“To gaze at these images without the opportunity to place a kiss worshipfully upon the instep of your foot is unbearable torment.”

well that pretty much sums it up, doesn’t it? Click and you can get yours – you need to be a niteflirt member to get them but, duh, you already are.

Um hello, if you are in any kind of gray market you bend the fuck over BACKWARDS to pay your taxes, unless you are a moron.

Assumption: woman. sex worker = non-functioning tard. Got it.

File under: men, stupid, duhhhhhh.

Je suis belle, ô mortels ! Comme un rêve de pierre,
Et mon sein, où chacun s’est meurtri tour à tour,
Est fait pour inspirer au poète un amour
Éternel et muet ainsi que la matière.

Je trône dans l’azur comme un sphinx incompris ;
J’unis un cœur de neige à la blancheur des cygnes ;
Je hais le mouvement qui déplace les lignes,
Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris.

Les poètes, devant mes grandes attitudes,
Que j’ai l’air d’emprunter aux plus fiers monuments,
Consumeront leurs jours en d’austères études ;

Car j’ai, pour fasciner ces dociles amants,
De purs miroirs qui font toutes choses plus belles :
Mes yeux, mes larges yeux aux clartés éternelles !

——————————-

For those who can’t (my own translation)

I am beautiful o mortals, like a dream all in stone
and my breast, where everyone batters himself in his turn
is shaped to inspire in the poets a love
as lasting and as mute as matter itself

enthroned in the sky like the inscrutable sphinx
I join a heart of snow to the whiteness of swans
I disdain movement which disrupts clean lines
I never laugh and I never shed tears

Poets, before the great poses I strike
derivative of the airs of the greatest of monuments
are consumed all their days in austere study

for I have entranced these docile admirers
with clear mirrors: which render everything even more beautiful
my eyes, my great eyes, which burn bright, eternal!

Now I speak of the supreme mantra of Mahakali, bestowing all poesy. Listen attentively, O Maheshani. She is the primordial one, Prakriti, the beautiful woman, the primordial knower, with kalas, the Fourth, the ultimate mother, the boon giver, the desirable one, the lady of heroes, the giver of success to sadhakas.

She, the primordial one, Mahaprakriti, Kali, the true form of time, whose great mantra of all mantras is the ocean of mantra, she alone gives all success to a sadhaka who wants it. The destroyer of anxiety, giving boons, seated on a corpse, gives all desires, O Devi, and creates all marvels….

I worship the greatly beautiful one, with limbs the colour of thunderclouds, who is naked and sits on the corpse of Shiva, who has three eyes and earrings made of the bones of two young handsome boys, who is garlanded with skulls and flowers. In her lower left and upper right hands she holds a man’s head and a sword, her other two hands bestowing boons and banishing fear. Her hair is greatly dishevelled. Using this meditation, worship and satisfy the Paramesvari….

It’s a complex thought,  far past the capabilities of the average nosepicking insect that drools and hemorrhages cash every time a cute ass in a pair of boyshorts waves across his screen – pay attention and you MIGHT learn something.

I have a client. I use the fairly standard ProDomme term in this case because the client has earned it. I know a lot of FinDommes will say “you are not special you are ASSHOLES ALL” but I make distinctions and hierarchies all the time. A good slave will actually thrive in a hierarchy, a moron will just slither along the bottom of the tank contentedly. There are rare slaves who are not kinked to the spending of money, but are loyal, tractable, and submissive souls.This client has, so far, religiously, sent me a daily literary tribute into my Niteflirt inbox. Everything from the odes of the Maoshi, to Hawthorne – pertaining to powerful and unobtainable women.

He doesn’t care to be called coarse names, nor do I care to call him them. There’s nothing about his behavior or his manner that requires this or inspires this.  Additionally, he never whined for free stuff, objected to paying my per minute rate or purchasing a clip, he just did and opened the dialogue. It’s not fucking rocket science but you would think it was.

It’s not a major undertaking – and it’s not like he’s writing for me, as others have done splendidly (twiglette has offered up nuggets of enjoyment so pure and so fucking hilarious that I share my time and bask in his total adoration at times) it’s within the capabilities of any stroker with higher education who takes some fucking time and thought.

It’s not that this never happens, it’s that this happens so rarely. I guess it’s lucky for the litter box trained animals out there that the three toed mouth breathers are so commonplace – then the human types actually stand a chance at delighting me without me watching the clock like a hawk and dying to be done with their sorry ass as I drain their wallet as quickly as possible.

