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@dirge-drone
Thanks for enjoying my content - however, if you don't have your age in your bio (18+) or in a tagged post, I WILL block you.
Hiya! You can find my own writing under #dolltalk
Bootblacking is top level kink because it's one of the few I can think of where the nominal sub is treated as a thoughtful, knowledgeable technician from the outset.
Like, a flogging bottom might be praised for their ability to take pain and know their limits, or a rope bunny might be recognised as keeping themselves in good physical shape so they can hold complicated stress positions for longer than a novice, but even the most beginner of beginner bootblacks has learnt a little bit of materials science (Will this type of brush scratch this patent finish?), a little bit of basic chemistry (If these were last polished with a silicone wax, how do I remove that to start to bull them?), a little bit of leatherworking history (Is that natural fibre stitching on those surplused Warsaw Pact boots, will my polish rot it?) and spent time practising techniques on their own boots.
And it's one of the few kinks I can think of where the top is so immediately physically and emotionally vulnerable to the bottom in that way: I put my foot in the hands of a stranger bootblacking at a party, and I trust that they won't damage the boots I was gifted by my long-dead Master when I was 17, that they won't soak the stitching and start the rot of the boots I was wearing when I first fucked the love of my life, I trust that they'll carefully work around and treat the cuts and scuffs in the leather that I picked up wearing these same boots marshalling at a dozen prides and going toe-to-toe with strikebreakers and scabs on twenty years' worth of picket lines. The experienced bootblack can look at my soles and where my boots crease, and see that I have a weak hip, that I'm slightly bowlegged, that I don't drive and that I walk even in the weather where I'd rather not. And I trust that they'll see that worn-out, poor, slightly sad old man and still call me "sir".
It just feels like a lot.
@spitfaggot
the joke among my leather circle is "everyone subs for a bootblack," not necessarily that bootblacking = sub or dom, but rather, we could have the most stone-top, left-pocket-black-flagging, powder-coated-steel-paddle-gripping Sir Dom, and all a bootblack has to do is move their wesco boot with a palm and they obey. "give me this foot." tugging laces loose with one practiced finger. hefting a heavy-soled engineer up to wrench pebbles loose from in between the lugs. "stay still." taking finger-fulls of huberd's and lathing it meticulously and lavishly over a pair of oil tans - watching my customer curiously eye the lubricated shine with a rising heat behind their cheeks. planting the full weight of their boot on my shoulder and commanding them, gently, to press their weight onto me.
there's something so deeply fulfilling in being a technician, someone who restores leather like a museum archivist, accentuating scratches and blemishes and returning life to those leather pieces so they can go on to keep fucking, kicking, running. i am as much a craftsman as i am a history keeper. my respect is given not just by the titles i refer to you with, but the care i have given to your boots, jackets, and harnesses, and the stories they tell.
Leather, more than anything else, is history. Good leather, well cared for, can last for ages.
Bootblacking, the care of that leather, is also history, to me.
One of my most prized inheritances from my grandfather is his bootblacking kit.
When I open that box, I can imagine my queer Jewish grandfather as a young man in New York, lovingly blacking a boot. About him knowing that the police could come at any minute. The stories he told me of the friends he lost.
I hope, as I use his brushes, that he’s proud of the person I’m becoming.
Her name is Princess.
Happy Pride
Being into degradation and cnc makes it so hard to find blogs that are actually devoted to healthy and consensual experiences and not thinly veiled misogyny, homophobia, or transphobia
So, uh... please reblog this if you’re a cnc or degradation blog that also respects consent, aftercare, and people of all orientations and identities
FemLink Friday comics! Link returns to Hyrule, but things are a bit different.
ADHD at night: I could write a book. I could get my Master’s Degree. I could go to the club and come home with 12 new friends. I could get a job at that club and meet the mother of my children. I could cure every disease and use my wealth to bring world peace.
ADHD during the day: Fold laundry too hard :( Come back next week
Carta Monir via Bluesky
"Announcing my new website, blood.video
My most intense work, all free, updated as often as I'm able to."
