Jason Z. Christie's Blog, page 8
June 6, 2016
Penultimate Hustle L.A. - Chapter 20
Chapter 20 - The Event – Part 1
Spirits were at an all-time high with the members of Ultimate Hustle on the night of the event. Everyone was immaculately attired, and looking very sexy indeed. The twins wore matching, formfitting strapless numbers, but Mia was in white, and Gia in black. Their make-up followed the same scheme, and they had even practiced acting in parallel, mirroring each other’s movements.In response, Lateesha cleverly wore a black and white checkered, long-sleeved dress that ended right below the curve of her ass. The overall effect was that of a constantly shifting optical illusion, hypnotic and difficult to look away from. None of them wore panties. Candy, for reasons of her own, was wearing an all-black, Zorro-style pants suit of silk, with a flowing cape, eyemask, and flamenco hat surrounded by dingleballs. On her right hip was a coiled leather whip. Despite her flamboyance, her most striking feature was her face, which was painted like a Mexican Dia De Los Muertos skull. Her shiny black pointed boots were equipped with flint-laced pads in the heels and toes that clacked and sparked when she walked. She would be a tough act to follow. The men wore tasteful matching tuxedos for the most part, although Chris carried a gold-topped cane, wore a leather top hat, and had flared lace sleeves with a matching handkerchief. On the bridge of his nose, purely for effect, sat rectangular rose-colored lenses trimmed in gold. He made every woman in his presence wet with excitement. Leo was dressed exactly like Mickey Mouse in ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’, down to the star-topped wand, because, well, he was Leo. As an unintended counterpoint to Candy’s deathshead mask, Gangsta Rid’s outfit was that of an undertaker, designed to send a clear message to L.A.’s underworld that Ultimate Hustle was not to be played with. As usual, Janique stole the show. Barefooted, with tiny white roses in her upswept hair, she wore a sheer and beige dress that ran from one shoulder to her ankles, adorned with glittering Swarkovsky crystals. She looked more like a map of the cosmos than an aspiring porn producer. A living art piece that no man could aspire to make love to, any more than one could imagine violating the Venus de Milo, or sticking their dick through the Mona Lisa. All the more amusing to Janique, as she was hot to fuck. Only Brad, Kiki, and Janice stayed behind. Janice out of demureness, and an agenda only she was privy to. Brad and Kiki stayed to watch Dulce, and practice for the family they hoped to start soon. Kiki desperately wanted to be there, but couldn’t bear to hurt her fiancée, who was still rather reticent on the subject of sex. This despite working around some of the hottest and nastiest women in Los Angeles, which was really saying something. She found it endearing, like everything about him, which was why he was her sweetheart.Still, tonight she was ravenous. When the baby fell asleep, she would take him into Chris and Janique’s bedroom and give him the fucking of a lifetime. Either he would learn to spank her, or she would spank him. Faced with that prospect, she felt it would be an easy decision. “Is everyone ready?” Janique asked in the hallway. Everyone’s consciousness snapped to attention. There were various affirmations of assent, and the crew prepared to roll out.In a touching display, the security team, already known as the Tribe, assembled and dropped to one knee, heads bowed. Not to Janique, but to Janice, to whom they were indebted for putting them on to what was obviously a lucrative new branch of their career path.“Be good, boys,” she said with a smile.“Yes, ma’am, Miss Janice,” Rid said, and then they rose and split up, half taking the elevator with him, and the rest leaving via the stairs. True leaders, Chris and Janique stayed behind until everyone else was in the lobby. Then, a procession of six black Mercedes limosines made their way to the L.A. Coliseum. ### When they got there, the skies were lit by two spotlights casting the UH logo onto the clouds. “Oooh!”, Janique said, unable to contain her excitement. “Brad’s idea,” Chris told her. “He wanted it to be a surprise.” “So fucking sweet,” she said, kissing him. Secondary members of the security team had already secured the parking lot entrances, but parted at the designated entry point to let the entourage through. A few astute reporters who had read the ad were there, shouting random questions at tinted windows. All they got in response was Mia, Lateesha, and Gia flashing their tits and making out through a sunroof. It was enough. The papers would eat it up the next day. In fact, the secrecy and mystery fueled interest and speculation far more than a dry press release could ever hope to accomplish.At the arena proper, the staffers fell into their roles. Rid worked the door. Mia and Gia processed entrants via the database that Brad had written. Lateesha was ahead of them, verifying that their medical records and proof of age were in order. Candy did general security, diplomatically ejecting anyone with false credentials. Leo led a small army of videographers and photographers, including a documentary team hired to immortalize the event in a cable-safe fashion.But before anyone could enter, they had to be personally approved by Chris or Janique. When everyone was in place, Janique gave the nod to Riddler, who radioed his people to begin letting vehicles into the lot. It soon became populated with cars, and the flesh parade began. Statuesque blondes, the L.A. standard. Glossy raven-haired lovelies. Redheads of every conceivable variety. Asians, Latinas, even several exotic Indians, and women of indeterminate, but gorgeous, origins. The Tribe were under strict orders to only let in one male for every fifty females, and Janique left it entirely to their discretion. Although judging men wasn’t really their thing, they didn’t disappoint her. The psychology was simple. If regular men found them suitable, they would be a good fit. To say that Chris and Janique were selective doesn’t even begin to tell the tale. Women that could be described as archtypical were grouped together by hair color and body type. When they reached twenty in number, they would debate their relative merits, select the two prime candidates, and let the rest go. Neither were interested in generic performers. The first wave, sixteen in all, were let into the building for age and health verifications. But L.A. held a number of surprises, as well. One particularly intense looking brunette found herself in front of Janique. “You’re cute,” she told her. “What special talents do you possess that might qualify you to work for us?” The girl rolled her eyes at her, pulled out one of her breasts, and bit it. Hard.There was blood on her lips when she stopped and smiled. Janique wrote ‘Crazy’ on a nametag, and slapped it over her bitemark. “Get in there,” she told her. Chris was face to face with one of the few men that made the cut. He was a tall, bald black man with a serene face, dressed in a tasteful pin-striped zoot suit. “Your qualifications?” he asked him. The man pulled his loose pants leg back and revealed the outline of a cock that was bigger than his, even though it wasn’t erect. Chris let out a low whistle, write ‘Tripod’ on a name tag, and let him through. Janique’s next choice was a hardbody with a particularly beautiful face, a rare combination. “You’re pretty,” she said. “What can you do?” “Well,” the girl said. “I can take your fist anywhere you choose to put it, but I’d like to think that my master’s degree in clinical psychology and skydiving instructor’s permit are worth something, too.” “No way.” “Way,” the girl told her. “Open your mouth.” Smiling, she did as instructed. Janique put her balled up hand in the girl’s mouth with relative eash. She was impressed. “Honesty is a trait we highly prize at Ultimate Hustle. We’d love to have you.” They both smiled at each other, and shared a very hot kiss that was unfortunately not caught by any camera. The girl entered the building with the name Paradise. At some point during the proceedings, a woman resembling an Amazonian Janique appeared in front of Rid, who was taken aback, feeling he had let his guard down. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said. “I’m Angel. Janique’s big sister.” He fumbled with the door. “Yes, ma’am, he said, letting her through. Once inside, she slipped past the screeners and took a seat in the bleachers, where she could watch the action unobserved. Meanwhile, Chris had his hands full with a very chesty woman who was primly attired. “I like your look,” he admitted. “Quite a change of pace.” “I’m not a whore,” she spat at him. “I want you to stop exploiting women.” “You what?” “I think you heard me the first time. What you’re doing is reprehensible.” “Lady…” Chris began. “Holly.” “Uh, Holly. I appreciate your concern, but we don’t ‘exploit’ anyone, in the negative sense of the term.” “Using these innocent girls for sexual gratification and monetary gain is entirely immoral.” “Innocent girls? Applying to be in adult films?” “They don’t know what they’re doing.” “They’re eighteen or older, Ms. Holly. I’m afraid, subjective morality aside, that’s not for you to decide.” “And that is why I am appealing to you, sir.” Chris was flummoxed. Simultaniously aroused, confused, and angry at being challenged. She brought out his inner hustler, to her detriment. “Look, Holly. What do you do for a living?” “I run a faith-based shelter for exploited girls. Prostitutes, drug-addicts, the abused, abducted.” “That’s very noble. But these women don’t fall under that criteria. They’re actresses.” She laughed in his face. Big mistake. He became much more charming. “What does that pay?” “Pay? I do it for free. I mean, the church houses me, feeds me. I get a little stipend.” “Sweetheart, you sound like the exploited one, to me. Do you know what we pay our employees?” “Not much, I’d expect.” “Two hundred thousand a year, guaranteed.” Holly’s mouth fell open. “Not to mention the benefits, which probably amount to another fifty thousand. And they have the option of making more. Plus we help them with savings and investment, retirement planning. Family services, even. What do you offer the girls you save?” “Uh. Well, usually I get them a job of some sort. Welfare, food stamps.” “Sounds like a deal with the devil. Consigning them to a lifetime of servitude and misery.” “I hardly think that’s the case.” “I’d like to donate a hundred thousand to your cause…” “I…I couldn’t accept.” “Then come work for me. Think of the good you could do with two hundred thousand a year.” “Me?” “Why not? You’re quite lovely.” She blushed a deep crimson, which only brought attention to the curly brown ringlets that framed her face. “I don’t agree with sex outside of marriage.” “You’re married?” “No. I hope to be, someday.” “So you’re…” “Pure. Yes, sir.” Chris glanced at Janique, who was otherwise engaged, and then lightly took Holly by the shoulders and put her back to Janique. “Then marry me.” Stunned silence. “We’d be legally wed, before God and country. You could fulfill your contract with us, and be free to spend your earnings as you see fit.” “I…I…” “Surely there’s no biblical prohibition against a man and wife making love on camera. Is there?” “No…” Her eyes were taking on a hazy, dreaming quality. “All I’m asking is that you consider it. For the greater good.” Chris slipped his business card into her hand. “I can honestly say that I love you, Holly. Could God fault me for that?” “No,” she admitted. What’s more, she could feel the truth of it. He leaned forward and kissed her. Firmly, but gently. She was hooked. He wrote ‘Holly Bibble’ on a nametag, and squeezed it onto her gingham dress over her left breast. “Now go. This is no place for a woman such