Mr. Manuscript

If I'm right, this will be at the top of the second page, and I'll be posting my story now.

I'd appreciate if anyone is chiming in, delay until the story is posted. It's just an aesthetic thing, but I'd like to have the unbroken momentum of it if I could.

Not that this is a particularly busy thread in the first place, which, as a Journal, is as it should be.

Bit of a preface to the story: I enjoy writing kink, largely because it's harder to get in real life. If I wrote a story about a loving vanilla sexual encounter, it wouldn't be as exciting because I experience that all the time. But kink, now -- kink I have to fantasize about. And that's what makes it an attractive subject, for me. I should also point out that I decided to try the tale from the female perspective, even though I'm not female, largely because in this one, the female takes the greatest leap of faith, and I felt it was important to let the reader in on the process, there, so it would ring truer. Such as it is, at least. Now, with no further ado, on to the story:


Lonely and horny, I tried to bury myself in my schoolwork, tried to be just another young woman working her way through a PhD program. But my thoughts kept drifting back to Tom. I couldn't help it; he had been the most powerful influence on my sex life, introducing me to all those wonderful kinks that made me feel -- well, my breasts ached for want of his touch, his kiss, the sting of the little blue flogger we'd bought together (I'd retained custody, but it wasn't the same). Such sensations as I had never imagined in my old vanilla life. And then he had to go and break up with me. Bastard.

It wasn't like I didn't realize there were other men out there. Better men. Certainly more faithful men, that's for sure. But having gotten a taste of what thrilled me, I realized I had a horrible task in front of me: not only did I have to find a good man in conventional terms, I had to find one that was also kinky, or at least curious, whom I could trust implicitly, and who liked to play the dominant. All in all, a rather tall order, and I knew it full well.

So rather than worry about that, I flung myself at books, at my thesis, at research. Over a few weeks, I must have deleted reams worth of text when I realized I'd been transcribing my kinky daydreams instead of vomiting up tangled academic verbosity. Sometimes it sucked to be a Russian History major; if I had been in the behavioral or social sciences, I might conceivably have managed to write a thesis on a subject that was much dearer to my heart (and clitoris). Heck, even a profile on DeSade would have been something, although that one did range rather outside my personal comfort level. But no, it was all about Peter and Catherine (and the horse thing was too well-established as a myth) and Lenin and Trotsky and the old gray men of the Politburo, publicly eschewing the "decadence" of the West, and Gorbachev and Yeltsen. I suppose the current (at the time) former KGB guy in charge, Putin, had some kinky skeletons in his closet, but current events were rather outside of my purview.

So that's what I was doing in the University's old thesis stacks in the second basement of the seldom-used Porter building, flipping through theses that had been written while the Glorious Revolution was then in the newspapers. Some of the books hadn't been touched in decades, and had the layers of dust to show for it. I'd been there half the day already, and had only heard the old elevator clanking once in all that time, and then it didn't bring anyone to my floor. That was the day, those were the conditions, when I happened to meet Jake.

I was staring at the crumbling page in front of me, kneeling on the worn carpet with my backpack and lunchbox open beside me, but I was imagining Tom's bed, my arms stretched to the sides, wrists securely wrapped in those thick leather cuffs, legs languidly sliding together in anticipation while Tom stood above me, straddling my prone body, stroking himself and muttering filthy names at me as I bared my teeth around the ball gag and moaned...

"Ahem."

The baritone voice startled me out of my reverie, so much that I actually jumped a little in surprise, letting out a little squeak. I realized my fingers had drifted to touch my nipples, which were stiff with the power of the memory. I flushed crimson, and quickly busied myself clapping the book shut, and whirling to see who my interruption was.

Tall, dressed in jeans and a dark T-shirt and jacket, buzz-cut dark hair and one of those still-semi-trendy goatees, that was all fine. He was attractive enough, not a classical "handsome" but a quirky kind of look that you could soon find adorable, if he was a nice guy. But it was his blue eyes, behind the little round glasses, that struck me, pinned me in place. They were pale blue, not an arresting color, but the gaze as he smiled down at me was intense, and I became aware, once again, of my flushed skin.

"Didn't mean to startle you."

"No, that's all right, Sir, I was just..."

"Research, yeah. I've been working through the files over there," he jerked a thumb up the central aisle. The whole floor was given over to ancient metal shelves, radiating off from the central aisle all the way to the wall, a long series of dead-end corridors packed with books. "Sorry I didn't make more noise coming down the steps, but I've kind of grown to appreciate the quiet."

"My fault for daydreaming, Sir," I babbled. I couldn't seem to stop myself talking, and between the fantasy he'd interrupted and my visceral reaction to him, the flow of words was coming out a little bit creepy. At least to my ears.

To his, too, apparently. "That's the second time you've called me Sir."

"I'm sorry, Si... I'm sorry, I just..."

"Shh. Don't apologize. But I notice the way you're kneeling. Knees a little spread, spine straight, shoulders back. You didn't get to your feet when we started talking, you just put the book down and put your hands on your thighs."

Blushing even harder, I struggled up to my feet, correcting my mistake. Damn my fantasies, anyway! "I don't know what you mean."

He grinned at me, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. "Of course you do. Hell, I could hear the capital S when you said 'Sir' the first time."

I looked away, but didn't say anything.

He stepped closer, emboldened by my silence, I suppose. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. I'm studying human behavior..." He paused. "Human sexuality, actually. And I've learned to notice the signs."

"Please," I whispered, stepping back, deeper into the aisle.

"Nothing wrong with appreciating the firm guidance of a caring partner," he continued, carefully stepping over my belongings as he pursued me. He paused, and cocked his head to the side. "Perhaps a little bit more than firm?" My blush and involuntary gasp must have told him what he wanted, as he grinned and closed on me, slowly and deliberately. I backed away, slowly, hesitantly, unwilling to look him in the eye.

"Please, I don't... This is a library..." I couldn't get myself to tell him to stop, to go away. I knew I should, but those eyes... and he KNEW! He knew. And that was making refusal very very difficult.

"This isn't a library, it's a crypt for forgotten knowledge. I've spent days down here, the only visitor. Until now, of course." His voice dropped, becoming a smooth purr as he backed me down the aisle, his fingers trailing along the dusty spines of the books on each side. "That's the spice of it. We're most likely completely alone, but there's always the chance."

"I don't think that I..." I stopped short as I collided with the wall. My back pressed against the chilly concrete, some long-forgotten bubbles in the cheap paint crumbling as my hands smacked against it at my sides. I pressed myself up on the wall, and he stepped close, bending down a bit, so he could look into my face. I drew a quiet, shuddering breath as he gazed at my face, moving his head to several angles, until I finally was able to summon the self-control to look him in the eye. The intensity was there, and crinkles of humor or enjoyment at the corners, and something slightly predatory, aggressive, glinting in the dim light from the far-away fluorescents in the main aisle. But I didn't feel frightened, more... anticipatory. I didn't feel he'd hurt me, but I was nervous nonetheless.

