The following work is an expansion to my 2014 story “Fashion Faux Pas” and was commissioned by fellow author Jon Smithie (“Slavery 101“, “Mina Berkeley’s Voyage“), whose frequent input to its creation is highly appreciated (as is his patience).
Did that sick lady actually believe she was into this?!
All blood had drained from Lorena’s face, her stomach been deflated into itself. And still the tautness of her nipple chain led the path along the length of the boilers, past gaggles of pervy party-goers who congratulated Ariane on her latest conquest. Even in her distress Lorena noticed the difference in atmosphere back here. The industrial music was still prominent, yet clearly not aimed at this more private section. Patrons in pairs or small groups were obviously advancing on their voyage to debauchery. Silent assistance in it they were sure to find in the bar maids. She was positive there had been none of them in the main area, thus their services were exclusive for those willing to travel deeper into the iron abyss of the Boiler House. Continue reading
Recently I stumbled upon the rarely used and, in my opinion, charming term aviatrix. As it always is with the twisted paths of language, it got me thinking (results may vary).
Clearly I had encountered a lady pilot, the fairer complement to an aviator. Of course it is well within my knowledge that nouns ending on -tor (when describing an acting male person) find their female pendant by substituting the ending with -trix(1). Terminatrix is a rather modern example, often referring to the “female” robot T-X from Terminator 3 (2003), although being around at least since 1995(2).
It may be a tad early for my annual R&P, but I like to get it out of the way before everybody else starts their own laments – and laments will come!
There’s no nice way to say it. The clusterfuck of our Lord 2020 had been a low-blow chapter-wise:
- Only two new parts of Pony Boot Camp (sorry for that!), and Chapter VI of Æquinoctium (not sorry for that!)
Looking at the numbers for complete stories, we find ourselves with: Continue reading
This Sneak Peek is maybe a little premature, as Chapter Five isn’t due till December. I might also publish something else before it, but do not want to spoil anything in that regard.
Denise groaned as she was being slammed into the leather chair. R hadn’t bothered freeing her hands from behind her back first. A wiggle to ease the strain on her arms was swiftly put to an end by that sadistic bitch’s grip on her shoulder. At least she loosened and pulled off the hood. Continue reading
Seems those wanna-be zombies are not the only problem in Neon Virus…
Mikaere’s slug got him in the rib cage, flinging him through the room. What had once been a bloke dreaming of a better life as a hacker, a programmer, a pro-gamer, was battered into the dispenser and left wheezing on the ground before it.
is changed into:
Mikaere’s slug got him in the rib cage, knocking him off balance. What had once been a bloke dreaming of a better life as a hacker, a programmer, a pro-gamer, stumbled back into the dispenser and slumped wheezing onto the ground before it. Continue reading
After ten minutes of light canter the camp had hidden behind the wooded slope of the nearest hill. Keeping the reins in one hand, Adam gestured to the remaining two sulkies. After filing out of the Orchard Correctional Centre the ten teams of drivers and ponygirls had by and by dispersed to train in their individual speed. His colleagues signalled back over the threefold rhythm of hoof beat and bell chime. They kept following the main path as Adam had his pony sway left onto the smaller track before the solitary ash tree. The pressure of the bit to the left corner of her mouth acted as command, as gentle as compelling. Necessary it wasn’t, though, not with this mare. OCC schedule required the handlers to rotate within their respective group to become conversant with each pony’s quirks and needs for exercise. Thus it was only every tenth day that Adam could tack up Number Zero-Five, a time span that had grown almost unbearably long over the last several weeks. The Orchard did not name its stock beyond a number, but Adam had felt to do so with this one.
I am currently finding myself in the situation of having to ask a small favour from anyone amongst my readers or site visitors who are on Facebook and comfortable with having their FB account indirectly associated with one of my stories.
I would like to use lovetina0726‘s artwork “Rise of AI” as illustration for Neon Virus, yet have failed to contact the artist so far. If one of you could drop him a short message to check his Deviant Art inbox or this page, I would be much obliged:
I myself am not on Facebook, and since I keep my smut strictly separated from my everyday private and professional life I am unwilling to ask RL friends or colleagues.
If you are able to help out, please leave a comment below beforehand, so lovetina0726/brucejunior won’t receive multiple redundant messages.
Thanks in advance!
Inspired by lovetina0726‘s artwork “Raise of AI“
Data. Pure data. The good shit.
Respawn had switched from keyboard to neuronal interface. And although the screen before him blackened on command of a thought, he saw – far beyond the abilities of the human retina.
How many colours do you need to taste the source code?
He navigated with ease as algorithms solidified in his mind, binary values became tactile to the nerves of his fingertips. As his consciousness pushed on, a weighing sensation closed in on him, not unlike the hint of a claustrophobic episode. That fucking Polak had skimped on bandwidth again!
Supply and Demand
If I passed out, I didn’t remember it afterwards – whatever one is supposed to remember from passing out. I’m pretty sure I did Kandrin the favour of staying conscious, polite girl that I am. Since I now have a deeper understanding of how it feels to have my nipples flayed by means of a razor blade.
Miss C gave me little time to recuperate. Her quick fingers shortened the martingale belts again, putting me in serious stress even for today’s standards. I reckoned that with some bucking I could rip my rings clean out. To further sharpen my response she brought the dressage clamps back up to my breasts, positioned them slightly differently and let them snap shut. In my writhing I didn’t sense her climbing the sulky. Her whip encountered no difficulties getting through to me, though. It fiery licks led me to the finding that I could simultaneously high-step and cry, and to the delusion that no harsher tack was possible. Continue reading
20 PSI on Stock Internals
My mind kept being preoccupied during the morning. Thoughts spun round and round in ever-same circles. Not the pondering of whether or not, but the agonising over how and when. I had set the upcoming new moon as the night of my escape, and if only to have an anchorage point. Taking the time I needed to prepare, essential as it was, held the danger of my being further deprived of physical and mental strength. With every day that the inhumane ideology behind the DACC could solidify, the abuse we were subjected to would increase.
Kandrin waved a small but bright torch in front of my face, and I flinched.
“Tongue out, Seventeen, and fucking keep it out!” Continue reading