So there you have it. A clue, you didn’t even have to pay for it. Let’s see if just one of you can implement it.

Blood Meridian is possibly my favorite 20th c American novel.

But guys, you seriously do NOT GET femdom. At the fuck all. And your giant stable of hot female switches are talented, but lack the spark for it and it shows.

FemDom is not just male dom with tits stuck on it. Not every time I play culminates in a fuck, or a licking of my goodies-  even with my most personal of personals, who I do NOT treat like dog shit and do NOT keep in perpetual denial.  It’s really beside the point. SM is a demonstration of power – because power gives me a mental boner. I can get OFF any day of the week, and very well.

I don’t have to tie girls down to fuck them, unlike most males who consider themselves Dominant, and I don’t have to enslave men to get my pussy treated the way I want by them – in fact if they have to be “made to” I don’t want any fucking part of anything from them  sexually.

As I outline here – SEXUAL FAIL 10M, video.

So the motivation is completely off when you end every scene in pussy licking or fucking or the domme sitting there with her tits hanging out and her slave fully dressed. And the thing is – I dunno – maybe it’s not actually my niche – but my submissive guys agree.

I get comments like “and then she fucked him and then it sucked” when I discuss this kind of fetish media with them.

If you can’t understand Femdom, FFS, call it kink, call it fetish, call it SM if you want, but don’t get all Haute Goddess about it. It sounds silly to those who actually like this stuff.

http://carnalnation.com/content/36439/10/archbishop-suicide-bombers-are-better-married-gays

It makes me feel much more secure about what I do and who I am, actually. Rather than having the “OMG, how can you do such frivolous things with money in a world like this” I see it this way. With your weak, fucked up, twisted little religio-tainted sexuality, I am taking money out of circulation from these Nazi-abetting twatbags.

Don’t give me “oh but Mother Teresa” these people do NOTHING but put PR bandaids on a couple of the world’s miserable to keep their gold meal ticket going till the end of time.

Liberation Theology is the ONLY thing worth my spit ever to come out of Christendom. And unless you were planning on giving those pennies to the poor, I’ll take them TYVM, and give them to MADRE.

Fuckers.

I don’t want a bad boy to treat me wrong and assert his individuality all over my carpet. I want a tractable, studious wimp. I want a shiny 250 pound robot and I want the remote. I want my own personal Jesus to nail up over my bed. I want a disciple to wash my feet. I want an unearthly girly man to be my lesbian twin. I want a sugardaddy to wipe my feet on, snuggle up to and manipulate like ABC gum. I want a supplicant. I want a guard dog. I want a pale and wan intellectual, begging me to make him do research and write paens to my beauty. I want to launch 10,000 ships…with my mind. I want to break 10,000 men…with my voice.

I want a corporation. I want a golden parachute. I want guilty, furtive, condemned and conflicted men of influence to come to me, whip carried in mouth.

I don’t want Marlon Brando in his heyday. I don’t want Clark Gable. I want an army. I want 65 clones of Vin Diesel down on bended knee in the hot sands of the thunderfucking drome all pointed in the same direction, all waiting for my command, all readied at my behest.

I want a six foot teddy bear with a massive erection, that I can just climb on and suck my thumb. I want to bury my face in his soft pink fur, and never ever worry a bit.

I want a real man who isn’t afraid to cry. I want a hopelessly horny, emasculated little pissant who isn’t afraid to beg. I want a man afraid of his masculinity. I want a man bound to his masculinity. I want a man who reviles his masculinity. I want a man who doesn’t know which of the three he is.

I want to hurt, humble, amuse myself, take no prisoners, leave no survivors, and I want it now. I want to want. I want to give myself a framed license that states “This document entitles Mira Stern to practise whatever the hell she pleases.”

I want to fuck you. No, I said that I wanted to fuck you. Get humble and get passive, bitch.

And what, what entitles me to such wonders? Why would I, just lil me, dare to dream and dare to demand? No credentials. No special reason. A decision to deserve. Starting now. A conscious choice, to reapply my lipstick, quit sobbing in my beer and be a grownup. Why most women never reach this conclusion is beyond my comprehension. Why most women never decide to deserve is the thing I will never understand.

Keep your bad boy, till he becomes an asshole and you have to kick him out.

Cry, buy beer, and repeat.

I’ll keep the good ones, the ones who bore you.

I will never get bored while having my way.