………..

(IMO whether or not you have sex, this is a sexual or min intimate dynamic.)

. . . .

this is a stop/red point. If only one person is interested in a sexual contact, or relationship, or heading in that direction, walk away. Do not engage further in situations where you are in a sexually hot zone. Or in a play situation where you cannot walk out freely at anytime. Be fair to them. Might want to be clothed when they’re around. You could even insist on chaperones. Who you trust, who will step in if any sexual advances are made. . Do not agree to be bound by a person who has expressed sexual iinterest in you, if you’re not into them. Don’t get high when you’re alone with them.
(again, my comfort zone)

. . . .

You don’t have to be so specific there is no spontaneity in your relationship. You don’t even have to have an ongoing conversation.
But you can and should specify what activity you are willing to engage with them in. BEFORE you initiate the intimacy. There are types of sexual acts (kissing, petting, oral, genital, anal) that are very different and nothing to do with each other. They have their own stopping points. And consent for one doesn’t imply consent for another. IMO
Other than a kiss on the cheek or a hug from the side and holding a hand, affection can be an integrative area. Affection by itself doesn’t imply consent to sexual acts. You need to have that chat first.

. . . .

Another stop/red point
If you aren’t able to say the words so they can understand you, you probably shouldn’t be having sex with them.

. . . .

A second stop/red point here
Their arousal doesn’t imply any obligation to you. If you aren’t interested or willing to follow thru, then stop. Be nice, but firm. And on the other side, don’t whine! Seriously!

. . . .

Having given consent, you are able to withdraw it at any and all points.
For whatever reason too. It’s not the greatest feeling in the world to be hot and going for bear when your partner withdraws, but take it like an adult and stop. You might get another chance if you respect their boundaries. If you show genuine concern for them. Pretty sure you won’t get another chance if you don’t though.
Reasons why someone might want to stop:

Feeling unwell; the activity hurting you in a way that distracts rather than enhances the sensuality of the sex; something is interupting you; your attention is scattered; a memory of abuse has interfered with your enjoyment of this partner. And frankly, you realized you’re not grooving the way you should be is legit as well. Sorry, but closing your eyes and thinking of home aint sex these days.

. . . .

Talk about what language means check in with me, or a full do not continue. If you cannot communcate, you probably shouldn’t be having sex. Or engagng in any adult play. IMO def should not be!
egs of things to say that tell your partner you aren’t into that particular touch or they should check in now!!:

ouch! Ugh not a fan of that. Could we try this instead? That hurts, gawd that’s embarrassing! Could we do something else?

. . . .

and RED! Still talking? That’s a good sign.
But before you engage, go away and think about why YOU want this. Why with this person. Take a cold shower! Yes I mean it!

  • are you hot for them or are you people pleasing?
  • would you both win if you kept going? I mean cuzz it’s not just about you!

Think about if the two of you are coming from the same place. If you aren’t then WALK AWAY!!!

. . . .

and lastly. You are adults… are you willing to live with and deal with the consequences of engaging with them?

  • have you asked if they have been tested?
  • have you asked aobut birth control? Or shared parenting? Or abortion policies? Or have you agreed peter aint getting near vagay?

. . . .

1rst events do not mean 2nd events which do not mean 3rd events etc.Your larger consents are in play, usually, but specific consent is still required. BY LAW!! (at least here in Canada)

. . . .

There! I can’t think of anything else… can you?

So there should be no more CVs, right?