He sniffed deeply, inhaling my scent, and pushed in close, murmuring softly in my ear. "All you have to do is say no, and I'm gone." Then he pulled back, actually drawing back a step. The air felt chill again, as I realized I'd been feeling his very body heat, he'd been so close, without touching me. He looked at me from one pace away, letting me decide. Of course, there was no decision to make, really: I didn't know him, he was a total stranger, there was no way any sane woman would put themselves in a stranger's power in a poorly lit, unpopulated building... clearly, I had to say no. I had to. Just say no, and he was gone, as he's said. Just no. Just say no.

I let out my breath slowly, a little whimpering sigh. "I'm aware of that... Sir..." is what came out.

He made a small sound, like a sigh of pleasure, and his eyes closed for a moment. I, on the other hand, was freaking out inside my head. Oh, I knew what I was doing, what I was agreeing to. I knew why I was doing it, and I knew why I wanted it so badly. I knew why my nipples were so hard they ached, and why the pit of my stomach was all tingling, that tiny nervous vibration spreading up and especially down from there. What I couldn't figure out was why I was throwing caution and good sense to the wind. I found myself trembling, breathing hard, and I couldn't attribute all of that to the unknown.

He gazed at me, a tight grin on his lips, and took another step back. "Very good. Spin around, slowly. I want to see you fully."

I moved away from the wall, lifted my arms a little, and pivoted. As you could expect, I was immediately self-conscious about my body. Tom and previous boyfriends all told me I had nothing to worry about, and I knew I was healthy, of average weight for my height, and cute. But I always thought my breasts were a little on the small side, and I feared my thighs were too thick, distorting the tight little butt I know used to have in high school. My long dark hair was pulled back in a serviceable ponytail that whipped about as I turned my head fast, trying to keep this strange man... dare I call him my Master?... in sight. I also felt the sweatshirt and old jeans I'd been wearing for a day of studying were not at all flattering, but there was nothing I could do about that now. I watched him look me up and down, and I'm ashamed to admit I was pleased when he smiled at the sight.

"Very nice. What's your name?"

"Jean, Sir. Jeannie."

He shook his head, slowly. "No, it's not. You have to earn a name. Your name is 'slave' until I tell you different. Do you understand?"

I gasped, and my face felt hot again. "Yes, Sir."

He looked concerned for a moment. "If you can't take it, just tell me 'no,' and you'll never see me again."

He had given me another out. I'd be a fool if I didn't take it. A horny, lonely, kinky fool with very little chance of meeting a guy... just like... him...

"I understand that, Sir, thank you for the consideration," was what I actually whispered.

His grin came back, but his eyes stayed softer. "So. Again. What's your name?"

"My name is 'slave,' Sir." I couldn't help but cast my eyes down as I said this.

"Well done. And my name is Jake, although you can continue to call me Sir."

"Not Master?"

"Pretty girl named Jeannie, calling me Master all the time? No, thanks, I don't live in a sitcom." The smile was evident in his voice, and I glanced up with a grin of my own. "Unless you really can blink and make things appear?"

"Um, not really, Sir. Sorry."

"Eh. We'll work on that." He smiled again, then slipped back into serious mode. "Slave, I want you to strip."

"But... but Sir!"

He held up a finger. "I'm not opposed to commentary, but this order is firm. Strip. Right here, right now, slave. Clothes here." He turned that finger to point at his own feet.

I thought about it for a few more seconds. But what could I do? Of course I had to start drawing my sweatshirt up over my head. It was strangely freeing, in a way, and I don't just mean the loosening of my waistband when I unbuttoned my jeans, kicking my sandals to rest on my discarded sweatshirt. The purely mechanical action of taking off my clothes was more than just getting naked, it was giving control over to Jake. Sir.

I hesitated when I was just in my underwear, chewing a little bit on my lower lip, but Jake inclined his head and raised his eyebrows, and that was command enough. My fingers felt clumsy and half-numb as I fumbled behind me with my bra strap, finally loosing my modest bosoms into the air-conditioned open, and it wasn't just the chill air that made them so stiff. Comparatively speaking, it was much easier to shuck off those panties. I'd had a Brazilian wax done for Tom, just before he dumped me, so it was a bit of a rebellious thrill, as well as a sexual one, to expose my still-naked mons to Jake's approving eyes. Well, almost expose it -- I couldn't help but self-consciously try and cover myself with my narrow hands.

"No! Bad slave. You don't conceal yourself from me. In fact, lace your fingers behind your head, elbows up and back." Jake's tone and face were severe, but his eyes belied a slightly more playful attitude underlying the commanding mein.

I complied, feeling totally exposed and vulnerable, and a little like an inmate in a bad women's prison flick. As if there were any good women's prison flicks. In any case, Jake's grin widened as he looked me up and down, and I tried to keep a calm expression and not break into either nervous giggles or a pensive frown; neither one seemed appropriate.

"Again, very nice, slave. Turn to face the wall." I did so, my breath quickening as I turned my back on this complete stranger who nonetheless had gotten me to strip naked for him. "Widen your stance; make your feet about shoulder width apart, maybe more."

I stood with my legs apart, my naked ass on display for him. I stared at the wall, my hands laced at the back of my head, arms wide, back straight. I felt utterly helpless and defenseless, but I also felt exhilarated, aroused, and happy, of all things. I heard Jake shuffling about, no doubt moving my clothes out of the way, and I wondered how far I would go. He'd given me an out, one I presume I could use at any time, but how far would I let this go on before saying "no?" How far would he push it? How far did I want him to push it? All good questions, and all complete mysteries to me, even the ones I should have known.

Finally, I heard him approach. Gooseflesh rose on my back and arms, in anticipation of his touch. And he did touch me, first stroking my ponytail, then resting his fingers lightly at the base of my neck. He trailed his hand down my spine, feather-light, and I gasped, finding my whole body trembling slightly. At the base of my spine, just above the swell of my nether cheeks, his fingertips spread and moved to the side, his palm now brushing up the flesh on the back of my ribs, his other hand joining in on the other side as he stroked his palms up across my shoulder blades to my shoulders, then up the sweep of my arms. I couldn't help the small moan that escaped me.

"I take it you've worked with a dominant man before me, then?" He purred in my ear, his breath hot against the back of the shell of my ear. I had to take a moment to get my voice to work.

"Y-yes, Sir. My ex-boyfriend."