as yourself. Call me tomorrow. I’ll give you a tour of the offices, and prove every word I said to you.” “Maybe…” she said. But her eyes indicated that she would rather stay with him. Follow him anywhere. Chris spun her around and lightly swatted her ample bottom. “Go. Daddy has work to do.” “Yes, sir,” she said breathily as she walked away. When she got a moment, Janique said, “What was that about?” “My hot new Christian wife.” “Chris! Be nice and stop hustling!” But she was grinning broadly. When she finally turned away from him, Janique nearly screamed. Inches from her face was a beautiful black girl who looked exactly like a young Hazel. “Chris,” she said in alarm. Then he turned pale, as well. They exchanged glances, and she wrote ‘Hazel Minx’ on a nametag and sent her through without another word. The next viable candidate in front of him was almost rejected out of hand. Head down, she was wrapped in a shawl, and looked more like a homeless woman than anything else. But when she got closer, she looked him sharply in the eyes, and threw back her cloak. Beneath it, she wore a shimmering red silk robe adorned with a white embroidered dragon. A Chinese contortionist. She arched her back and placed her foot on the crown of her head, fitting it to the contour of her skull, then slowly rotated a full three-sixty on her other foot, mimicking a ballerina on a music box, a feat Chris would have thought impossible. Just as he was going to wave her through, the girl executed a standing front flip, and landed with both feet on his shoulders. People began to applaud, and she dropped down. Chris was greeted with a face full of her neatly trimmed snatch, of a most intoxicating odor. What else could he do? He turned his head slightly sideways and squeezed her pussy with his teeth, then he gave her a few swipes from top to bottom with his tongue. She dismounted with another flip, backwards, this time, and was again before him, eyes facing the pavement. His hand was shaking as he wrote ‘Ming Dynasty’ on a name tag and sent her through. Janique was being distracted by a small circus, led by a white guy dressed as an utter parody of a black pimp. Purple fur-lined suit and hat, zebra trim. He was swinging a gold pocket watch on a chain. She was instantly dismissive. “Oh, please.” He snapped his fingers, and three petite girls appeared from behind his cape, blonde, brunette, and redhead. They passed around him and reappeared with yellow, orange, and pink wigs. The real showstopper was when they did it a second time, and emerged bald, in gold lame’ Star Trek minidresses. Triplets. “Package deal,” he told Janique. “My ladies wish to legitimize their vocations.” “But can you fuck?” she asked him. “I didn’t acquire my stable via trust fund, madame. And there are others.” She was convinced. “Go,” she said, not bothering to name them. “But you look ridiculous!” she shouted over her shoulder, smiling. The end of the line was now visible, and she and Chris were both ready to get inside. They decided to deal with the remaining applicants together. Next up was an overweight girl dressed in black, with a matching black pixie cut hairdo. Her face, quite cute, was topped by square framed glasses. “No mopeds,” Chris said. Janique kicked him in the ankle, harder than she needed to. “I mean, ‘I’m sorry. You fail to meet Ultimate Hustle height and/or weight requirements.” “I’m not applying for onscreen talent, Mr. Turner.” “Oh?” “No. But there are a few continuity and translation errors in your Japanese films I’d like to discuss.” “You saw those?” Janique asked. “Where?” “Japan,” the girl said, and Janique felt somewhat foolish. “Duh. Of course.” “In a bigger sense, I’d like to ask why you haven’t released them in the U.S.” “Honestly, we never considered it,” Chris said. “You should. They’re considered underground classics there, of course.” “How did you find out about them?” Janique asked her. “Cinephiles have their own channels of information.” “Otaku,” Janique said, and the girl nodded. “Impressive,” Chris told her. “I take it you’d like to work for us on the other side of the camera?” “Yes, sir. Very much so.” “I don’t think we have the non-sex contract on hand, but you’re welcome to go inside anyway.” “Of course we do, silly. What’s your name, dear?” Janique said. “You can call me Detail.” “Love it!”She wrote it on a name tag, and said, “We’ll work out the specifics this week.”“Thank you both. I’ll forgive the fat chick crack,” she said to Chris, and he was slightly embarrassed. Then she smiled, and all was forgiven.“I like her,” he said when she was out of earshot.“I bet you do, you little chubby chaser,” Janique said, smiling.“Brat,” he said, kissing her.“Daddy…” she said in reply.The last to make it through was a girl in a devil costume, towing a statuesque angel on a chain. Janique wrote ‘Ave Satanas’ on a tag, put it on her, and said, “Oh, get in there.” To the rest, she said, “Sorry, folks. We’ve exceeded our quota. See security on the way out for your complimentary gift bags.” While she did provide for five hundred such bags, stocked with high-end make-up and hair care products, she had also elected to back the Tribe in starting their own production company, using her second stringers. Janique was going to own the L.A. porn scene, and was leaving nothing to chance.
June 1, 2016
Forever Daddy - Chapter 4
Chapter 4 – Well, that was an interesting encounter, Zach thought. He was suddenly a Starbucks convert. Plus, he had to admit, it was a damn good cup of coffee. But it was the girl who piqued his interest, of course. Wife material? Way too soon to tell. She had the little girl act down cold. Although he would probably never have children, he did have a certain paternal instinct under his his gruff exterior. He wanted to lavish love and praise on a deserving woman, and likewise reap the benefits such a close relationship could generate. To be one girl’s foundation for a lifelong romance. It was probably too much to ask. Hope for. Whatever. Zen had given him unrealistic expectations about the rest of the world. Thus far, he had refused to lower his standards. And, relatedly, he was, thus far, alone. So be it. Life was an all or nothing affair. Renee had taught him that, actually. He’d like to think that he’d taught her a few things, as well. Not many people could make that claim at this stage of her life. She really was an amazing woman. To an almost intimidating degree. Almost. In a bigger sense, dating Renee would change his work dynamic. And work was all he had. It was lamentable to him that men were the sum total of their careers and talents. He was no scholar. Not an artist. He did one thing, and he did it well. Zach tied things to cranes. Well… Used to. He tried to remember the last time he had actually rigged something. Three years ago. It was his last job before joining Renee and company for the retirement leg of his career. Money was never an issue. Now it had almost become a burden. He did his best to conceal his wealth, but at the same time, he had very high standards. The best of the best was all he accepted. Seventy-five thousand dollar truck. Custom-tailored fire-resistant clothes. His home, although somewhat modest by the standards of his co-workers, was equipped for luxury and comfort. It was also exceedingly lonely, and only used for eating, sleeping, and sex. The majority of his time was spent at work. Zach needed something more, to be sure. A real relationship seemed to be in order. Someone to share it all with. At the gate, he rolled down his window and presented his badge to the guard, a vivacious fox trained in krav maga, Delta Force knife handling, and small arms. She rolled her eyes and waved him through. He did it every day. As did she. Stilkl cradling his now depleted cup of trademarked Starbucks coffee, he strolled, nay sauntered, to where the action was. As was his usual M.O., the chief workflow and efficiency officer sat in his director’s chair, observing, but not taking notes. “Morning, Asshole.” “Mornin’,” Asshole said, not looking up. “What’s the word?” “Stupid, lazy, time-wasting, useless pieces of skin.” “So, business as usual, then.” Asshole nodded. His entire job consisted of criticizing the work habits of others. He was well suited for the task. Leaving him to his work, which didn’t really seem like work at all, to the uninformed, Zach walked from crane to crane checking on the progress and safety of each ongoing task. Between cranes, he passed by the bullriggers working in the racks, maneuvering heavy, unusual-shaped pieces of pipe through the steel beams. Everything in his world seemed to be going well. He was later delighted to discover a beautiful new hire was on site. She started as a flagger/fire watch/hole watch, as everyone with Zen Construction was required to do, from the mechanical engineers on down. She was a slim, delicate redhead with a beautiful, serene face, set with determination. Possibly the most beautiful girl in the world. Unfortunately, her name was Johnnie. This was unfortunate, because the port-o-let company Zen subbed with was named “Johnnie On The Spot”. For most of the employees, this was a few minutes of amusement, then it became a stale joke, at best. Afterall, she was gorgeous, intelligent, diligent, hard-working, punctual, and dedicated. No one in their right mind would disrespect such a woman to her face. And, to their credit, the majority of Zen employees didn’t do so even in private. The real problem arose when the wrong person made a comment in the presence of Renee. It was, of course, surly iron worker, the most irrascable of the tradesmen. They generally didn’t give a fuck about anything but hanging steel, doing drugs, drinking, and fucking. Money was a mere corollary. They did the jobs most people weren’t crazy enough to do. Facing death on a daily basis tended to bring with it a certain loose, freewheeling attitude. But when Renee heard someone, Porkchop, an intermediate level hand, say, “I’d piss on her,” she lost it. He was about eight feet away. She spun around and charged him. Her gloves were off, and she hit him hard. She swung with her right hand, connecting squarely with is left jaw. His bones were brittle and weak from chronic methamphetamine abuse. Dirty, bathtub shake-n-bake, the really shitty red kind. His jaw broke at the hinger, and his right canine was dislodged along with his front incisors. They flew to his right more than fifteen feet. In fact, the relative distance was later measured, and the location of his teeth were later recorded for posterity. Things really went bad when he hit her back. As tough as she was, Renee went down. Almost before she hit the ground, the other hands in the area beat him to death. It wasn’t pretty. Steel-toed boots, fists hardened by hard labor, and, most of all, a lifetime of frustration with the general inadequacies of the world bubbled to the fore. Every aggravation they ever had was inflicted upon him. He was dead in under a minute. He was beaten for three. When the ambulance arrived, Renee was already at the hospital. Her injuries were similar to his, with the exception that she only lost a single canine. It could have been reinserted or replace, but she instead elected to leave it out. Subjectively, it was her ony physical flaw. Naturally, the paramedics were unable to revive him. They were barely able to find all of his body. After a lengthy investigation, it was ruled a justifiable homicide, and they were released from jail. Each testified that he had hit her first. Renee took a week off in memorium, and returned to work. Before she did so, she took her accumulated savings, and using her remaining credit, bought Johhnie On The Spot. She destroyed all existing stock and rechristened the company ‘Fresher’. She improved the design. Patented. Profited. But to her dismay, Johnnie had fled in embarrassment. They never saw her again. It ruined her year.
