I'm back and queerer

It starts in the morning. They each know something is different, but neither of them can quite put their paw on what's wrong. They notice your reluctance. The way you show too many teeth when you smile. The nervousness as they eat breakfast. They hesitate, but finish their meal and something inside you begins to relax. 

It’s not your fault. You found them as strays. Half feral and codependent. Anxious and likely to bite when frightened.

An hour later the drugs you slipped into their food starts to kick in. Pupils blow out, breathing slows. Neither of them respond when you slip the muzzles over their heads. One, in fact, you struggle to put on because the girl keeps trying to lick your face as you adjust the straps along her head.

Eventually you have them dressed, harnessed, leashed, and out in the sunshine.

Neither of them can read the “Friendly, please pet” patches on the back of the harness.  Neither of them know what the holiday is, or what celebration has caused so many people to spill out onto the streets on this warm day.  

You watch as the docile hounds lean into the pets from strangers. Where once they would be cowering, shivering messes, nipping and scurrying into the quietest shadows, you have them calm. Part steady training, part downers in their system keeping them passive. 

Questions are asked, assurances given that they’re friendly.

“Oh no, one of them really likes to eat pinecones so she has to wear a muzzle. The other feels left out because she thinks it’s like jewelry." 

You drift from crowd to crowd. Occasionally you’ll pause, slipping off the muzzle in a secluded spot to give each of them a chance to drink, or to force another pill into the back of their throat with a firm “Swallow.” 

You’ll use less drugs next time, but for now it’s more important that all this gets associated with positive interactions. That and something in you can’t help but enjoy the sight of them so stupid and blank. Throughout your walk the pair of them keep falling into each other. Tangling their leads and tripping into giggling, drooling messes. One will try and give the other kisses, whining and pouting when her lips find only the muzzle. The attention from strangers is eagerly accepted, the friendlier of the two even giving her belly for pets. 

Well into the afternoon you find yourself at a small party with friends, late because the pair of dogs with you got so much attention. Around these people you remove the muzzle from the sweeter of the pair, the one less likely to bite and less likely to deliver anything more than a warning nip if she does. Her kennelmate stays muzzled, looking up at all the guests with empty wonderment and a docile expression. More familiar hands reach down to pet the pair, welcoming them into the party. They lean into the touches. Pressing themselves into hands they growled at months ago. More than once you catch them arching their bodies into hands that had stopped petting encouraging their renewed attention. 

“Look, she’s gotten so sweet.” The one you’d trusted found herself on a couch, curled up in the lap of a person she’d only seen a few times in her life. With each gentle cooing word the hound relaxed, exposing her belly and inviting the touches that eventually came. You watch your training play out in real time as her mouth is opened by delicate fingers. “Easy girl. No bite.” Lips part, teeth flash, and no attack comes. Instead the hound holds still as fingers play with her tongue, exploring her teeth, dragging themselves along the sharp points with careless ease.  Never once do you see your hound twitch. Never once do you see the warning ripple across her body as this stranger so carelessly plays past her lips.

Next to you the anxious one is watching intently. You can hear her soft pants, see the shift from paw to paw.  Next time you think you’ll have her in the same position.

Before the party is over you slip them each another pill. They take it without complaint or comment, no thoughts in their heads except those which you’ve allowed. The anxious one has her muzzle put back on, straps carefully checked to make sure there’s no gaps. 

When the night’s concluded you’ll lead them back the quiet way home. Letting the night air cool their overly warm bodies.  You tell them how well behaved they were, how proud you were of their behavior.  The more anxious of the pair look up at you with pupils as dark and wide as the night sky, a stupid little smile on her lips, teeth flashing behind the bars of her muzzle. 

“So when’s the next party?”

(If you would like to support my writing and help me relocate to a safer place I've included my cash app below)

Why might someone from a group of people that historically have been denied access to wealth, now brag that they have it?

“Rappers only talk about sex!”

Why might someone from a group that have historically been denied sexual autonomy now brag about their sexual escapades on their own terms?

“Rappers only talk about drugs and crime!”

You'll know well before the planned date so you can prepare. Your hair and nails done, shopping for something new and lacy to match the rope we'll bind you in. Mentally you'll need to prepare as well. This is going to be one of the most intense nights of your life, sweet girl. You'll need to remember your breathing exercises.

Introductions will be brief. You thoughtlessly extend your trust to anyone I do. So as I smile and welcome her into my arms, you'll relax. This is someone I'm deeply friendly with. I'd never trust you with anyone that didn't have your best interests in mind, right?

We enter the play room and you can't help but notice the tools waiting for you. All neatly hung and cleaned. Plenty of room for the wide swings that some toys necessitate.

We'll undress you, catching up like old friends as the outfit you worked so hard to put together is tossed aside. The conversation will eventually focus on you. She'll compliment your form, your blush, the lace I dressed you in. She'll go through the safety check in. “Tell me your safe word. Show me your non verbal sign.”

After, you won't need to say anything. In fact, we're going to talk over you, openly discussing our favorite parts of you. Where we want to see marks. How much we think you could handle. You may be tempted to speak up, to offer what you think we may like. ‘Your ass carries stripes so well, but your back is difficult to mark’. We'll look at you like wolves being offered cuts from the lamb we're getting ready to butcher. Your eagerness is noticed, appreciated, but unneeded. We have the experience to carve you up, little girl.

Finally we come to an agreement. We bind your wrists together, anchoring them to the ceiling, chattering excitedly at each other as we work. Carefully a pair of blackout contacts are slipped into each of your eyes. We'll each take half of you. A side of lamb each to treat as a canvas.

Together we are more than the sum of our parts. When dommes enjoy working together, they start to learn each other's rhythm, and, more importantly, how to egg the other on.

Imagine being strung up in the dark. Blind and helpless, balancing on the tips of your toes. The only safety net you have is in the trust you have in me. One domme, you don't know who, gives you a gentle tap on your side only for the other to respond, lashing a crop into the arch of your body as it tries to escape the first.

Back and forth we'll tease you, building up our strikes before switching to crueler and more intense implements. You'll hear us excitedly offer the other tips to improve our swing, or offer spots that might be fun to hit. No part of you would be off limits as we work to turn you from a blank canvas, to art.

Our art. Our sobbing, shaking, broken art. When we're done we'll haul you down, hold you between us and slip the contacts from your eyes. Your first vision will be your naked body reflected back at you, carried between us, every inch of you decorated.

And another guy stitched it with a whole breakdown of her most recent posts to go “The day before you posted this you posted another video saying you met this celebrity and he had just posted that he was in this city. You also posted a video in a hotel room and after searching up hotels in this city, we can tell it was this hotel because the wallpaper in your video matches the wallpaper in pictures on their website. By looking up restaurants by this hotel we can tell you went to this specific restaurant” and he was right

It was a Tuesday in 1981 when the San Francisco police kicked in the door.

Inside the small apartment, they expected to find a hardened criminal. They expected a drug kingpin. They expected resistance.

Instead, they found a 57-year-old waitress in an apron.

The air in the apartment smelled sweet, thick with chocolate and something earthier. On the kitchen counter, cooling on wire racks, were 54 dozen brownies.

The police officers began bagging the evidence. They confiscated nearly 18 pounds of marijuana. They handcuffed the woman, whose name was Mary Jane Rathbun.

She didn't look scared. She didn't look guilty.

She looked at the officers, smoothed her apron, and reportedly said, "I thought you guys were coming."

AI Art, feat. Lesbianism

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