"Dare I ask why you broke up?" Those hands stroking down again, along my sides, this time. I tried to stay still under his touch, but it was difficult.

"He, he was cheating on me, Sir. I asked him to stop, and he... oh!... and he dumped me." I had to catch my breath as he swept his fingers across the front of my hips tugging me back just momentarily, and I felt his jeans against the skin of my butt, and more precisely, the swell in those jeans. I was staring at a fleck of mismatched paint, a chip in the old wall, but my attention was entirely focused on the sensations coming from my skin. Well, that and the smoothly modulated words unfolding in my ear.

"He was an idiot. Did he tell you why he chose to cheat on such a willing slave?"

I flushed at the term, but answered. "He said it was a Master's prerogative, Sir."

Jake's fingers clenched a bit on their sweep up my back when he heard that. "Double the idiot, then." His hands slid under my armpits and cupped the front of my shoulders, fingers spreading across my collarbone. Again, I found it hard to breathe, what with the way he was so casually fondling my body as if he owned me. Which, I suppose, he did, at least as long as I let him. I now had gooseflesh everywhere, all the tiny little invisible hairs on my body all standing up in arousal, just like my nipples, just like... well, other parts were making themselves known. "What else did he say was a Master's prerogative?"

"Sir?"

His hands stroked down the slopes of my pert little breasts, angling to the sides, teasing me. "I want to find out exactly how much misinformation this fool has told you. I take it he was your first introduction to this kind of thing?"

"Y-yes, Sir. Oh! We played tie-up games at first, and he spanked me, and then we started playing the roles. He said the job of a slave is to please the Master, and not to worry about herself."

Palms sliding across my belly, his bare arms brushing my sides (he must have removed his jacket when he was messing around earlier), chest bumping into my back, he shifted his stance and began whispering into my other ear. "To a certain degree, he's got a point, and that works well for some, but was he responsible with his power?"

"Sir?"

"Did he reward you for your service? Or did he just take his pleasure and let that be your payment?"

His hands slid down on the front of my thighs, and he used this to pull me bodily back against him, lowering his head to rest his teeth gently on the join of my neck and shoulder. It was a very primal sensation, that quasi-bite, and the feeling of being pulled naked back against a fully-clothed partner, that was also powerful. I gasped before I answered. "He said that serving his pleasure was to be my reward."

Jake growled, then lifted his head to ask, "And that was enough for you?"

I knit my brows in confusion. "But that's the way it's done, Sir. Isn't it?"

"Mmmm..." his hands slid back up my belly as he stayed pressed against my back. This was so much more intimate, transforming his initial fondling to a much more possessive caress. "Only by selfish, immature boys. If he'd done any real research, beyond reading crappy internet fiction, he'd have realized the responsibilities of a dominant go well beyond just getting his jollies. That's the payment, not the job."

Warm hands strayed up to confidently cup the swells of my breasts from behind. With my hands locked, I felt like I was even more on display, although all that stood in front of me was the wall. I suddenly desired to have a full-length mirror, so I could see Jake's face, as well as watch his hands roaming, exploring. I moaned at the firm grip, and when his fingertips flicked gently across my nipples from beneath, my knees almost buckled. But one good thing about learning to be submissive under Tom, despite all the flaws Jake found in his thinking, was that I had learned self-control. So I kept my footing, and just mentally melted back against Jake's strong chest.

"Do you want to hear what a Master's job really is, slave?"

"Mmmm. Yes, Sir."

He chuckled. "Focus, girl. I want you to know what you're getting into before we... get into it." He stifled another laugh, and I had to smile, myself. It was strange, this sensation. It had been weird how he'd guessed my inclinations, and he'd certainly taken so many liberties, it was mind-blowing I hadn't punched him out. But instead, I'd let him do all of this, willingly. I could blame my loneliness and heartbreak for starting, but once I began to obey him, I'd felt confident that I was in the right hands. The fact that he'd given me a way out, the fact that he'd spent so much time just stroking my skin before getting to the sexy parts, the fact that he was explaining himself to me... all of those were excellent reasons to continue this experiment, to continue to extend some trust to him. He hadn't let me down yet. His hands continued their synchronized caresses as he continued.

"A woman submits for many reasons, sometimes positive ones, sometimes negative ones. But whatever the reason, she puts her trust in the dominant to see her through. The Master has to give her what she needs, has to do so in a way that gives her release, and has to be sure she gets her satisfaction out of the exchange. In a sane relationship, the submissive is always there voluntarily. I have, after all, given you the opportunity to say 'no', haven't I?" He punctuated his question by lifting his hands away and smacking them back to me squarely on my butt cheeks, leaving them there to squeeze me possessively.

I yelped. "Yes! Sir! Yes, you have."

"Good." His hands moved down the backs of my thighs, roaming around and up the front. He still had not ventured into the inner thighs, but he was getting quite familiar with my breasts. I think he was teasing me, trying to get me worked up, but after some of Tom's games (as self-indulgent of him as they were, I was now realizing), I had excellent willpower against that sort of thing. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the touch of his warm skin, eye half-closing as I stared at the wall. He continued explaining, moving from ear to ear as he felt the need.

"If a man's lucky enough to get a submissive, particularly one as gorgeous as you," and here I couldn't help but feel another flush of pleasure, as everybody likes to be told they look good, "it's in his best interests to keep her happy. So a good sub must be rewarded. A bad sub is bad largely because she wants the punishment, which becomes part of her pleasure. Either that, or the dominant is a sick bastard who sets the bar too high so he gets a chance to punish the sub, but that relates back to the whole voluntary thing. How do you feel about punishment, slave?" This while he was tugging and pinching gently at my nipples, making my breasts stand out like little fleshy cones.

I thought back to my little flogger, the sensation of being spanked, the crisp slap of skin on skin, or leather on skin, and the way it made me tingle deep inside. But there were also some moments when Tom had tried some things I hadn't really gotten into, couldn't understand why he'd find that appealing. So I knew what Jake was talking about, a little bit. "Some... some punishment is enjoyable, Sir, in moderation."

"Ah, yes, all things in moderation. Mmmm... such nice nipples. Anyway, a good dominant is going to figure out what his submissive wants, is going to give it to her, reward her properly, and make sure she ends the session feeling satisfied and content. Somewhere in there, he gets to get his own jollies as part of the process, but it's not the goal or even the end-point. Is that how your ex-boyfriend handled himself?"

By this point, I was just about panting. I had self-control, yes, but the constant stroking of my more intimate places (though not my most intimate) while I had to stand immobile and just endure it, well, it was having its effect. But I still needed to answer. "That isn't how he handled it at all, Sir," I said, studiously avoiding saying "no" even accidentally.