"Nothing on this website is illegal. Nothing on this website is unethical. Despite the fact that these videos and photos were created enthusiastically and consensually, I can't process transactions or make money from any media on this website using any standard online payment processing. The only way I can get other people's eyes on my work is to give it away for free. That's the state of the internet and credit card companies right now.
I take my art seriously. I take my collaborators seriously. We deserve a platform for our work. This is an imperfect attempt at filling that gap. It's better than nothing." x
whats cool about being trans is my parents are totally right. i did kill their beautiful son. im the thing that animates his corpse in an ever more convincing parody of a happy girl. i devoured him from the inside out and now there is nothing left of him and he is dead dead dead and there is only me, with my hollow eyes and dark eyeliner and long hair, and my big smile. my limp, effeminate gestures belie the marionetting of the boy they loved. my fagginess is his death. already his body becomes a fitter home for my parasitism in full; the tits, the hips, the thighs. sorry about your kid. thanks for the biomass <3
I'm going to borrow your girlfriend.
We've been talking a lot and she admitted she has this "dark" fantasy. You know it right? Yeah, the one where she's hunted down and raped. Of course, we've already established safe words. I've even worked out some non verbal cues with her in case she can't speak. Don't worry, I've done this kind of thing a lot. She'll be in good hands.
It's going to be a long weekend. I like to do things right, and that means taking my time hollowing her out. You should have something to distract you. Yeah, she won't be able to text between moments either. I find it ruins the energy of the scene. Plus there's no reception up in the cabin I'm taking her to.
Oh no, that was the first mistake I made. Took the girl home, her screaming had the neighbors pounding on my door within the minute. So now I bring them somewhere with a nice view where they can scream till they've lost their pretty voice. I think it lends to the weight of the scene too, knowing the only way up or down is with an off road vehicle.
I'll bring it back Sunday evening. Most of the clothes it wore will be ruined, so I'll leave it in a little blanket bundle on your doorstep.
You'll want to clean it up after. A nice warm bath, a quiet time to cry. Just let it vent those emotions for a few days. You're going to need to change its bandages until it can manage on its own.
I know you're going to feel ashamed, but trust me. It's normal to feel turned on when you see its broken form. Don't feel guilty. Ask it what happened as you touch yourself. Make it describe each depraved thing I did to it. Give in to your needs and take it while its body is still swollen and tender.
So I'll pick her up around 7?
unconditioned
[it/she]
kofi ╳ insta ╳ buy my vids
reconditioning
this does normal things to my brain
do you ever wake up from a dream and feel its presence evaporate as you try to remember it and its like,
What am I not allowed to know?? Why is this forbidden
amuse-butch
Don't forget to take your HRT!
Pulling over into the abandoned warehouse parking lot because you're getting way too bold and fussy on our drive home tonight and you need a reminder to maintain respect for me at all times.
Watching me walk around to your car door and casually pull you out and manhandle you over the hood as reality sets in that you crossed a line and you're going to be punished for it if the sound of my belt being whipped out of my belt loops is any indication.
I love the look of panic that sets in your eyes when you realize you didn't want to be disobedient or disrespectful. You just had a moment of weakness. That'd you rather have been respectful than earned yourself a punishment. That the reality that you've disappointed me is dreadful and you're deeply ashamed you ever conducted yourself in such a manner. But there's no amount of pleading, struggling, or half sorries you can utter that can bypass the fact that your pants and underwear are now around your ankles and your wrists are effortlessly pinned down behind your back with my hand. Only me, you, and the tree frogs chirping through the night will hear the lashes and screams you are about to go through.
It's okay pretty thing, this is going to happen, it's going to hurt like nothing else before, and that's okay. When you disappoint me like this the punishment becomes inevitable. Those are the rules, and I don't let you bend them. When you try to bend them, they only snap back into place and hit you, and eventually you'll learn it's better to obey than to try to bend them. And if you ever forget, well, that's what reminders are for. And with what you're about to feel, you'll redeem yourself of any disappointment I have in you, earn your absolution, and apologize properly before we'll be on our way.