Chapter 4 – Well, that was an interesting encounter, Zach thought. He was suddenly a Starbucks convert. Plus, he had to admit, it was a damn good cup of coffee. But it was the girl who piqued his interest, of course. Wife material? Way too soon to tell. She had the little girl act down cold. Although he would probably never have children, he did have a certain paternal instinct under his his gruff exterior. He wanted to lavish love and praise on a deserving woman, and likewise reap the benefits such a close relationship could generate. To be one girl’s foundation for a lifelong romance. It was probably too much to ask. Hope for. Whatever. Zen had given him unrealistic expectations about the rest of the world. Thus far, he had refused to lower his standards. And, relatedly, he was, thus far, alone. So be it. Life was an all or nothing affair. Renee had taught him that, actually. He’d like to think that he’d taught her a few things, as well. Not many people could make that claim at this stage of her life. She really was an amazing woman. To an almost intimidating degree. Almost. In a bigger sense, dating Renee would change his work dynamic. And work was all he had. It was lamentable to him that men were the sum total of their careers and talents. He was no scholar. Not an artist. He did one thing, and he did it well. Zach tied things to cranes. Well… Used to. He tried to remember the last time he had actually rigged something. Three years ago. It was his last job before joining Renee and company for the retirement leg of his career. Money was never an issue. Now it had almost become a burden. He did his best to conceal his wealth, but at the same time, he had very high standards. The best of the best was all he accepted. Seventy-five thousand dollar truck. Custom-tailored fire-resistant clothes. His home, although somewhat modest by the standards of his co-workers, was equipped for luxury and comfort. It was also exceedingly lonely, and only used for eating, sleeping, and sex. The majority of his time was spent at work. Zach needed something more, to be sure. A real relationship seemed to be in order. Someone to share it all with. At the gate, he rolled down his window and presented his badge to the guard, a vivacious fox trained in krav maga, Delta Force knife handling, and small arms. She rolled her eyes and waved him through. He did it every day. As did she. Stilkl cradling his now depleted cup of trademarked Starbucks coffee, he strolled, nay sauntered, to where the action was. As was his usual M.O., the chief workflow and efficiency officer sat in his director’s chair, observing, but not taking notes. “Morning, Asshole.” “Mornin’,” Asshole said, not looking up. “What’s the word?” “Stupid, lazy, time-wasting, useless pieces of skin.” “So, business as usual, then.” Asshole nodded. His entire job consisted of criticizing the work habits of others. He was well suited for the task. Leaving him to his work, which didn’t really seem like work at all, to the uninformed, Zach walked from crane to crane checking on the progress and safety of each ongoing task. Between cranes, he passed by the bullriggers working in the racks, maneuvering heavy, unusual-shaped pieces of pipe through the steel beams. Everything in his world seemed to be going well. He was later delighted to discover a beautiful new hire was on site. She started as a flagger/fire watch/hole watch, as everyone with Zen Construction was required to do, from the mechanical engineers on down. She was a slim, delicate redhead with a beautiful, serene face, set with determination. Possibly the most beautiful girl in the world. Unfortunately, her name was Johnnie. This was unfortunate, because the port-o-let company Zen subbed with was named “Johnnie On The Spot”. For most of the employees, this was a few minutes of amusement, then it became a stale joke, at best. Afterall, she was gorgeous, intelligent, diligent, hard-working, punctual, and dedicated. No one in their right mind would disrespect such a woman to her face. And, to their credit, the majority of Zen employees didn’t do so even in private. The real problem arose when the wrong person made a comment in the presence of Renee. It was, of course, surly iron worker, the most irrascable of the tradesmen. They generally didn’t give a fuck about anything but hanging steel, doing drugs, drinking, and fucking. Money was a mere corollary. They did the jobs most people weren’t crazy enough to do. Facing death on a daily basis tended to bring with it a certain loose, freewheeling attitude. But when Renee heard someone, Porkchop, an intermediate level hand, say, “I’d piss on her,” she lost it. He was about eight feet away. She spun around and charged him. Her gloves were off, and she hit him hard. She swung with her right hand, connecting squarely with is left jaw. His bones were brittle and weak from chronic methamphetamine abuse. Dirty, bathtub shake-n-bake, the really shitty red kind. His jaw broke at the hinger, and his right canine was dislodged along with his front incisors. They flew to his right more than fifteen feet. In fact, the relative distance was later measured, and the location of his teeth were later recorded for posterity. Things really went bad when he hit her back. As tough as she was, Renee went down. Almost before she hit the ground, the other hands in the area beat him to death. It wasn’t pretty. Steel-toed boots, fists hardened by hard labor, and, most of all, a lifetime of frustration with the general inadequacies of the world bubbled to the fore. Every aggravation they ever had was inflicted upon him. He was dead in under a minute. He was beaten for three. When the ambulance arrived, Renee was already at the hospital. Her injuries were similar to his, with the exception that she only lost a single canine. It could have been reinserted or replace, but she instead elected to leave it out. Subjectively, it was her ony physical flaw. Naturally, the paramedics were unable to revive him. They were barely able to find all of his body. After a lengthy investigation, it was ruled a justifiable homicide, and they were released from jail. Each testified that he had hit her first. Renee took a week off in memoriam, and returned to work. Before she did so, she took her accumulated savings, and using her remaining credit, bought Johnnie On The Spot. She destroyed all existing stock and rechristened the company ‘Fresher’. She improved the design. Patented. Profited. But to her dismay, Johnnie had fled in embarrassment. They never saw her again. It ruined Renee's year.