He paused, his hands gripping my hips, again a very possessive stance and hold. "Does it sound like something you'd like to try?"

I trembled. My eyes closed of their own accord. "Yes," I breathed, "Sir."

He bent his head and, nuzzling aside my ponytail, kissed the base of my neck, still gripping me by the hips. I sighed as he kissed me, right at the top of my spine. He murmured rapid-fire questions at me, not giving me time to append the traditional "Sir" to my responses.

"I'm going to ask, and you're going to tell me true, if I've figured this out correctly. You're a PhD student, constantly working on your thesis."

"Yes..."

"Your future rests on your constant efforts, if you fail, if you slack, you could end up jobless with a mountain of debt."

"Yes..."

"You're surrounded by pressure and the demands of your life, and you have very little release."

"Y-yes..."

"When you give yourself over to your ex, or to me, you're giving up responsibility for your cares, for your actions. Right now, right here, it doesn't matter what you want to do, it's up to me. You find it freeing, relaxing, to let down those burdens, to get out from under those pressures, and I am giving you the chance do to that, aren't I?"

I was silent, thinking.

"It's easier to submit, to obey the will of a dominant, than it is to take command of your own destiny. You're a strong woman, a driven woman, but you need a break, you need a chance to take a breath, to remind yourself that there's more to life than work and study and all the responsibilities. And I'm here to take those weights off of you, to let you have a rest from them, to let you focus on a very immediate, very small set of concerns. I'm your safety valve, today, aren't I? Aren't I?" His fingers tightened on my hips. "Answer true."

My voice, when I could find it, was very small and soft. "Yes."

He moved around in front of me, hurriedly, and wrapped me in his arms, hugging me. I broke my position, and my arms fell around him, too. He sighed into my neck, and I stifled a sob. I had never thought things through well enough before, my relationship with Tom had never been framed in quite that way, and it seemed so obvious in retrospect. I was shaking, and not from arousal (though I was still aroused). Realizing something about your own self shouldn't be so hard, but something about the build-up and the vulnerable state I was in, physically and mentally, made it smack into me. And Jake really was a student of human nature if he recognized I needed reassurance right then, even in the midst of the kinky sex-play.

"It's all right, Jeannie. It's all right. I'll give you what you need. You're in safe hands," he murmured softly in my ear.

I was finally able to get out a squeaky "Thank you." And as an afterthought: "Sir."

He froze after a moment. "Although when I said 'very small set of concerns', that wasn't a comment on..."

I laughed, sniffling, and the heavy moment passed just like that. He stepped back, bumping the wall, and smiled at me, meeting my eyes. My arms rested on his, and we gazed at each other.

"Feel better?" I nodded. "Feel like continuing?" I paused a moment, then grinned up at him and nodded. I liked his take on things; I could still submit, but the ultimate control was in my hands, and that actually helped me. He grinned back. "Good. Back in position, slave."

I re-laced my fingers and raised my elbows. Jake stood behind me, pressing against me, and his hands reassumed their grip on my hips. His caress, which before had been confident and possessive, now seemed superlative, like he already knew he owned me and didn't need to prove it to me or anyone else. It was subtle, but I liked it. This time, his fingers slid right over my naked mons, running down my inner thighs, as if there were no more barriers of politeness or uncertainty to keep him from claiming my most intimate parts. And the bitch of it was, at that moment, he was absolutely right.

"So, right here, right now, for the time we're together today, I want you to think of yourself as mine. You belong to me. I own you. Do you understand?"

I released a sigh, and found myself relaxing. "Yes, Sir."

"Who owns you?"

"You do, Sir. I am your personal slave; all of me is yours to possess." The words just flowed; I wasn't entirely in control of them.

"Nice. Very nice. This is why I'm not opposed to commentary; this, and the fact that you may have some ideas I haven't thought of."

"Doubtful, Sir," I moaned, relaxing into his bold stroking, giving myself into the arousal he was so clearly trying to incite. That little realization of mine had freed me to immerse myself into the moment, and the moment was working.

He chuckled. "Maybe. So, my pretty slave, what is it you're good at? You'd know better than I, and if I'm going to sample your wares..."

"I... I'm good at s-sucking." It was hard to admit, but I was his, after all, at least for now, and it didn't help anything to keep secrets in this situation.

"Really? Very interesting." His hands left me, and I felt him ease away, heard the zip and fabric shuffling, and then felt the superheated touch of what must be his cockhead, resting on the upper curve of my right ass cheek. The feel of his penis made me quake a little, and my knees almost buckled again. This was really happening, it was really fucking happening! And I was nervous again, but not in the same way as before. This was more of a "I hope I do okay, I hope I get the job done right" kind of nervousness, not a "oh, God, oh God, what's he going to do to me?" kind of nervousness. So, more of a mild performance anxiety. Which I should have found shocking in and of itself, but I was too caught up in the moment. Today, I was beyond being shocked at my own behavior.

"Break position and show me," is all he said.

My breath catching in my throat, I nonetheless immediately spun and knelt in front of him. He had freed his cock and balls from the confines of his jeans, but nothing else. Standing there, with his rigid prick exposed, arms crossed and face inscrutable, he was as stern an image of a sexual taskmaster as I could have hoped for. I marveled at the sight of his circumcised penis. It was of average length (a slight step up from Tom, sad to say) but a most robust thickness. Nothing scary, just nicely fat. His pubes weren't shaven, but they were trimmed short, and his balls were nicely pendulous, even in the chill air (I realized suddenly I hadn't actually felt the cold in some time, now). I really did enjoy giving head, so it wouldn't be a lie to say my mouth watered a bit as I came eye-to-eye with that stiff member.

After gazing at it, and adjusting my position for optimal approach, I glanced up at Jake's face. "Sir? Would you like me to use my hands, or would you prefer I not?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Normally, I'd let you use whatever you can, but today, let's test you. Hands at the small of your back; imagine you're cuffed."

Obediently, I crossed my wrists behind me, and then lifted my head to start work.

I really do enjoy the feeling of a man's cock in my mouth. It's not so much the taste or the physical bulk of it, which all is pretty good, but more psychological. I like it because of what I can do to it, and therefore what I can do for the man. I started by cradling Jake's cockhead on the flat of my tongue, sliding my lips a fair distance along before closing them around the shaft, always keeping my teeth carefully away. My tongue slipped and slathered around the underside, as I drew back, keeping that ridge of the helmet just inside, then plunged down on it again, deeper. Tom hadn't been long enough to really give me any problems taking his whole shaft in my mouth, but I hoped I'd figure out how to keep pleasing Jake without gagging too badly.