Don't you want to be a good girl and serve out your punishment and demonstrate you can be held accountable? Don't you want to be a good girl and absolve yourself of the shame of disappointing me? Don't you want to be a good girl who has her apology accepted and her transgression forgiven? Don't you want to be a good girl that Daddy is proud of? Then you need to be punished like a good girl, it's the only way to mend things and make it right.
The anticipation for the consequences of your actions is one of the best parts about owning you. You'll start crying before I land a single strike. Knowing there's nothing you can do, that I decide when things have crossed a line and that the coming beating is the discipline you need to learn to obey where that line is. Knowing that even after I'm done with you for tonight's discipline I'm going to be the same consistent, loving Daddy, enforcing the same expectations, showing the same love to you whether you need a correctional spanking or not. Being the role model of dominant consistency you need to be submissive consistently.
Whether we're going home or getting back in the car after that spanking I'm going to open your door for you. I'm going to walk you to our door hand in hand. I'm going to make sure you're buckled in and safe and rest my hand comfortingly on your thigh. I'm going to apply the arnica cream to your bruised butt when we get home so you heal properly. I'm going to keep pressing hard into your bruises for days afterwards and make you repeat back the lesson you learned tonight until the bruises fade because I care about you and I know you don't want you to feel the horrible shame of letting me down. Because I own you. I own all of you. The good and the fussy. And I don't reject a single part of you. I could never. You are my cherished property, and that's why I keep you in line. We both need it that way.
I raise my belt and take aim at the pale, trembling skin of your ass in the cool night air, glowing under the light of the moon. "This is for your own good darling."
I was supposed to give a speech to over a thousand people today at a labor rally, but the rally was planned mostly around white union organizers who have not been to ICE recently or maybe ever. I say this because they planned this as follows: a Rally, with a march to ICE, followed by a second half of a Rally, the second half of which was to include my speech, which seemingly was the only speech to include a Salvadoran migrant speaker.
I was not originally invited to speak, but heard last minute that someone else had fallen ill and was giving up their slot, and begged white organizers through the grape vine to let me speak as a Salvadoran migrant and union steward who came to the US at age 7.
I have long been soured of going to so many rallies and felt alienated that they were allegedly for or about my people, but that no one had thought people /like/ me exist - we are still here! There are migrants in your work spaces and neighborhoods and organizations, we have stories and labor songs and speeches to share, we are marxists and labor organizers and have reasons to speak out too.
But seldom if ever do you hear our music or faces or voices near the banners. Instead of Tigres Del Norte we heard Bella Ciao, and none of the singers knew the Italian words or bothered to even translate them, so they sang nanananananana, instead of the powerful lyrics that maybe meant something once to someone somewhere. Instead of Somos Más Americanos we heard Don’t Worry, Be Happy.
Instead of a Salvadoran woman who wanted to speak to the American union workers about the Banana workers unions, we heard from a dozen white people about democracy, and justice, and the constitution, and no one was warned about what would happen if they marched down the street from the park to the ICE facility. They fully expected everyone to come back and complete the second half of the rally.
Instead, marchers with their dogs and children were tear-gassed to hell and back the second they dared get close to the facility, maybe at best 1/3rd of the marchers returned while the rest were bottlenecked towards ICE. There was little to no water to treat the untrained protestors. I returned to the rally quickly realizing I could not get caught up at ICE, knowing who I am and what awaits me.
When I got back a chorus of smiling white faces sang a silly song like a Christmas carol with their heads bobbling, reading the lyrics from some handed out papers. White people with upside down flags cheered. Then a black woman in overalls abruptly got on the mic and said “Well thank you everyone but we have to close the program early because people are getting tear-gassed, please get home to safety righty away,” - and I swore I couldn’t believe my ears.