Chapter 4 – Well, that was an interesting encounter, Zach thought. He was suddenly a Starbucks convert. Plus, he had to admit, it was a damn good cup of coffee. But it was the girl who piqued his interest, of course. Wife material? Way too soon to tell. She had the little girl act down cold. Although he would probably never have children, he did have a certain paternal instinct under his his gruff exterior. He wanted to lavish love and praise on a deserving woman, and likewise reap the benefits such a close relationship could generate. To be one girl’s foundation for a lifelong romance. It was probably too much to ask. Hope for. Whatever. Zen had given him unrealistic expectations about the rest of the world. Thus far, he had refused to lower his standards. And, relatedly, he was, thus far, alone. So be it. Life was an all or nothing affair. Renee had taught him that, actually. He’d like to think that he’d taught her a few things, as well. Not many people could make that claim at this stage of her life. She really was an amazing woman. To an almost intimidating degree. Almost. In a bigger sense, dating Renee would change his work dynamic. And work was all he had. It was lamentable to him that men were the sum total of their careers and talents. He was no scholar. Not an artist. He did one thing, and he did it well. Zach tied things to cranes. Well… Used to. He tried to remember the last time he had actually rigged something. Three years ago. It was his last job before joining Renee and company for the retirement leg of his career. Money was never an issue. Now it had almost become a burden. He did his best to conceal his wealth, but at the same time, he had very high standards. The best of the best was all he accepted. Seventy-five thousand dollar truck. Custom-tailored fire-resistant clothes. His home, although somewhat modest by the standards of his co-workers, was equipped for luxury and comfort. It was also exceedingly lonely, and only used for eating, sleeping, and sex. The majority of his time was spent at work. Zach needed something more, to be sure. A real relationship seemed to be in order. Someone to share it all with. At the gate, he rolled down his window and presented his badge to the guard, a vivacious fox trained in krav maga, Delta Force knife handling, and small arms. She rolled her eyes and waved him through. He did it every day. As did she. Stilkl cradling his now depleted cup of trademarked Starbucks coffee, he strolled, nay sauntered, to where the action was. As was his usual M.O., the chief workflow and efficiency officer sat in his director’s chair, observing, but not taking notes. “Morning, Asshole.” “Mornin’,” Asshole said, not looking up. “What’s the word?” “Stupid, lazy, time-wasting, useless pieces of skin.” “So, business as usual, then.” Asshole nodded. His entire job consisted of criticizing the work habits of others. He was well suited for the task. Leaving him to his work, which didn’t really seem like work at all, to the uninformed, Zach walked from crane to crane checking on the progress and safety of each ongoing task. Between cranes, he passed by the bullriggers working in the racks, maneuvering heavy, unusual-shaped pieces of pipe through the steel beams. Everything in his world seemed to be going well. He was later delighted to discover a beautiful new hire was on site. She started as a flagger/fire watch/hole watch, as everyone with Zen Construction was required to do, from the mechanical engineers on down. She was a slim, delicate redhead with a beautiful, serene face, set with determination. Possibly the most beautiful girl in the world. Unfortunately, her name was Johnnie. This was unfortunate, because the port-o-let company Zen subbed with was named “Johnnie On The Spot”. For most of the employees, this was a few minutes of amusement, then it became a stale joke, at best. Afterall, she was gorgeous, intelligent, diligent, hard-working, punctual, and dedicated. No one in their right mind would disrespect such a woman to her face. And, to their credit, the majority of Zen employees didn’t do so even in private. The real problem arose when the wrong person made a comment in the presence of Renee. It was, of course, surly iron worker, the most irrascable of the tradesmen. They generally didn’t give a fuck about anything but hanging steel, doing drugs, drinking, and fucking. Money was a mere corollary. They did the jobs most people weren’t crazy enough to do. Facing death on a daily basis tended to bring with it a certain loose, freewheeling attitude. But when Renee heard someone, Porkchop, an intermediate level hand, say, “I’d piss on her,” she lost it. He was about eight feet away. She spun around and charged him. Her gloves were off, and she hit him hard. She swung with her right hand, connecting squarely with is left jaw. His bones were brittle and weak from chronic methamphetamine abuse. Dirty, bathtub shake-n-bake, the really shitty red kind. His jaw broke at the hinger, and his right canine was dislodged along with his front incisors. They flew to his right more than fifteen feet. In fact, the relative distance was later measured, and the location of his teeth were later recorded for posterity. Things really went bad when he hit her back. As tough as she was, Renee went down. Almost before she hit the ground, the other hands in the area beat him to death. It wasn’t pretty. Steel-toed boots, fists hardened by hard labor, and, most of all, a lifetime of frustration with the general inadequacies of the world bubbled to the fore. Every aggravation they ever had was inflicted upon him. He was dead in under a minute. He was beaten for three. When the ambulance arrived, Renee was already at the hospital. Her injuries were similar to his, with the exception that she only lost a single canine. It could have been reinserted or replace, but she instead elected to leave it out. Subjectively, it was her ony physical flaw. Naturally, the paramedics were unable to revive him. They were barely able to find all of his body. After a lengthy investigation, it was ruled a justifiable homicide, and they were released from jail. Each testified that he had hit her first. Renee took a week off in memoriam, and returned to work. Before she did so, she took her accumulated savings, and using her remaining credit, bought Johnnie On The Spot. She destroyed all existing stock and rechristened the company ‘Fresher’. She improved the design. Patented. Profited. But to her dismay, Johnnie had fled in embarrassment. They never saw her again. It ruined Renee's year.
Forever Daddy - Chapter 3
Chapter 3 – The next day, Zöe left Trent a bullshit note (one thing she loved about him was how gullible he was) and took an Uber (on a credit card) to a hotel room she paid for (also credit). It was pretty sleazy, as hotel rooms go, but she’d been in sleazier. Much sleazier. She poured herself a shot of Jim Beam, then got ice and fixed herself a proper drink. Of Jim Beam. Then she ripped two medium-sized lines. Mentally prepared for whatever, she texted Jason. “I’m there. Same hotel.” “Yes! Same room?” “No, baby. Sorry. Room 404.” “Be there in thirty.” “You owe me a bottle of Jim Beam. Large.” No reply. Thirty-three minutes later, a knock at the door. Her heart fluttered. “Hey, tramp,” he said. She beamed. Jim Beamed. “Where’s my flowers?” “Lol.” She moved to embrace him, but he pushed past her and walked in. “Get on your knees, whore,” he told her. She almost did. “Where’s my bottle?” He rubbed his cock through his jeans. “Right here.” “That wasn’t the deal.” “I forgot. Your, uh, loveliness made me lose my mind.” “Then go to the store.” Zöe could be quite the dominatrix when circumstances dictated. Then she had a flash of inspiration. “Got any cash?” “You charge cash, now?” “Silly boy. I can get some coke…” “I’ve got forty.” “Well, I need eighty.” “Seriously?” “Seriously. My guy is very touchy. But it’s decent, and he’s very generous.” “You’re not going to suck his dick, are you?” She batted her eyes at him. “Not unless you tell me to, daddy.” Somewhat shaken, he moved to leave. “Be right back. Try not to suck any dicks before I return.” “I’ll try,” she said, giggling. “No promises.” Zöe finished her drink, made another, then got out her bindle. She dumped a third of what she had into an empty baggie, eyeballed it, then took some back out. When he got back, she took the bottle and the money. “I think we can do business,” she told him. “He’s on his way.” “Can I come?” “Not now…” “I mean to pick it up.” “Never.” “Okay. Hurry. I want to fuck you in the ass.” “Everyone does, dear.” She took the stairs. When she was sure she wasn’t followed, she went to the curb and sat down, out of sight, between two parked trucks. A beat-up green Chevy, and a beautiful new blue Dodge. Perfect. Zöe checked her phone. Three more texts. Three more stupid boys wanting to fuck. Sweet-talkers. Amateurs. When twenty minutes had elapsed, she waited for a few more, then slowly walked back up. Timing was everything. He was on the bed with his cock out, clothes on. “Started without me?” “I couldn’t wait…” He wiggled it at her. “Come on.” “Not yet. Time for treatskies.” She pulled out his baggie, two straws, and a razor blade. Ignoring him, she dumped a hefty portion onto the desk. He put his cock away, suddenly as interested as she was. Zöe started to put the bag away in her purse, and he grabbed it. “Thanks.” “No problem, babe.” She started chopping and making lines. The ritual. “Fix me a drink, Jason…” “Sure.” When he went to do so, she ripped a huge line. “Hey!” he said. “Your turn,” she called out to him. But the lines she made for the two of them were much smaller. They snorted some more, and she engaged him in idle chatter. She loved to run her head when on coke, which was all the time, now. Zöe had precious little to say, though. She was essentially wasting his time. Intentionally. It didn’t really make sense, even to her. Not that she was prone to self-examination. “Let’s fuck, daddy,” she told him when they had finished. “Babygirl, I need a shower.” “Why? I like it dirty.” “My asshole isn’t clean.” “So?” She raised her eyebrows and smiled. “Strip,” he ordered her. “Yes, sir.” Zöe began to disrobe, not making a show of it, but in a perfunctory, business-like manner. When she was done, she presented her open palms at her sides. Perfect slave form. She had been studying the art. Subjugation of men. Without saying a word, she unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. Taking his cock in her mouth, be began to unsnap his shirt, and rubbed his hairless chest. She unsnapped his sleeves and pulled them off of his arms, never releasing him from her mouth. She was good. Zöe took his shirt off and placed his hands on her neck. Gently, he squeezed her throat. His cock still wasn’t very hard. And it wasn’t very big to begin with. Then she pulled his pants down to his knees. Still smiling, he took the length of him, such as it was, and grabbed his ass cheeks, digging her nails into his flesh. “Easy, cunt,” he told her. She spit his flaccid cock out like flavorless chewing gum. “Don’t tell me what to do, you little bitch.” Jason