Jake, my Master, moaned his pleasure as I bobbed in front of him, and I felt his hands come to rest on the top of my head, just gently riding along as I worked. I nodded forward, and felt Jake's dick nudge into the back of my throat, just barely. I started to swallow, to try and trick my throat into not throwing up, and it seemed to work. On the other hand, I felt my nose bump his jeans, fairly hard, so I'd taken just about all of him. It seemed a good length; just enough to give me something to work on, self-control wise, but not enough to block my breathing. In the stories on the internet and such, that's always a problem, and I was glad I didn't have to cope with it; that might have been too much to take, so to speak.

I kept my motion going for some while, taking him deep and working on improving my throat skills, then pulling back. When I needed a break, I pulled off his knob and licked my way down the shaft to his balls, lavishing them with tongue attention, coincidentally sliding his spit-slick cock all across my face. It was just so slutty, I loved it. Something odd frequently happened to my thinking when I was deep in submissive mode, I'd learned that about myself with Tom. But this was freakishly quick; it's like Jake's warm-up with me had vaulted me over all the interim steps and slotted me right into "wanton slave" mode. Which, quite obviously, he didn't mind. Each time I worshipped his balls with my mouth, his grip in my hair grew tighter, and he was more aggressive in controlling the speed and depth of my blowjob. He also started to dictate the timing of the breaks. Soon I didn't have to do anything, he had wound his fists in my hair and was fucking my mouth enthusiastically, leaving me to just try and keep up. I was half-delirious from the sensation of being so completely controlled, so used. It seems odd, outside of the moment, to say that feeling used can have a good component, but it's part of the headspace you can get into when you're in that role. For whatever reason, defensible or not, I was loving it.

Suddenly, however, he dragged me off him and flung me back to sit on my heels. He staggered back a step too, breaking the trailing line of saliva connecting his cock to my lips. I looked up at him, confused, both of us panting, chests heaving, for largely different reasons (but not entirely different).

"Damn, slave, you are far too good. I nearly came, and I NEVER do that from a simple blow-job," he gasped. "But I wouldn't want to peak too soon. Hop up and face the wall. Put your hands up like I'm gonna frisk you."

I scampered to obey, putting my palms on the wall and moving my feet out. If I'd strained, it would have seemed like I was holding the wall up, or trying to push it over. As it was, I just waited, and tried to calm my breathing. I couldn't, though; I was too excited. Again, nervous, but excited. I expected to feel his thick cock enter me, stretch me open, but instead, he first adjusted my position, kicking my legs farther apart, angling my hips for me so that my ass was thrust back and up, presenting myself to him. I pressed my palms and forehead against the wall and tried to stay in control of myself.

"I wonder if you're wet," Jake drawled, his voice a study of bored speculation. I knew he was putting it on, to make me feel more owned, more submissive, but I went with it, going with the fiction, because he was right, it was what I was craving. "Should I test you?"

He'd stroked around down there, teased me, but hadn't actually gotten into me, hadn't penetrated. I suddenly craved him, his fingers, his tongue, his cock... even his elbow would have been something, and I craved it. "Yes, Sir, please check me!"

"Ask again, be specific."

"Please put your fingers in my pussy, Sir, to see if I'm wet enough for you."

"Ah, terminology time, my slave whore," he hissed, and I moaned at being called a whore. In the heat of the moment, a name that would have gotten him slapped under different circumstances now only went toward making me tremble harder. "You see, sex slaves have cunts, not pussies, vaginas, or any other euphemism. Yes, it's a blunt, crude, low word, cunt, but that's why you will use it. Perhaps when you earn back your name, you can earn back your euphemisms. Until then, it's cunt, ass, tits, and my cock. Keep things simple, blunt, and straightforward."

"Yes, Sir," I breathed. Tom had never played with language like this, and it was tripping switches I didn't know I possessed. "Would you please put your fingers in my slave whore cunt to see if I'm wet enough for you?"

Jake purred, or growled. He made a satisfied noise, is the point, and said "as you wish." Then I felt his hand stroking up my inner thigh, his fingers extended, then up onto my mons, his middle finger sliding up, brushing over my hooded clit (sending shock waves through my hyper-aroused body that nearly make me collapse against the wall) and delving into the opening of my pus... my cunt, proper. I gasped and moaned as he slid his finger in deep, wiggling it around a bit. He made a "hmmm" noise like he was thinking, then stroked up his hand again, between my ass cheeks, trailing his soaking-wet finger along my perineum and pausing to rub it on the tight little crinkle of my asshole.

"Not bad, slave slut. Not bad," he intoned. "Incidentally, you've got a tight little sphincter, here. Haven't you been properly ass-fucked, like a good fuckwhore?"

My breathing got heavier with each degrading name, but I didn't let that affect my answer. "I have not, Sir. I've held plugs, and my ex wanted to, but we never worked up that far before he dumped me."

Jake's finger kept circling, rubbing my own juices into the wrinkled flesh. "We'll have to see about that," he said almost under his breath. I tensed, and he stopped rubbing long enough to pat me reassuringly. "Oh, don't worry, little slave whore, I'm not planning anything. I wouldn't do such a thing to you without proper lube, and I don't carry that kind of thing with me to the library. Though perhaps I'll have to start..."

I trembled, but said nothing. Like many, I had always had both a curiosity about and a fear of anal sex. It felt odd, but not bad, to be touched there, and the women who've gotten good at it say there's a lot of pleasure to be gained from it, but I just hadn't gotten the courage to try pushing past the inevitable pain. Maybe my new Master would help me over that particular obstacle. God, what was I thinking? I didn't even know this man's last name, and he's rubbing my cunt juices all around my asshole! And I not only let him, I was the most turned on I think I'd ever been. The hot, nasty absurdity of the situation almost made my eyes roll back in my head, but I narrowly kept control, barely kept my mind from being blown, and stayed still under his ministrations. An extra long, low, throaty moan was the only indication of my thinking I couldn't suppress.

"Mmm. Nice, but I think you need a bit more stimuli." He stepped away, and I strained my ears trying to figure out what he was doing. "Hmm. 'Pottery Reconstruction Techniques Used in the 1934 Bankman Expedition.' I can see why the dust is so thick on this one." I heard him blow, and then SMACK! I felt my left ass cheek get spanked by a large flat paddle. My head shot back, and I gasped. I also felt myself growing wetter. The man was using the books as S/M tools, and I was a confirmed bibliophile in addition to any other quirks. I kept position, panting, and felt his fingertips softly stroking the impact site.