They had brought us all here, marched all these people down to the ICE facility, and expected us all to march back without encountering teargas? And then when some people had made it back they had them sing a little jingle but turned the one migrant away? I begged them to let me speak for the three minutes I had allotted, noting that I had put myself in serious danger to come out here today. That I needed to be heard just this once, and that all the white people had their fair turn to say many unrelated things, and to sing many unrelated songs.
She said, “you don’t understand, there are children down here,” and I had to say “you don’t understand, there are children in the camps.”
And she tried again, “yes but the gas is spreading,” and I said “yes we have been down here being gassed for six months, don’t you understand?”
She blinked twice and told me they just had to break down. I watched from the sidelines as they continued to blare Caribbean Blue and smooth jazz while people filtered out, stood around talking, chatting - finally I said, “please let me speak, you still have speakers going, it’s been 20 minutes,” and the DJ, a white elderly man in a sweater vest who had a strict “only the classics” policy that seems to actually mean “no hip hop and no curse words,” - barked at me that he had to break down and to help him take down his canopy. I am no maid, so I did not listen. He then turned to my comrades and told them to take his canopy down, which they did not. Then turned to his two other labor organizers who were not paying attention, and they took a leg of the canopy and moved it somewhere without breaking it down.
And one looked at me and said quietly, “it’s okay, take that bullhorn no one will notice,” and we took it and ran.
And we ran to a firetruck which I climbed, and I gave the speech, which was in fact more than 3 minutes, sorry not sorry, to a crowd of workers who were slowly pouring out from the ice facility, some stopping, some going, some who heard me, some who didn’t. And I gave it there and it was the only speech most of these people will ever hear from a migrant in all of this, and I think that is tragic. But I firmly believe that had I not given it, had I not climbed the truck, had I not taken the mic, some people would have never heard this story at all. And I think very much you should hear it. And I hope you will share it, if you have the chance. And I hope I get to tell it again, someday, to people who actually listen, to the masses who came to actually support immigrants, and not just to the dredges after they’ve been gassed and are running for shelter while I’m coughing myself.
This is what I had to say.
Transcribed for accessibility + added links for context, but please still watch/listen to the speech if possible. A live speech really resonates. Begin transcription.
Olivia: I came to the United States when I was 7 years old. And I became a citizen when I was 20. But I am on this stage to ask: if you will give me 3 minutes of your time, *cough* I will give you 300 years of American History that has been taken from you.
There are five crops that changed the world as we know it. Bananas. Coffee. Tobacco. Sugar. And Cotton.
First grown by slaves in the New World, these crops all happened to also grow in a little bean-shaped country that my parents lived in near the Caribbean called Cuzcatlan, ‘The Land of Precious Things.’ It would be renamed El Salvador in the 1800’s.
But the precious things remained after the name changed. And the people were captured, and they were forced to work for pennies on the dollar to dredge the precious things from the soil, and the sea, and the mountains, and the sand. Cuzcatlan was not precious just to us, you see. It was coveted by the Americans. And once they saw our jewels, they would never be satisfied again.
The people suffered. And how we suffered! Dying in the fields, raped by their masters, buried in the shining black volcanic sands, their blood fertilizing the crops.
Of Bananas. Coffee. Sugar. Cotton. And Tobacco.
Until one day, the people of Cuzcatlan said, ‘We can bear it no more.’ And they broke their shovels in half, and they plunged the stems into their masters, and they rode through the streets on their masters’ Spanish horses, and they cried out that Cuzcatlan would no longer belong to the American companies that demanded their precious things without paying precious prices. Perhaps, soon, those business leaders would learn to negotiate for the labor and crops they so needed.
And the Americans? The Americans could not stand it! They would not abide such a story be told. And so you never heard it! The American companies, and all of their corporate masters came down on Cuzcatlan, with a fury seldom seen before. They killed everyone.
Instead, you heard a story about “Communists” and “Terrorists” in Central America, spreading a disease that would destroy your country and families. You heard a story that we have no good will towards you. That we wanted you to starve, that we were lazy, and formed gangs, and were lawless, and wore weapons to sell you drugs and fund terrorism.