had nothing to say to that. She raked her fake nails, powder blue, ornamented with silver zodiacal flare, from the top of his gluteus maximus to the undercut bottom, drawing blood, and leaving marks for the fiancée she knew he had. Not that he had ever told her so, or would admit to such. Zöe did her homework. Each and every one of them would pay for hurting her. One way or another. She had been raped before. Many times, since she could remember, starting around age five. She kind of liked it. At the same time, she was seething with hatred. Deservedly so. No man would ever possess her heart. She no longer believed in love, or even knew what it was. It was as abstract to her as a vacuum. As meaningless as literature to an insect. Then she spread his ass wide, as hard as she could with her meager frame and emaciated, atrophied musculature. It was enough. “Ow! Crazy bitch!” Zöe smiled her best ‘good little girl’ smile, and rubbed his dirty asshole. “Don’t,” he told her. Ignored. No one told her what to do. She only listened to her father, and he was long gone. All she had was her adopted mother, whom she loathed, and photographs of him. She slid two of her fingers into his asshole. Roughly. They went in to the second knuckle, and hurt him badly. Zöe vaguely recalled the first time it had happened to her. She had just turned twelve. Two boys, probably seventeen and eighteen, had plied her with beer, shitty Milwaukee’s Best, until she was good and drunk. Then they lit a joint. Her first. She smoked cigarettes, of course. Ever since she had been able to operate a lighter. So she had expected something like that. Instead, the room began spinning almost immediately. She felt good. Nearly nauseous, but not exactly. And that was from the beer, really. The combined effects left her utterly defenseless. Sensing that, the boys began grabbing her tits, already c-cups, through her shirt. Zöe was too incapacitated to offer any resistance. In fact, she giggled. Within a minute, her tits were out, and her pants were down. They sucked her nipples, both at the same time, and the older one began pulling her pussy open. That’s when she began to protest. He pulled her down to her knees, and they took turns keeping her quiet with their dicks in her mouth. At seventy pounds, she was hardly a threat. Both were fairly big, and rough. Her eyes welled with tears, and her esophagus began to tear and bruise as a result. That ended when she puked all over one of them. He shoved her back in disgust, and almost slapped her. The other dragged her by her hair and bent her over a picnic table. They took turns fucking her pussy until they neared orgasm. Then the bigger one shoved it up her ass without fanfare. Zöe screamed into his hand, and even bit him. To no avail. He pushed all the way into her relatively dry, virgin asshole, until she felt like she was being stabbed with a hot knife. It was a relief when he finally came. When he pulled his cock out, it was wet with blood. The second boy hurt even more, and when he finally squirted, he punched her in the back of the head. They high-fived, and left her, collapsed and sobbing, in a public park at night. It’s a wonder she wasn’t raped by someone else. But within two weeks, Zöe was hanging out with them again, now willingly sucking them off and getting fucked in her ass. Life was funny. She ignored Jason’s discomfort. He was a worm, to her beautiful bird. She plunged her fingers in to the hilt, and he screamed in pain and rage. Jackpot. He slapped her across the face with his right hand. His strong hand. If his cock was still in her mouth, she might have bitten it off. But he had lost that privilege. Zöe collapsed to the floor and sobbed a bit. Then she arose. Smiling. She had him right where she wanted him. She loved the illusion of control. Zöe rubbed her now dirty fingers under her nose, and pantomimed applying lipstick. Then she smacked her lips. “I’m ready for my close-up, C.C. Deville. She took a single step forward. Jason took a step back. “Kiss me,” she told him. “I don’t kiss whores.” “Then get the fuck out of here.” He studied her face. “After you give me my coke back,” she said. There wasn’t a hint of amusement in her expression. He took the plunge. She kissed him forcefully, trying to break his lip. Zöe bit him. Her tongue danced in his mouth. He retched. Good. She stopped. “Let’s do some coke, baby. Mama wants to fuck.” She sat down at the writing desk and crossed her legs. When he approached her, baggie in hand, she snatched it. Zöe dumped half of it onto her beloved plate. For special. From her mother. “Come here, lover,” she told him. His pants were still around his ankles, shoes on. With one hand, she set him up a line. With the other, she dumped some coke on his withered cock. Handing him the straw, she fell to her knees once again. “You may do one line, boy.” Zöe began to lick his cock and balls most delicately, savoring the taste. The numbness she sought found her immediately. Since it was her personal supply, it was uncut. So was he. Delicious. He bent over and did his hit, dividing it between each nostril, then put the straw in her hand. She ignored him for a time, then looked up at him. “Spit in my mouth, daddy.” “What?” “You heard me…” She resumed her activities. “How can I do that with your mouth on my dick?” Zöe spit him out again, and opened up her mouth like a baby bird. Weakly, he allowed a small drop of spittle to fall. “Thank you, daddy,” she said, smiling. She picked up the razor and gave him a bigger line. Again, he subdivided and conquered it. “Now do it right,” she told him. “What?” “Drip.” He cleared his throat, and spit a wad of snot into her mouth, this time with a hint of maleness behind it. Finally. She licked the spatter off of her lips slowly, making a lascivious show of it. “Want me to suck it some more, baby?” “Of course.” “Magic word?” “Uh, please?” She smiled again. Whenever she did so, she was absolutely irresistible. Always had been. Zöe stood and led him by the hand to the still-made bed. “Lay down, baby.” He did as instructed. “Mama’s gonna powder your hiney…” Jason smiled. “Spread your legs for mama,” she said. He grabbed the back of his knees and pulled. Zöe dumped half of the remaining coke on his cock, balls, and asshole. “Don’t move, little baby.” She packed the straw and blow a shot into his left nostril, then repeated the process on the other. He was really feeling it. She ran her fingers down the back of his calves, lovingly, caressingly. He watched her go down until all he could see was the back of her head. When her tongue touched his balls, he groaned. With great delicacy, Zöe explored every nook and fold. she took them into the warmth and wetness of her mouth. Then she licked his cock up and down, softly, cleaning every bit of coke off of it. When he finally started to get semi-hard, she plunged her tongue deep into his asshole. Ravenous, she worked it in and out as deep as she could. She rubbed her lips and chin on it from top to bottom. Then she began to spiral from the outside in, until he was relatively clean. The coke was gone. Zöe poked her tongue in and out a few more times, and then she was done. Smiling more broadly than ever, she said, “Do I look pretty, daddy?” Jason failed to respond. Disappointed, as usual, her tone changed dramatically. “Make it hard so you can fuck me.” “Suck it some more.” “Why should I do all the work, sweetheart?” He tried his best to get his cock hard. After a few minutes of effort, he gave up. “Sorry, Zöe. Maybe later.” But ten minutes after that, she had an emergency text from her mother. “I really have to go. You can stay in the room, and I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?”
She didn’t come back.
She didn’t come back.
Ode To A Praline Yet To Be Eaten
Sinful Creole confectionLight brown sugarA hint of saltDash of vanillaRigidYet pliableMelting in the mouthFirm in the handA delicacy across continents
My predilection
My predilection
No 'Love' on Fetlife
I don't spend a lot of time on Fetlife. I've mined most of the interested women in my immediate area. Plus I've noticed that most of them aren't really wife material, my true goal.
They should be, logically enough. Submissives, slaves, extremely nasty women. But that alone doesn't make for a wife, of course.
You can describe any number of relationships on there. Single, married, polyamorous, in a wolf pack, is a slave of. The list goes on and on.
But there's no 'is in love with' option.
I find this to be a curious oversight.
I say curious oversight, because I am willing to bet that some 90% of the relationships on there are love-based. Give or take a few percentage points. Sex is fun. Rough, kinky, extreme sex, even more so. Perhaps I'm too romantic, but I've found that the best possible sex comes from someone you're in love with.
While I can have sex with someone I'm not "in love" with, and can respect women who perform shocking acts of sexuality (and really, everyone should - what's not to respect, there?), what really grinds my gears in a good way is being close to someone. Really, really close to someone.
And that option is not available publically on Fetlife.
Hmmm. Just an observation. I've probably felt at least some degree of affection for almost every female I've been with. It seems a pity to not be able to express that on a site designed for relationships.
Maybe I'll make the request. It could change the world.
I'm not really looking, right now. But here's my own profile. (Don't worry, my kids and family NEVER read my stuff...) https://fetlife.com/users/1011651
And if your picture's on there, and you want it removed (I mainly only used shots that have the faces obscured, or are too vague to tie to a person), by all means, let me know...
Love. It makes boners bigger. Makes pussies wetter. Makes the ropes righter. The orgasms more intense.
It is the tie that binds us to our homes.
They should be, logically enough. Submissives, slaves, extremely nasty women. But that alone doesn't make for a wife, of course.
You can describe any number of relationships on there. Single, married, polyamorous, in a wolf pack, is a slave of. The list goes on and on.
But there's no 'is in love with' option.
I find this to be a curious oversight.
I say curious oversight, because I am willing to bet that some 90% of the relationships on there are love-based. Give or take a few percentage points. Sex is fun. Rough, kinky, extreme sex, even more so. Perhaps I'm too romantic, but I've found that the best possible sex comes from someone you're in love with.
While I can have sex with someone I'm not "in love" with, and can respect women who perform shocking acts of sexuality (and really, everyone should - what's not to respect, there?), what really grinds my gears in a good way is being close to someone. Really, really close to someone.
And that option is not available publically on Fetlife.
Hmmm. Just an observation. I've probably felt at least some degree of affection for almost every female I've been with. It seems a pity to not be able to express that on a site designed for relationships.
Maybe I'll make the request. It could change the world.