"Nice color. Not too hard, I hope?" I shook my head, still facing the wall. "But hard enough?" I nodded. "Good." More noise from the books. "'Goering's Diaries'... Well, this might actually be interesting to World War 2 folks, but clearly there's not enough of them around." Another spank, this time on my right ass cheek, which made me gasp. He stroked again, while chuckling. "You know, this is more action than these books have seen in decades. And for the rest of time, these theses will have the imprint of your ass on them. Future scholars will open these tomes, read the antiquated thoughts, and never know they'd been used to spank you fucking horny."

I moaned, again. Jesus, this must be what it's like to have sex with people nearby. The idea of having a sexual secret that other people unwittingly participate in... ooh, it was turning my insides to jelly. Jake went on, reading the titles, and spanking me with them, alternating cheeks, for what seemed like an eternity, but must have been only a minute or two, maybe eight or ten strokes per cheek. At the end of it, my arms were visibly shaking, my breath was coming in short gasps, my ass felt hot and tingly, and my cunt was so sopping I swear I felt rivulets of my own juices trickling down my thighs. And each of the titles is burned into my memory.

Jake reached under and roughly fingered me again. This time I didn't flinch; if anything, I pushed myself back at his hand. "Ah, yes, I knew this would work out well. His fingers stayed there, reaching under, finding my hidden little clit, and starting to circle it. Little sparks shot through my spine, and I keened, a primal-sounding noise, as he began to masturbate me, taking me from sexually simmering to boiling in a matter of seconds. His free hand fastened on the back of my neck and gently pushed, pinning my face to the cool, cool concrete wall while my hips twitched and gyrated under the assault of his skillful fingers. My fingers clenched and spasmed, but I kept them pressed to the wall; it wouldn't do to break position in front of Master. That said, I nearly collapsed on the spot when he rubbed me into my first orgasm. It became successively harder to keep standing as he kept rubbing, his other fingers on that hand awkwardly sliding into me, his thumb putting pressure on my anus. His other hand on the back of my neck, pushing my face into the wall, actually became more of a support than I would have thought. I cried out and moaned and nearly screamed, as the waves of orgasm kept washing over me, but he relentlessly and patiently just kept rubbing and rubbing in those maddening little circles.

Finally, dizzy from my latest forced orgasm, I was able to gasp, "Please, Sir, please fuck me, please fuck your slave..."

"Oh, I'm sorry little slave whore, I can't," he said quietly, never slackening his efforts. "I'm afraid I didn't bring any condoms, either." And that's about when his thumb-tip managed to push through my sphincters, all of a sudden, as my ass spasmed and just let him in. That sudden new sensation was enough to send me spiraling up again, and I don't know how long it took me to come down.

I don't remember collapsing. I found myself on my knees, fallen against the wall, Jake's hands no longer on me, just the cool old paint on my overheated face, chest, arms. My entire groin ached with a pleasant dull agony, and I could feel my own juices cooling on my thighs, pooling on the threadbare carpet at my knees. I was gasping for breath, sobbing, but inside my head, I felt calm, almost serene. All the energy and aftershocks bouncing through my nervous system didn't touch me there, and there, I found I felt completely happy.

I felt Jake's hot hands on my shoulders, as he knelt next to me, turned me around, and kissed me deeply. My lips were almost numb, but I managed to kiss back as his tongue savagely darted into my mouth. He was just about trembling, too, and I reached out, unasked, and fumbled for his cock, his gorgeous cock, to finish the job I'd started earlier. From his moan when my fingers brushed the hot rigid flesh, I knew he wouldn't mind.

That's when the stairwell door banged open and a man's voice shouted, "Hello?"

I froze, but Jake reacted swiftly. He broke the kiss, looked me in the eyes, and said quietly "Kneel here, forehead to floor, hands at your back." And he stood up, swiftly tucking himself back into his jeans, and strode up the aisle. "Yeah, hello?"

I took the position, just sucking in air. I was no longer feeling hysterical, although aftershocks were still making my limbs tremble. I just rested my head and curled up over my legs, my wrists crossed at the small of my back, waiting. It was almost meditative, if it hadn't been for the sex sweat cooling on all my skin, finally letting the chill air-conditioning sink in. I listened, almost idly, as Jake came around the end of the aisle and faced the intruder.

"Hey," the strange man said, "Um, you alone down here?"

"Yeah, just me. But, uh, I think someone's having a good time somewhere in here. Those air ducts? I was hearing... um, something." Jake's tone was conspiratorial.

"Yeah, we heard it too. That's who I'm trying to locate."

"You checked the upper floors?"

"Everything between here and the entrance. Co-worker is looking upstairs."

"Well, it wasn't here. Maybe the second or third subbasement. If I was doing it, the old Engineering stacks is where I'd go. I mean, some folks actually come and read the humanities, you know?"

"Jesus, don't remind me. I've walked in on people, like, four times down there just this semester. And most of them? Yeesh."

Jake laughed. "Tell me about it. Hey, you smell that? Damn, that's some kind of fucking, if you can smell it up here."

"Oh, shit. Better go check. Thanks!"

"You're welcome, dude." I heard Jake come walking back as the guy went noisily out the stairwell. I finally realized that the noise was probably intentional, to warn people he was coming. Not all student assistants are quite so clueless as I'd encountered before.

Jake stood in front of me, and I could feel his gaze on my naked body, bent before him. I could barely perceive his shoes at the very top of my vision as he just stood there, considering, for several seconds. Then I heard him dig in his pockets, and heard the click of a retractable pen.

"Sir?" I finally ventured. "Please, Sir, let me suck you." It seemed the appropriate thing to say. I mean, I was still naked, I was still dripping with sex, and we were alone again. It wasn't fair that I had orgasmed so much and he hadn't had even one. Yes, the librarian would probably be back soon, but that wasn't my concern, it was Master's concern. I had no responsibility for it whatsoever at this point. What Jake had said earlier about putting aside my worries, I had taken to heart, and that's why I said it.

"Not now, lovely slave." He knelt, and I felt his hand on the back of my head. "Sit up." I did, and faced him, nude, my chest still quick, as I hadn't completely caught my breath, my hands resting on my thighs. "Look, we don't have time for more. You need to get dressed and get out of here. These are my instructions." He held out a business card, one of those Vistaprint cards. I saw it had his name and e-mail on one, and he had written a fair amount in small, neat printing on the back. "I want you to go get yourself some water, some ice cream, and some protein. Meat, beans if you're vegetarian, whatever. I want you to take a nap, and put an ice pack on your crotch. Eat nothing after six. Tonight, at ten o'clock, I want you to show up at this address. Wear normal clothing, but no underwear. Bring nothing but your purse, and that only with the bare essentials. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Sir," I said, a thrill running through me.

"That's when I'll give you a chance to pay me back." He leaned in and kissed me on the lips, then half-rose to kiss me on the forehead. "I'm glad I met you, Jeannie. I hope, if you don't talk yourself out of it, I'll be seeing a lot more of you."

