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Where ya goin' for tomorrow?
Where ya goin' with that master hound?
And I feel, and I feel when the dogs begin to smell her ...

The it has returned to its banging pack of hounds. Previously, I had referred to it as a she. But when it first claims to like dehumanization, and then after seeing the damage caused by that activity, still returns to that activity, assigning "she" to it is my mistake. I repent. This human who I write about tonight is not a female, but an it. And so it shall be.

I suppose one's intuition must be consciously confirmed. And the record is in existence. The it, confused and broken down by her bang pack, was to the point of not being able to think. It was failing at its place of employment. It floated without meaning. A different voice encountered the it. The it was encouraged to get out. Though resistant at first, the abuse turned that to hesitation and then finally desperation as it feared and felt it being blind to some great pulverization that was happening to it. It got out. It attained renewed strength. It then returned. The strength and the improvement I witnessed. The return I speculated on.

But it returned. It confirmed it. It did the typical addiction habit of lying, saying it never said it should leave the bang pack, because the pack was abusing and permanently damaging it. No, it never said that. Even though, of course, it did, on two different occasions. But the renewed health was used to return to the folly. Like millions previous to it, it thought just a little less scening and I'll be ok. Yes, just a little less, and the darkness may be controlled. So in its folly, the it returned to the folly. And at the folly, the hounds were predictable. In one of the first times the it returned to its bang pack, it got damaged. It got severely damaged. The gangbang porn scene is a tired cliche where the double blocked female is slapped around and told she is a worthless slut. In fact, a death in Aruba recently followed that exact course: the alleged murderer has video tapes of him violently striking his female object on the face and the legs. So, in the same way, the it that crossed my path was damaged. Sex rough enough to break a tooth and cause a jaw infection. Predictable. The gang pack lost its precious piece of fuckmeat - literal fuckmeat, not some tame virtual chatroom composite -- the gang lost its meat - and when given the chance came back with predictable violent vengence to retrain the fuckmeat that it is fuckmeat. Its do not have wills. Its do not have choices. This it exists to deliver its compliant holes to the bang pack. "It will not do that again, will it? (slap slap) Will the fuckmeat do that? (strike strike)" All very predictable, all very mongrel-esque. So the retraining caused damage. That does not matter with an it. Most especially when the it, with the pain and with the damage and with the jaw infection, is still committed to returning to the pack as the fully sub-human.

The it has returned and enjoys the growing identity of no identity. Ironic how the banging pack of hounds have turned a once thinking female into a who returns to its ...

... when mangy dogs defile her ...
... got time, time to wait for tomorrow ...

tgd

The Sweet
The Innocent




There's a disease out there, and it is growing. There is a growing disease, known by an old name, yet now so mocked by those now practicing it that they would not recognize it while at the same time denying to the death that it applies. But the disease is out there, growing, and it has a name.

The behavior is to deny obvious truths because they are incompatible with your belief system. It doesn't matter how non-philosophical the truth is. A sweet, innocent truth can set off an outbreak. Let us suppose that you went into a chatroom and there was a female there named "tinylilass". Now, anyone knowledgeable of the population knows that females with true tiny little asses are rare. So, entering the chatroom, it would be natural, it would be truth telling, to casually say. "Hi, tinylilass. If your name is accurate then you are a rare one."

And then the disease has an outbreak. There are a number of cherished falsehoods that this threatens, but the point is that the simple truth threatens it, and then multiple parties get offended, blame the innocent comment for being abrasive and/or belligerent, and whine and attack and play the victim as a result.

Tiny little asses are rare. The existence of a tiny little ass does not make other asses present invalid and unworthy of affection. Tiny little asses are more innocent than that. When you encounter one - especially in a sexualized forum like a BDSM website - it is natural to comment on it. Truth reveals; even the smallest, cutest, tiniest ass wagging form of it.

He who has ears to hear, let him hear.

tgd

An Episode



We would meet for lunch. She was a dancer, a disrobing dancer. Great ass. Met her in one of those BDSM clothing stores.

It was a cool spring day, early May. She wore a tight black tshirt - no bra - and a red and black plaid micro skirt we later bought at that same store. Micro. Really micro: showed a good half inch of her fine cheeks even as she walked. I met her at the 2nd floor elevator, we hugged, and took the ride down. We walked lightly together, past the ice creame stand, the sporting goods store, to the escalator. She smiled, and got on ahead of me. What a great ass. We would eventually eat on the first floor. But the escalator ride was always a part of our greeting.

She hops up two stairs ahead. I look forward under her little skirt - oh yes! - I look forward to what's under her little skirt -- mmm, sweet -- and what do I see? A thong (an ugly green/yellow thong at that). And she knows - she had obeyed before -- when we bought it I told her - nothing under this, ever. I see the thong, then look up at her, and she is looking back at me, smiling.

Life is short. Each moment is locked in the past before us while launching causation ahead. So here I have an association in my mind of that skirt and disappointment. Worse, of her need for my disappointment. There over her thong I see a smile on her face which is coming from a place not of a knowing graceful service to my own pleasure and joy. I see a smile rooted in my astonishment and disappointment. She knew how I loved her ass. It was a choice she made to withhold her ass's great pussitude from me. And this choice made her smile. These are lasting, spiritual relationships. And they are the wrong ones.

Further, from the moment she shimmy'd on that thong, until many minutes after I choose to acknowledge it, confront it, discipline her for it and require proof of mourning over it - from that moment through its entire resolution (for some minutes, for some hours, for others days) - SHE, the sub, was in control. It was her act of the will which determined our relationship for the next quanta of time, an act contrary to my will, enslaving me into the process of correcting it. Even if I chose to completely ignor it, my focus would be on the "it" I was ignorring, rather than the us, and the ready creame she supplies to lubricate us. I'm not a man prone to violence or the infliction of pain. But regardless how forceful and thorough my eradication of this transgression was or would be, I was a mere actor in a play she had scripted, doing something I did not want to do, doing something against my will, for the good of the pairing.

And so we see, the brat sub is actually no submissive at all. The moments of generous submission are merely transitional actings used to set up the disobedient controlling episodes which are at her heart. These episodes and behaviors work backwards and forwards in time, rotting and decaying the apparently sincere gestures of giving and service, tarnishing them with her selfish, scripted, manipulative impulses. You are what you return to. I return to pussy. I'm a man who loves women. You are what you return to. If you return to disruption, you love the disruption.

But what could have been: the sweetest cheeks, the delicious pleasing pink folds between them, the sweetly traced fresh creame all around them, the slight arch of the back, opening her red depths happily to me, the knowing generous wag causing that creamy canal to close and open and close in elevating rhythm; my smile, my joy, and rising to see her smile, saying "that's your ass baby, I wag it around so that we can be made one."

An ass not as a tool for foolishness, a 's bratty game of disobedience and punishment. No, sweet ever present cheeks made for a deeper reunion, an eternal communion. Mmmmmm, a subbie's sweet ass.

To Aphrodite, in the key of A Major, with stringed instruments.

tgd