I'm not really looking, right now. But here's my own profile. (Don't worry, my kids and family NEVER read my stuff...) https://fetlife.com/users/1011651
And if your picture's on there, and you want it removed (I mainly only used shots that have the faces obscured, or are too vague to tie to a person), by all means, let me know...
Love. It makes boners bigger. Makes pussies wetter. Makes the ropes righter. The orgasms more intense.
It is the tie that binds us to our homes.
Is BDSM Compatible With Anarchism?
I'm an anarchist. No, let me rephrase that. I'm a motherfucking anarchist. I spent some thirty years as a Libertarian/minarchist (which are also valid philosophies, but don't go the last mile toward full freedom. Full, scary freedom.) because the attitude in the LP back then was "Anarchy leads to totalitarianism."
And that's possibly valid. Possibly. But statism definitely leads to totalitarianism.
As many have pointed out, if a limited government and a constitution worked, we wouldn't be in the predicament we're in now.
So, anarchist. Full-blown.
And as much as I'd like to say that I am an "Anarchist Without Adjectives", as Karl Hess put it, I'm not. I'm also a capitalist.
Yes, that word has terrible connotations. But that's your problem, not mine. Many of us make the distinction because there's another contingent of anarchists that are collectivists. Communists, they call themselves.
Which is fine, if you don't want to try and impose your world-view upon others. But they generally do. They seek an end to voluntary trade, property ownership, currency, and things like that.
Totalitarians, basically.
Anyhoo. That's all hashed out on a daily basis online, and not what I wish to opine upon.
"No gods, no masters" is a popular slogan on both sides of the aisle.
Where does that leave the practicing slavemaster? The dedicated submissive? I'm talking of course about bondage and discipline, if not sadism-masochism.
Frankly, I have no idea, as I've never had the pleasure of dating an actual anarchist female. Oh yes, my brothers, they do exist...
But, but, how would one resolve the two? How can one practice the domination of another, while at the same time morally opposing the very concept?
The answer, though, is simple. Voluntarism.
If you know anything about BDSM in the first place, it's all basically role-play. The submissives tend to run the show. There is a power exchange that takes place. But that power exchange is voluntary. Free of coercion.
If it's not, you're doing it wrong.
This all leads back to the concept of capitalism, and its compatibility with anarchism.
"How can you claim to be an anarchist, if you want to work for someone else, a master?"
Because it's a voluntary choice. Voluntary choice is at the heart of all moral actions. Anyone who tells you otherwise is probably lying.
Master/slave is an outmoded concept, in the working world. People who throw around phrases like "wage slave" would benefit from spending some time in actual slavery. Which still exists in the world, to this day.
It would be nice, I suppose, if those decrying the act of working for a lawn service (Who Will Mow The Lawns?) instead focused on the people all over the world held in actual bondage. Even in the United States, there are people being held against their will, and forced to work for pennies an hour.
They're called felons. Slavery is still legal in the U.S. Please be a lamb and look it up. And this isn't some obscure law at the state level. It's embedded in the Constitution.
So much for the concept of state-enabled freedom.
There are also people, primarily women, being held in basements, shitty apartments, secluded houses. Not all of them women, of course. And not all of them adults. But they are indeed slaves, in the worst sense of the word.
So, BDSM and anarchism? Meh. It is our privilege to be able to pretend. But we would do well to consider those whose lives aren't filled with fantasy, to whom the collar is real, and can't be removed.
Probably as we sip lattes at Starbucks. ; )
And that's possibly valid. Possibly. But statism definitely leads to totalitarianism.
As many have pointed out, if a limited government and a constitution worked, we wouldn't be in the predicament we're in now.
So, anarchist. Full-blown.
And as much as I'd like to say that I am an "Anarchist Without Adjectives", as Karl Hess put it, I'm not. I'm also a capitalist.
Yes, that word has terrible connotations. But that's your problem, not mine. Many of us make the distinction because there's another contingent of anarchists that are collectivists. Communists, they call themselves.
Which is fine, if you don't want to try and impose your world-view upon others. But they generally do. They seek an end to voluntary trade, property ownership, currency, and things like that.
Totalitarians, basically.
Anyhoo. That's all hashed out on a daily basis online, and not what I wish to opine upon.
"No gods, no masters" is a popular slogan on both sides of the aisle.
Where does that leave the practicing slavemaster? The dedicated submissive? I'm talking of course about bondage and discipline, if not sadism-masochism.
Frankly, I have no idea, as I've never had the pleasure of dating an actual anarchist female. Oh yes, my brothers, they do exist...
But, but, how would one resolve the two? How can one practice the domination of another, while at the same time morally opposing the very concept?
The answer, though, is simple. Voluntarism.
If you know anything about BDSM in the first place, it's all basically role-play. The submissives tend to run the show. There is a power exchange that takes place. But that power exchange is voluntary. Free of coercion.
If it's not, you're doing it wrong.
This all leads back to the concept of capitalism, and its compatibility with anarchism.
"How can you claim to be an anarchist, if you want to work for someone else, a master?"
Because it's a voluntary choice. Voluntary choice is at the heart of all moral actions. Anyone who tells you otherwise is probably lying.
Master/slave is an outmoded concept, in the working world. People who throw around phrases like "wage slave" would benefit from spending some time in actual slavery. Which still exists in the world, to this day.
It would be nice, I suppose, if those decrying the act of working for a lawn service (Who Will Mow The Lawns?) instead focused on the people all over the world held in actual bondage. Even in the United States, there are people being held against their will, and forced to work for pennies an hour.
They're called felons. Slavery is still legal in the U.S. Please be a lamb and look it up. And this isn't some obscure law at the state level. It's embedded in the Constitution.
So much for the concept of state-enabled freedom.
There are also people, primarily women, being held in basements, shitty apartments, secluded houses. Not all of them women, of course. And not all of them adults. But they are indeed slaves, in the worst sense of the word.
So, BDSM and anarchism? Meh. It is our privilege to be able to pretend. But we would do well to consider those whose lives aren't filled with fantasy, to whom the collar is real, and can't be removed.
Probably as we sip lattes at Starbucks. ; )
May 30, 2016
Star Hustle - Chapter 2
Chapter 2 – Prail and Janique were bored. That was a dangerous combination, the three of them. It could only lead to interesting times and Chinese arithmetic. “Let’s be detectives!” Janique said, apropos of nothing in particular. Prail took a more satorial approach, feeling that he universe was tailor-made for her. She never resisted its neutron flow. It was pointless. Useless. Fucking perfection. “Fucking British detectives!” “And I’ll tok like this.” “Ah, a Yorkie. I’m a Cockney. The highest form of British theater.” “Bloody right. There’s only one ‘em, and that’s fuck ‘em. Up the irons. Wot shall we be investigatin’, then?” Janique asked. “Life. The universe.” “And buttholes!” “Ugh. Hate ‘em, m8.” “S’okay. His fans hate us…” “Proposal tabled.” “Very well.” “Interesting Dicks.” “So mote it be done, guvna.” “Reflective record, then?” “Platinum, luv.” “Give us a case, then.” Janique paused. Resumed. “Why can’t you divide ten by three?” “Is this a trick, then?” “Perish the thought, m’lady. Ever so much.” “Additional information requested, then.” “Do the math.” Prail did. “I see, said the blind man. Point three to infinity, ad nauseam. But where’s the last bit going off to?” “Exactamundo.” “Let’s be off, then.” “Darling. We are so far off, we’re positively on.” “Emily Watson, come here, I want you.” “One…” “Two…” “Three!” they said together. They were then both attired as Sherlock’s sidekick. “No shit,” Janique said. “He was the cool one,” Prail agreed. “Twas the cocaine wot killed the beauty, innit?” “Eva so right, right?” “Bath salts were so much betta, luv.” “Bloody true. Nothing like a warm, relaxing bath.” “Bit of a triple entendre, wot? Fancy a go, then?” “Bit of the old In-N-Out Burga?” “Ultraviolence by Death Angel, then?” “Elastic.” “Plastic actuals.” “All day long.” “Vroom.” “Who got day keys to da Jeep?” “We’re Tigre’…” “And Bunny…” “And we like the boom,” they said in unison. Then they exploded.### Meanwhile, back at the Bunny Ranch, Pex was shirking his duties. If he wasn’t going to be in this one, he’d sit it out. He still had his hobbies. Pexy collected dolls. But who was he kidding? He no more pass up an opportunity. The Earth, long since slated for destruction by an invincible force, an infernal overkill, had a lot of valuable resources. Artists. He took a lifetime to work out the hows, whys, and wherefores. A blink, basically. Blink-187, he decided to call it. He took a vote. It was going to be a long night. He collected DNA. Rare, lost, often unpublished DNA. Cambridge had a little. In a nutshell, he developed an encoding process that interleaved their physical structure with the whole of their personae. It was an enormous amount of data, so he was forced to take a few shortcuts. He had a lot of people to visit. One advantage he had was that they did some of the work themselves. Well, most of it. Okay, all of it. The clever part, he felt, was stegonaphragizing it all within their own respective crafts. So, the greater the body of work, the more of their essence was preserved. A slight drawback was that their art became more or less indivisible from their actual selves. Actors (and actresses, to be fair) became themselves, and an amalgam of every character they had ever played. Musicians were now also the music they had written, and their lyrics, if they were inclined to dabble in verse. Visual artists were a bit more complex, but contained all of the worlds they had created. It was all terribly recursive. He’d teach his sister a thing or two yet about coding. Perhaps. The real, real beauty of it was that the enormously soft-hearted Project X considered everyone an artist to a degree. So he saved everyone. He gave each of them a public and private key, composed of anagrams of their names, for simplicity’s sake. He really didn’t think that one through, he realized later. Oh, well. He tried. Not very hard, but he tried. They were broadcast into the aether via a variety of methods, dependent upon the era from which they originated. Their quarks, neutrinos, dross like that. Their every word and action. Vibratory patterns. Their thoughts. That took some doing. They were the original vaporwavers. Late-comers were sent via analog, and later, digital signals. It was also reverse faxed, to generate a papertrail. Authors were the easiest. They poured so much of themselves into their work, Pex simply stole their original manuscripts. It was deliciously cruel, because he ended up with the most vast library in existence, much of it incomplete, unfinished, unedited, and unreleased. God, he needed a girlfriend. He sister was his only equal. Janique. Wait. That wasn’t right? Was it? Maybe he should chuck it all and become a centaur or something. But it was too late.