"I think you've seen about all of me there is to see, Sir," I said softly, smiling.

"You know what I mean," he said, grinning. With that, he turned and walked off, collecting his gear as he passed. I saw my clothes piled haphazardly with my other things at the far end of the aisle. As I shakily stood up and went to them, supporting myself with the bookshelves, I heard him go to the stairwell, and then some few minutes later, as I also went to the stairwell, I heard his voice echoing up from below, as he made small-talk with the librarian, buying me time to escape.

I left the stuffy little gray building with a smile on my face, a song in my heart, and something of a limp in my stride. It may have been kinky, it may have seemed dark and wrong and crazy, but I felt that this afternoon was the best day I'd had in months. Years, possibly.

And it wasn't over yet.



[[But this particular story is. THE END.]]

Anyone who wishes to comment on the story, please do. Otherwise, it serves as a statement of my philosophy on the subject, as I said earlier.

And I hope it's a good read. That's what people have said, so I hope you find it such, as well.

But..half the time no one means it.

I shooed off the fake people who smiled in my face...not played along with them. Even now...I know who's gossiped about me. I'm not being hostile towards any of them, but I usual make sarcastic comments if they speak to me.

Luna said:

But..half the time no one means it.

I shooed off the fake people who smiled in my face...not played along with them. Even now...I know who's gossiped about me. I'm not being hostile towards any of them, but I usual make sarcastic comments if they speak to me.

Click to expand...

I get you. Yes, people can be two-faced, and if you examine somebody's statements hard enough for long enough, there's always going to be contradictions (sometimes visible instantly, sometimes needing a lot of research). When it comes in the form of friendships, it's doubly hard, because that means they're not unified in how they feel about you, and you're supposed to be their friend. I get by on that question by remembering that people are always more complex than you think and are generally ruled by the emotion of the moment. At a given moment, I might not like a particular person very much, but that may change at a different moment. But I suppose it depends on how strongly you expect consistency out of people, and that's an individual scale.

I'm not sure how you got from thinking people are lying bastards to expressions of affection are cheesy, but it's not my own psychology, and not my place to judge. It is what it is.

I'm just saying the comment, sans explanation or qualification, rankled.

Simple.

There are people out there who want everyone to like them, but then they talk about some of those people like dogs the minute someone else brings them up. And then they smile back in the same persons face, trying to make idle conversation if they're bored.

I love the hidden button.

You know, this isn't the place. I understand your point, I understand your mechanism. I quibble on your word choice, as it elicits different connotations in my head which are still different from the connotations you're talking about here.

But frankly, much as I appreciate you as a person and a friend (to a degree: a friend who insults), my journal is not where I need to have a semantic conversation about the appropriateness of certain words to certain concepts. Well, it is, but only in one of my essays, I suppose.

You should pm me then. I do enjoy talking to you. <3

I'm just posting in here because you tend to get distracted in RFAY.

So, I think now is a good time to discuss a subject that's close to my heart. And of course, I'm talking about Verka Serduchka.

For the link-impaired, Verka is the drag character of Ukranian comedian Andriy Mykhailovych Danylko, who is three years younger than me and an international pop star for having represented the Ukraine in the Eurovision contest in 2007. Damn it. He's like the Dame Edna of the Slavic world, except he's a pop music diva superstar. I tend to talk about the character, Verka, as if she's a real person, even though it's Danylko under the make-up.

Verka had, like, a talk show on which she'd do songs and sketches, and there was a whole supporting cast which was supposed to be Verka's extended family. In particular, there was Verka's "mother" who would play directly off Verka most often.

There's a few videos from the early days which I've found interesting.

This was something where Verka didn't have the whole pop diva costume thing, but it was more of an ensemble piece, and I just find it notable for the sheer volume of booze and pickled foods in a music video. You don't see that so much anymore.

Like chimpanzees? Sure, we all do! Well, this was one of the first videos I saw where things got really bizarre, not only in the outfit that Verka chooses (a giant fairy bee, Verka? Really?), but also at about a minute and a half into it.

Some other videos played more with the family dynamic, such as this one, which has a long lead-in, as part of the comedy show, I'm sure. Still, it's interesting to see how it works, and wonder how other countries see things like Late Night or what have you. Anyway, the music action starts at about two minutes in.

Then: Eurovision 2007

This isn't the place to explain Eurovision, except to say it's kind of like the international European version of an American Idol Olympics. Verka was representing the Ukraine with one of her new songs, and finished second place. It really launched Verka into a whole new level. Her performance didn't feature her "mini-me"-dressed mother, but ol' mama is more of a non-performance character, anyway.

After this, the videos got larger and weirder. Verka as a weird and messed up Cupid, for example (with the video starting at about twenty-five seconds in). Verka wreaking havoc at a gym, until the video starts at about one minute forty in and there's little UFOs and beefcake in showers and bouncing disco balls and keytars, all of a sudden. There's even one where Verka and Danylko have a duet together.

But my favorite is the most bizarre. This one has it all: fetish stewardesses, flying cars, people's heads bursting into flame, there's a furry at one point, and toward the end, after Verka scampers across a giant keyboard and an army of marching singers appears, they start playing with expectations and kind of breaking the fourth wall, coming out of the screen at you. The fun starts at about a minute twenty five.

Now why do I like Verka? It's not just because I'm a Russophile, but I'm a big fan of the bizarre. The videos have enough random weirdness, I just love seeing something new every time. It doesn't matter that I can't understand the Russian, Verka has enough facial expressiveness for me to still get enjoyment out of it. It's entirely strange, and that's why I dig it.

I occasionally say deep things in my conversations with people. It's one of the reasons I might be slow in responding to a more frivolous or less philosophical IMs or PM exchanges (where appropriate). I feel like I want to share some of the things I've said, but I don't keep every single conversation. However, there have been various reasons why I have saved a few, and out of those, I've selected bits of wisdom, or at least stuff that sounds interesting. Maybe it'll be useful to someone else, too.