But you never heard the story of Cuzcatlan, because it was a sad story, and sad stories do not sell fruit, and coffee, and cigarettes!
No, they came to my country, and they wiped out entire villages. The Archbishop, Don Remar - er, Don Romero, himself, was shot by the military during his Sunday Mass, for having dared to wonder whether the workers deserved some mercy. Assassinated for having dared to wonder, and he was left bleeding on the pulpit, even as worshippers bowed their heads.
EVERYBODY was KILLED.
EVERYBODY! The women, with their children still in their arms. Anyone looking for cover; people who found cover, people who didn’t. People who worked, and people who had no jobs. Communists. Catholics. Those who didn’t know how to read, those who didn’t know what labor rights were. Simple folks. Smart folks.
And they didn’t stop there. They went through the countryside, and they killed everyone they thought was hiding labor organizers or communists sympathizers. Banana union men and women, who they labeled terrorists. And in one village, we still only speak about in whispers, called “El Mozote.” The Americans tied women and children to trees, and they threw their babies in the air, and they shot them. Everyone was killed, to send one message, and that is: “A union is a threat to the American Empire. Not one union man or woman will hide in your village, or any other. And if you hid one here, now or ever, you will never breathe to hide one again."
And I tell you this because I am you from the future. You and I, all of you, are very much alike. You worked very hard to buy the precious things you have from the ground, the sky, the water, and the aether. You all wrote stories, you filed insurance policies, you taught children, you rung people up, you made sure whatever sorry system they had worked, not because you believed in it, not because you wanted it, but because it was all you could do.
And in exchange, they offered you cheap bananas. Coffee. Sugar. Tobacco. Bananas.
But I will tell you a secret. They were never cheap. They were precious. And so are you.
And they stole you, and they stole us, and they stole it all, and they told you: if you look the other way, you get to be satisfied and at least well-fed. But who can afford the luxuries of cigarettes or vapes or groceries anymore? Even that is being taken from you. And even if you have them, your food or your small pleasures won’t satisfy you. Not more than knowing the truth about Cuzcatlan, not more than knowing the truth about El Salvador. Today, where our precious land once stood, they built a concentration camp called CECOT. And not just for our precious things, our people, but yours. Your citizens, your dissenters, your unwanted disappeared into the hole that America built.
And what will we do when they start building incinerators at the camps? What will you do when they open up mass graves?
For our people, the most precious gift of all: do not take my warning lightly. The story of Cuzcatlan is not just from the past. It is from the future. The workers face the same enemy, and the enemy never had your interest in mind. From the moment they had you, the plan was to have a worker. From the moment you existed, it was to create another soldier against the people of Cuzcatlan and the rest of the world. You were a commodity to them.
But we have written you a new future. One in which we no longer point guns at each other. One in which our billionaires fear the land of precious people from learning they are no longer precious things.
Turn to me now! And tell me you will not forget the last three minutes. You will never again be ignorant of this story. And you will not let it happen here. You will close the camps. You will destroy ICE.
Spectator: Yeah! Olivia: You would rather have seasonal bananas or never see one again than have it covered in blood.
Spectators: That’s right! Yeah!
Olivia: You would rather trade fairly with other union workers than kill your fellow man, wouldn’t you?
Spectators: Yes! Olivia: Tell me you love me, and that our fates are tied! Tell me you’ll stop them from dragging me down from this place, and I’ll never let them do to you what they did to us. I promise. El pueblo unido…
Spectator: JAMÀS SERÀ VENCIDO!
Olivia: Nunca será vencido. Amen.
End Transcription.
It means a lot to me, that someone wrote down this speech for me, that I in the middle of the night wrote for as a love letter to the American labor movement.
I know I stuttered a bit, as I had just been gassed, as it took place not but 400 feet maybe from the Portland ICE facility.
One correction among many tiny ones:
“You worked very hard to /ply/ the precious things you have from the ground, the sky, the water, and the aether.” - And that work, it is very precious.
May the message make it to you all regardless.