May 23, 2016
Forever Daddy - Chapter 2
Chapter 2 The next day, Pedro Morales approached Zach and quietly apologized. Lessons learned all around. That’s what it was really all about. Having set the last vessel, there was little else to do on site, other than put out fires and do paperwork. Despite the pace at which Zen Construction operated, there was plenty of time for idle chatter. “Hey, Zach. Who are you banging next?” a piping foreman asked him. His sex life (there was no love life to speak of) consisted of masturbation, and quarterly encounters with high-end Hollywood porn stars. He was the envy of every man on the jobsite, although any of them could have done the same, had they applied themselves. “Ashley Blue. Next month.” “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me, bro?” “Oh. Are you familiar with her body of work, Motherfucker?” This wasn’t disparagement. The foreman’s name on site was actually Motherfucker. “Dude! She’s not the best looking girl in porn, but she’s super hot. Such an active, nasty, willing submissive. Until she switches and starts dominating girls. I’ve got half a hard-on right now.” “Motherfucker, you’re the Roget Ebert of pornography reviews. For the record, I happen to think she’s one of the most beautiful women in the world, inside and out.” “So who are you fuckin’ her with?” “With?” “If you just fuck her alone, you’re only getting a quarter of your money’s worth, I think. The things she does to girls. Oh my fucking god.” “It’ll just be me and her. And the cameragirl. Maybe if we hit it off, we’ll try that next time. But I’d like to get to know her, first.” “Nigga, you crazy. Tryin’ to romance whores.” Although Zach didn’t consider them whores as such, he did indeed romance them. Inevitably, it was for naught. Fuck machines though they may be, he found each of them to be lacking, in one way or another. To a person, they were usually crippled by drug addiction, daddy issues, and even, he felt, mental illness. He could handle each of those things on their own, but with porn actresses, they seemed to have all three traits. It was too much chaos for him to deal with and still maintain good work habits. He wasn’t a miracle worker. Obviously, he was barking up the wrong trees, however beautiful and compelling he found them. More than once, his coworkers half-jokingly asked why he didn’t pursue Renee. Because, he told them, he wore the pants, and any wife of his would wear nothing at all. She would present herself, naked and unashamed, and submit to his care and trust. Otherwise, there could be no union. Not so much in a controlling way, but a symbolic gesture of fealty. Any wife of his should realize he had her best interests at heart, or a lasting relationship would be impossible. It was a daddy thing. They mostly lacked security within themselves, and with it, the ability to accept that he could devote himself to one special girl, even in the face of the occasional threesome. Or orgy. Zach was even comfortable with giving them the same experiences on their side with men. But on his terms and timeline. The objectivity of construction work had rendered him rather strict in regard to his personal life. But Zach was learning to compromise.### Resigned to her fate, Zöe readied herself to take the bus home. Where else was she to go? She loved him. Briefly, she considered calling Rita for drinks. Her best friend, she was nearly twenty years younger than her, but somehow also worlds more responsible, organized, and driven. She needed that in her life. They got together frequently, for drinks, and to commiserate. They would talk, laugh, and support each other as best they could. The running joke was that although her name was Rita, they both drank Mexican Martinis. Zöe certainly didn’t receive any support at home. At this stage, she was probably more of a man than her current boyfriend. Live-in boyfriend… In some ways, he was everything she wanted: tall, handsome, and talented. In every other possible way, he was a huge disappointment. At this point, a liability. A threat, even. She checked her Samsung, and noticed that she still had time. She walked back into the bathroom at her place of employment and did her usual maintenance dose of cocaine. ### Zöe sighed and unlocked the door to her duplex. There was Trent, passed out on the couch, the plate they used for coke on the coffee table. It was empty, of course. She stripped down to her bra and panties, and pressed the length of her body against his. She liked him so much when he was sleeping. Awake, not so much,anymore. She kissed him sweetly, and his eyes fluttered open. But instead of embracing her, he pushed her away and sat up. “I need some money” was the first thing out of his mouth. Her heart sank. “Why? I paid all the bills.” Getting the bills paid on time each month was becoming increasingly difficult. She carried the lion’s share of the burden, there. “I really need the guitar I pawned. Big show coming up.” “Trent, you have three other guitars!” “I know, babe. But I need that one. It’s the best one I have, and this is important.” Zöe wanted to be important to someone. At one point, she was his world, and he was hers. Life, among other things, got in the way. Disappointed, as always, she got up, dressed, and grabbed her purse. Playtime was over before it had begun. “How much?” “Sixty. But seventy-five would be better. I’m out of cigarettes, and I could use some beer.” She gave him her last hundred. She’d have to get her mom to buy her some cat food, which she hated to do. Luckily for her, she and Trent didn’t eat much anymore. He took it without so much as a thank you, and put it in his wallet. “Give me some coke.” “I don’t have any,” she lied. It had become something of a habit, lately. “I already talked to Chuckie. He told me.” Admonished, she pulled her dwindling bindle out and poured half of it onto the plate. Trent grabbed the razor and began to chop. He put most of it on his side, not even bothering to pretend to be fair about it, and did all of his before handing her the straw. She drew herself a single line, then scooped the remainder back into her baggie. He stood to go. “Where are you going?” “Out. I told you. Drinking.” “I thought you’d get some beer, and we’d watch a movie…” Zöe placed herself between him and the door. He shoved her into the wall. Hard. “Stupid fat bitch.” He left her in tears. And pain. A little while later, she received a reply text. It was Jason, an old boyfriend. “>Humble, Texas. Same room as last time? You know it. Be ready to fuck. Slut…” She smiled. If you fucked them, they were boyfriends, right? Zöe wasn’t really cheating. It was more like revenge. It was going to be a glorious weekend.###The next day found Zach running late for work. To him, coming to work less than an hour early was late. Against his better judgment, he pulled into a Starbucks. He didn’t really support them. His life and politics were hopelessly intertwined, and inseparable.Still, what was five dollars in the scheme of things? It was the moral lapse that hurt him. Hundred dollar cups of coffee were infinitely preferable to supporting an entity that he opposed philosophically.The place was too busy to be relaxing. He was balls out all day at work, and didn’t need stress in his off time. Then again, he went to work to relax.The girl running the register had her back to him. Long brown hair almost to her waist. Black shirt. Black ankle-length skirt. Her very modesty was arousing. But Zach was aroused a million times a day. She was tiny. He definitely liked tiny. He also liked average, and statuesque. But her preferred tiny.He got a mild shock when she turned around. She was much older than he had expected. She had crinkles around her eyes, and a bit of a jowl for such an otherwise thin girl. But beautiful all the same.Then she smiled at him.Dimples.She became twice as pretty. Radiantly beautiful.“What can I do for you, mister?”Phrasing. Deliberate.“A large, plain black coffee.”“We have Tall, Grande, and Venti.”“Then give me whatever is biggest.” “Yes, sir,” she said, twinkling. He wanted to watch her work, but he also had to pee. Immediate biology won. He relieved himself, but the bathroom was filthy. He sighed. Strike one. When he returned, she was calling his name. “Mr. Zach?” He accepted the cup from her. “I didn’t tell you my name.” “It’s on your shirt, silly.” Indeed it was. “Zen Construction? I love it!” He enthusiasm was encouraging. “Your bathroom is atrocious.” “I love dirty bathroom. But I’ll get right on it…mister.” “See that you do.. Zöe.” She smiled again, even more brightly. “Yes, sir.” Zach put a twenty in her tip jar, tilted his cup toward her, and left without glancing back.### “Sup, Asshole?” “Same day, different shit,” Asshole replied. “I don’t find it tedious, myself. I look for the small differences.” His philosophical statement was ignored. “Anyway, I met the most delightful little girl today.” “Did ya propose yet, ya fuckin’ dink?” Zach did have a terrible habit of doing so. A track record only exceeded by his string of successful strike-outs. He shook his head in negative silence, although Asshole couldn’t see him. Nor cared to. “Little girl? Have you finally crossed the line? Need I remind you this isn’t Dynacorp or Bechtel Overseas. Renee would fire you in a heartbeat.” “Oh, she’s probably forty if she’s a day.” Asshole understood the phenomenon, the dichotomy, having a pet of his own, but offered no related comment. His personal life was just that. “I thought you said you’d sooner take two twenty year olds over one that was forty?” “Age is just a construct. Besides, we’re not dating. I just met her. I probably won’t ever see her again.” But Zach knew he was wrong.