(18:03:27) MrMaster: I know your impulse is to help, that's because that's your specialty.
(18:04:01) DearFriend: -sighs- I'm not gonna let it ruin my book reading.
(18:04:06) MrMaster: Damn straight.
(18:06:09) MrMaster: You have something you do better than anyone else, you know.
(18:06:14) MrMaster: you do have a specialty.
(18:06:22) MrMaster: it's empathy.
(18:06:32) DearFriend: You think so?
(18:06:35) MrMaster: I do.
(18:07:12) MrMaster: there's a guy I read on TelevisionWithoutPity, Jacob. He had a chance during the Battlestar: Galactica reviews to spout out a bunch of philosophy, which I really dug.
(18:07:16) MrMaster: one of his things:
(18:07:23) MrMaster: what makes you awesome also makes you suck.
(18:07:48) MrMaster: your empathy is awesome, you do it better than most, apparently the best of your friends and family.
(18:08:17) MrMaster: but it sucks because it eats at you, it makes you miserable, makes you feel like you have to give and give until you don't have anything left for yourself.
(18:08:47) MrMaster: Does that make any sense?
(18:09:39) DearFriend: yeah
(18:11:59) MrMaster: You can find a balance, I'm sure, hon... But I don't want you to think that you're worthless. You've got an awesome advantage. But it's also part of what makes you wish you weren't here, so... troublesome.

Okay, one more little bit that I posted to the same friend in a different conversation.

(23:54:38) MrMaster: You make your own pieces, hon. You identify them and find them and do what you can with them.
(23:55:06) MrMaster: there's no finished state to your own self, or to life.
(23:55:19) MrMaster: it's a constant juggling game, which is something they don't tell kids that they should.
(23:55:29) MrMaster: there's no endpoint, no "this is done."
(23:55:53) MrMaster: because there's always a page to turn, always another leaf in the binder to write on.
(23:55:55) MrMaster: until you die.
(23:56:25) MrMaster: You feel there's something missing? You work on finding it.
(23:57:25) MrMaster: Because if nothing ever locks in place, if everything is a momentary fix, if everything is a juggling act...
(23:57:48) MrMaster: then you have to at least choose the balls that you're comfortable juggling. You have to pick the way you want to improvise through your life.
(23:58:21) MrMaster: And the crux of it is, we don't know when new things are coming down the line.
(23:58:43) MrMaster: maybe you can't complete your juggling routine because the ball you need hasn't even come into your view yet.
(23:59:12) MrMaster: <sigh> I'm not making things better, am I? I'm kind of making myself feel worse, as well.
(00:00:02) DearFriend: No, you are awesome and it helps. It's just I feel like every day I keep coming to you with some traumatic issue or another. And it makes me feel bad slightly, because I don't want to push this on you.
(00:00:21) MrMaster: my life is kind of a rut.
(00:00:45) MrMaster: and your problems, your possibilities and the promise you have, it entrances me.
(00:01:03) MrMaster: and it makes me upset that you can't see the kinds of things you have open to you.
(00:01:13) MrMaster: but then, I do remember the option paralysis.
(00:01:21) MrMaster: so I can't fault you too much.
(00:03:06) MrMaster: There's a line. Did you ever watch Angel, the spin-off from the Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV show? Where Buffy was largely a metaphor for youth and growing up and young adulthood, Angel served as attempts to explore morality and relationships as an adult in a big city.
(00:03:18) DearFriend: yeah
(00:03:44) MrMaster: There's one point, after Angel has realized that the war he's fighting against Wolfram and Hart is futile, and he faces the team, and he lays it out.
(00:03:58) MrMaster: and he ends up with "If nothing we do matters... then all that matters... is what we do." [FutureMaster: Actually, I messed up the setting, but I got the quote more or less right: see here.]
(00:04:37) MrMaster: They might not change the world. But they have to act as best they can. For them, for their own sakes, to be true to who they are.
(00:05:19) MrMaster: And I hope that you'll be able to seize hold of your own capabilities. That you'll be able to do what you need to, for yourself, because you feel it's right.
(00:05:28) MrMaster: If you're sick of it, sick of masks, sick of pretending...
(00:05:49) MrMaster: I hope you're going to be able to thrown down the masks and just go "this is me, and I'm done with pretending."
(00:06:03) MrMaster: And then go off and be awesome.

Oh wow. I just read your post about Verka Serduchka. Very very interesting. It is so strange, yet.... I couldn't stop watching it.

I never knew something this strange existed. The beat is catchy and I can see why people love this stuff. Haha, I might have to watch more. Its just so weird!

Thank you both! I'm glad some folks are reading, and getting something interesting out of it.

Well I read your little story, and enjoyed it. I've always enjoyed how good of a writer you are. Such a good perspective and wonderful read. Thanks for that. =)

Okay, it happened again recently where some shmuck tried to pull rank against people he knew nothing about (why is it always the guys?) by going in a haughty tone "I've been RPing for ___ years," like that's supposed to prove something.

Let me break it down why that's not a good argument.

1) The only reason you'd bother to drop that kind of data is to try and make yourself seem somehow intimidating, and let me tell you, as intimidation attempts go, that's pretty lame.

2) If you suck, it doesn't matter how long you've been role-playing. 5, 10, 15 years of shitty characters, awful verbiage, and asinine plots really doesn't do you much good. Length of time doesn't matter, quality of your work matters, and trying to play dominance games when you've yet to show anything to back it up isn't going to make you any more popular than just being nice and friendly. In fact, it'll be much less effective.

3) No matter how badass you think you are, there's always going to be someone worse. "There's always a bigger fish," after all.

Let's try an example. Wanna-be scary newbie walks in, drops that he's been RPing for 10 years, like that makes him superior. Well, let's see about me, shall we?

In the electronic realm, I was participating on the old AOL boards and weird old MUCKs and what have you, since about 1992. Right now, in 2009, that makes it, oh, what, 17 years? Assuming the boy's 20, that means on estimate, I've been RPing on the computer since he was 3 years old.

Of course, there was RPing well before computers became widespread. I've been doing table-top RP games for much longer than that. Dungeons and Dragons (D&D) is the most well-known, but I've done scads of others, I've participated in conventions, I've playtested new editions of some games (I have my name in the credits of a gaming book). I got started right around age 12, which would have been 1982. Which is sweet, because that's just 10 years before I started computer games, so it's easy to drop a decade onto the previously-calculated time, meaning I've been RPing in general for 27 years.

And then, of course, during a previous discussion of this nature, my friend Kawamura once commented that role-playing included running around in the backyard pretending to be a lion. In which case, I've probably been role-playing since I was 6. And I'm 38 at the time of this writing; I'll be 39 in September. 32 years, on estimate, possibly longer. Sometimes age is a bonus.

So you wanna drop years of experience to prove you're some kind of King RPer? I'm your Bigger Fish.



It just annoys me that people have to come into a new situation and start throwing attitude around before they've even sussed out what's what. How is that sensible in a social climate... at all? Any social climate? Your dealings on a message board are all about relationships, when you get down to it. So why start off trying to be superior and smug and basically a jerk?

I don't understand people, sometimes.

Im better than you in everything! -trumps him-
EDIT: Except being OLD

See, but you waited until you knew the score before claiming that. So I can respect your hubris.