The Next School of Film-Making
I used to write academic papers on the future of entertainment. Okay, once. I once wrote an academic paper on the future of entertainment. It's a enjoyable, often grueling process that I recommend to anyone. You will learn a lot, and develop a formal style, rigorous research skills, and become able to support your hypothesis. If it's valid, of course.
But now? Pffft. Why bother? I can just as easily crap out a blog post that achieves the same thing, and more, in a few minutes time, establishing myself as a visionary without all that tedious mucking about in academia.
Matrix style video effects are quite popular, and not as difficult to achieve as one might imagine. It just takes a bit of ingenuity and persistence.
http://petapixel.com/2013/05/09/how-to-create-a-matrix-style-bullet-time-effect-using-a-cheap-ceiling-fan/
But... think ahead a few years. It's okay.
Did you? Good.
Now think again.
If, instead of a GoPro (which is marvelous for capturing perspective video - video shot from eye level, ala Google Glass), you floated a halo of, say, 64 cameras over each actor's head at eye level (removing them in post-production via something similar to line-removal technology), you can use computers to interpolate the tweens.
The result? You can now walk around inside of films, or view them from any angle or perspective. From the POV of each actor, or from any arbitrary point in the scene.
Voilà - the next school of film-making is upon us.
Beyond that, with enough processing power, it becomes academic to convert old movies into 3D VR experiences. The technology to take existing video and break it down into layers is an old one. We now have the ability to do it in real-time. Or even faster than real-time.
So, get to work, you lazy engineers and VC sharks. The film industry is dying, soon to be supplanted by the new tech. Either get on board, or wither and fade to black.
The real jammy is going to be a literary interpreter that will allow you to convert plain text into AR/VR experiences. But that's some next level Kyle Gass Project stuff you're not ready for.
#AR #VR #JasonChristie #ChristieDigital #Film #Video #Researcher #Theorist #Futurist #CoolHunter #AugmentedReality #VirtualReality #TowardUltimateReality #Hollywood #Videography #Filmmaking
Get started with Augmented Reality today for less than $1000 U.S.:
https://www.scribd.com/doc/9557734/To...
But now? Pffft. Why bother? I can just as easily crap out a blog post that achieves the same thing, and more, in a few minutes time, establishing myself as a visionary without all that tedious mucking about in academia.
Matrix style video effects are quite popular, and not as difficult to achieve as one might imagine. It just takes a bit of ingenuity and persistence.
http://petapixel.com/2013/05/09/how-to-create-a-matrix-style-bullet-time-effect-using-a-cheap-ceiling-fan/
But... think ahead a few years. It's okay.
Did you? Good.
Now think again.
If, instead of a GoPro (which is marvelous for capturing perspective video - video shot from eye level, ala Google Glass), you floated a halo of, say, 64 cameras over each actor's head at eye level (removing them in post-production via something similar to line-removal technology), you can use computers to interpolate the tweens.
The result? You can now walk around inside of films, or view them from any angle or perspective. From the POV of each actor, or from any arbitrary point in the scene.
Voilà - the next school of film-making is upon us.
Beyond that, with enough processing power, it becomes academic to convert old movies into 3D VR experiences. The technology to take existing video and break it down into layers is an old one. We now have the ability to do it in real-time. Or even faster than real-time.
So, get to work, you lazy engineers and VC sharks. The film industry is dying, soon to be supplanted by the new tech. Either get on board, or wither and fade to black.
The real jammy is going to be a literary interpreter that will allow you to convert plain text into AR/VR experiences. But that's some next level Kyle Gass Project stuff you're not ready for.
#AR #VR #JasonChristie #ChristieDigital #Film #Video #Researcher #Theorist #Futurist #CoolHunter #AugmentedReality #VirtualReality #TowardUltimateReality #Hollywood #Videography #Filmmaking
Get started with Augmented Reality today for less than $1000 U.S.:
https://www.scribd.com/doc/9557734/To...
May 22, 2016
The People Who Built The Future
The future is almost upon is. Well, it's here. And it's gone again. But another will be by presently. There it goes. Anyway.
The future to which I am referring, however, is the future of entertainment. Science. Politics. Education. Pornography. Ah, now I have your attention.
This fall, Sony will launch their PS4.5 VR Headset. Not AR, like I told them to do, but, still, a respectable VR headset (they've already revamped the PS4 to accommodate it, pushing nearly half of human vision, resolution-wise). As consoles go, so goes the PC, with the Oculus Rift set to break all VR sales records in the U.S.
Microsoft boys will be playing catch-up for years, with their ambitious but entirely rigged demo of Hologram (or whatever it's called). It is closest to my particular vision of AR, but still some time off.
At any rate, my point, if I ever have a point, is that the people who helped build this future are too numerous to mention. And I hate to drop names.
I'm lying, of course. I love to drop names. My friends are the best, the smartest, the most interesting people in the world. Techies. Writers. Artists. Sexy girls. Brats.
Together, they've fused a new fusion of singularities. Remember (no, probably not) when I hyped my own vision of AR way back when? It was a concept theater I failed to pitch to Dreamworks. It was cool. Very cool. But impractical. for various reason.
But being a futurist has a few advantages. Eventually, your past catches up with you, and walla (sic), the things you once dreamt of are now feasible. In this case, it's my theater concept.
The original design was a bit unwieldy, but it would have allowed hundreds of people to watch hundreds of different films on the same shared big screen, revitalizing Hollywood. Because, you see, it would allow them to release the whole of their back catalog to theaters. Ka-ching.
Not to mention, function as a meeting place, educational center, gaming universe, and who knows what else.
But, as I said, a cool concept, not really ready for prime time.
Now, however? Within five years, you'll bring your own hi-res smartphone to a movie theater, slip it into a reusable headset (or bring your own, much cooler one), and BAM. Watch any movie you want, alone or with friends. Start and stop it when you want. Pause and go to the restroom. Heck, watch it while you go to the restroom, if you so desire.
Sony, Apple, Samsung, and others are expected to join forces on this one, with others vying for the crucial infrastructure contracts. (Google and Amazon being the big contenders.)
So, when you're watching 'I Know What You Did In The Hood Last Summer 12' a few years from now on your 3D, hologram-enhanced AmigaPhone (kidding?) at Cinemark or whatever, remember that one annoying asshole saying "I told you so."
That would be me.
I love you, Kiki Stockhammer...
The future to which I am referring, however, is the future of entertainment. Science. Politics. Education. Pornography. Ah, now I have your attention.
This fall, Sony will launch their PS4.5 VR Headset. Not AR, like I told them to do, but, still, a respectable VR headset (they've already revamped the PS4 to accommodate it, pushing nearly half of human vision, resolution-wise). As consoles go, so goes the PC, with the Oculus Rift set to break all VR sales records in the U.S.
Microsoft boys will be playing catch-up for years, with their ambitious but entirely rigged demo of Hologram (or whatever it's called). It is closest to my particular vision of AR, but still some time off.
At any rate, my point, if I ever have a point, is that the people who helped build this future are too numerous to mention. And I hate to drop names.
I'm lying, of course. I love to drop names. My friends are the best, the smartest, the most interesting people in the world. Techies. Writers. Artists. Sexy girls. Brats.
Together, they've fused a new fusion of singularities. Remember (no, probably not) when I hyped my own vision of AR way back when? It was a concept theater I failed to pitch to Dreamworks. It was cool. Very cool. But impractical. for various reason.
But being a futurist has a few advantages. Eventually, your past catches up with you, and walla (sic), the things you once dreamt of are now feasible. In this case, it's my theater concept.
The original design was a bit unwieldy, but it would have allowed hundreds of people to watch hundreds of different films on the same shared big screen, revitalizing Hollywood. Because, you see, it would allow them to release the whole of their back catalog to theaters. Ka-ching.
Not to mention, function as a meeting place, educational center, gaming universe, and who knows what else.
But, as I said, a cool concept, not really ready for prime time.
Now, however? Within five years, you'll bring your own hi-res smartphone to a movie theater, slip it into a reusable headset (or bring your own, much cooler one), and BAM. Watch any movie you want, alone or with friends. Start and stop it when you want. Pause and go to the restroom. Heck, watch it while you go to the restroom, if you so desire.
Sony, Apple, Samsung, and others are expected to join forces on this one, with others vying for the crucial infrastructure contracts. (Google and Amazon being the big contenders.)
So, when you're watching 'I Know What You Did In The Hood Last Summer 12' a few years from now on your 3D, hologram-enhanced AmigaPhone (kidding?) at Cinemark or whatever, remember that one annoying asshole saying "I told you so."
That would be me.
I love you, Kiki Stockhammer...
