Hi. Don't be a creep or a bigot or a minor and we'll get along fine probably.
This is a kink blog, so. Proceed with whatever caution you think that necessitates.
As for what kind of kink blog: My particular style of submission is pretty soft, for the most part. I'm like if a soft dom was a sub. I like rules (but not punishment) and rope and a little pain once in a while and denial sometimes, being called a slut by people I like in the same tone of voice a regency era romance hero might call his wife "beloved." Occasionally we might stray into harder kink territory.
Kink is also just something I'm fascinated by so might occasionally stray into kinks I'm not personally interested in engaging in but still find interesting. Might also sometimes go on tangents about meta type stuff because I find that fascinating, too.
Roommate has to run an errand and I'm basically sitting here going "this is the only alone time you'll have until the end of her vacation, better get off a bunch" while also knowing that it's not enough time to get off the way I want to.
Roommate has to run an errand and I'm basically sitting here going "this is the only alone time you'll have until the end of her vacation, better get off a bunch" while also knowing that it's not enough time to get off the way I want to.
phone addiction is absurd bc it’s like ah yes perhaps one more visit to the rectangle of no enrichment or fulfillment will finally enrich and fulfill me
Slow Burn. The stake was new. That was the first thing the wanderer noticed about the town, before the church or the inn or the smell of the tannery: fresh-cut pine standing in the middle of the square, still bleeding sap, with cordwood stacked around its base.
The second thing he noticed was the girl tied to it, and that she was criticizing the wood.
"It's green," she said, admonishing a man in a leather apron who had the look of a blacksmith drafted into work he hadn't asked for. "You cut it this week. It'll smoke for an hour before it takes, and then it'll burn cold. I'll cook like a ham. Not burn like a witch. Is that what you want? A ham?"
The blacksmith said something the wanderer didn't catch. The girl rolled her eyes with her whole head, the way young girls do, and he took her for one. But then she looked back down at the wood with a face that had finished being hopeful about people some years ago, and he revised the estimate slightly upward. Small, dark, sharp at the jaw. Mid twenties, he guessed, and all of them apparently difficult.
He had come into town to sell a sword. He owned two and had grown to hate both, and the plan, insofar as he had one, was to trade the shorter one for a week's worth of bed and beer and then think about the rest of his life from a horizontal position. He was forty-some years old. The war he had been walking away from had ended without him, in a treaty signed by men who had never smelled a field hospital, and he had been walking ever since, a wheel that kept rolling after the cart broke.
He stopped at the edge of the square because the crowd made passage inconvenient, and stayed for reasons he did not examine.
"You could gag her," someone suggested.
"Last man who put his hand near her mouth is still wearing the mark," said the blacksmith.
"That was a fair bite," the girl said. "He was warned."
There was a priest as well, holding a book and visibly wishing he were anywhere else, and a fat man with a livery collar who kept looking down the north road as though salvation might arrive by cart. Nobody was lighting anything. The whole affair had the stalled, resentful quality of a harvest with frost on the horizon.
The wanderer went to find the inn.
-----
The innkeeper was in great spirits and delighted to explain. Executions were good for business, and stalled executions were even better, considering everyone drank while they waited.
"She cursed the miller's boy," the innkeeper said, setting down an unceremonious bowl of brown meat. "Boy went to sleep strong as an ox and woke up screaming about drowned men. Three nights running. And old Sella's dead husband was seen at her window. And the dogs won't go down her lane. Not to mention the magistrate's wife had a dream about the witch, and in the dream the girl was standing at the foot of the bed, watching. Just watching." He shivered comfortably. "So."
"Sounds bad," the wanderer agreed, starting to eat. The meat was mutton, more or less, and he had eaten worse things with more enthusiasm before.
"Trouble is the lighting of the fire." The innkeeper leaned in with the joy of a man reaching his favorite part. "You burn a witch, and her ghost rides the man who sets the flame. Everyone knows it. Sits on his shoulders till his dying day, whispering. So nobody local will do it. Tam the smith built the pyre but won't touch a torch. The priest says his office forbids it, a new rule, I think, invented this week. The magistrate offered a shilling to any man who'd light it, and then two shillings, and now we're all just standing around, saints forgive us, waiting on a stranger."
He said it lightly, and then he heard himself, and looked at the wanderer with widening interest.
"Absolutely not," the wanderer said.
"Three shillings, I'd wager, by morning."
"I have ghosts enough. There's no room up there."
The innkeeper laughed and let it go. But the wanderer sat with his mutton in the noise of the common room and found the words had come out flat and true.
He did not sleep well. He never slept well. All due to the one dream. It had been the same dream for years, and it came that night as it always came.
------
They kept her overnight in the tithe barn, on the sensible grounds that the town had no proper cell and the barn had a lock. In the grey of morning the wanderer walked down there, telling himself he was stretching his legs.
She was sitting against a grain bin with her wrists bound in front of her. She looked at him through the gap in the door slats for a long moment before she spoke.
"Tell the one on your left shoulder to quiet down. I can barely hear myself think."
He stood very still.
"He's not angry," she added, as if this were a comfort she was used to offering. "Well, none of yours are mad at you. That's rare, I'll say that much."
"How many," he said.
"Interesting question," she said. "Not the one most lead with." She looked around him for a moment longer. "Enough that I'd charge extra. If I charged."
"You do this for the miller's boy too?" he asked. "Read his shoulders?"
"That boy's father killed two vagrants for their boots and buried them underneath the granary floor some fifteen years back. The boy sleeps right over them." She shrugged as well as a bound woman can. "The dead near me get loud. I can't make them shut up, and neither can anyone else apparently. It's a poor trade, whatever you've heard. There's no money in it and quite a lot of fire."
Her voice stayed level through all of it. That was what he noticed.
"They're going to ask you," she said. "The lighting. You're the only stranger, and the magistrate wants this finished before the judge comes through and deems the whole town cursed."
"The innkeeper mentioned."
"If you do it," she said, "build it yourself. Dry wood, laid open at the base so it draws. Fast and hot. The smith's pile will smother and roast me slow and I would rather not, if it's all the same."
"That's a lot of instruction for a man who hasn't agreed to anything."
"You will. They told me as much."
He looked at her through the slats. Small hands. A scab on one knuckle. Somewhere behind him a rooster made its opinions known, and the ordinary morning went on being ordinary, other than the girl in the barn asking him for a competent death in the tone one would use to order bread.
She tipped her head back against the grain bin and closed her eyes. "Fast and hot, wanderer. It's the only favor I'll ever ask of you."
He walked back up the lane with his shadow crowded around him. He knew it was crowded. He had always known, as a man knows a tooth is going bad long before it declares itself. For years he had carried them, but never once had he heard them described by a stranger through a barn door.
-----
The magistrate found him at the inn when he returned and offered five shillings, while the priest stood behind radiating relief that the cup was passing from him.
"I'll want to rebuild the pyre," the wanderer said. "The smith's work won't burn."
The magistrate nodded furiously, he would have agreed to anything. The wanderer took the five shillings up front, on principle, and spent the afternoon in the square pulling apart the smith's damp heap while the town watched from doorways. He worked without hurry. Dry wood from the cooper's seasoned stock, paid for out of the five shillings. He laid the base open to the east, where the morning wind came from. He built a channel through the heart of the pile and packed it tight and particular, a thing built to do exactly what he intended and nothing else. Soldiers' work. He had built cook fires, signal fires, and other kinds of fires, in another life, and his hands remembered all of it whether he asked them to or not.
Tam the smith came out at dusk and studied the new construction with professional humility.
"That'll draw," Tam admitted.
"It will."
"You've done this before?"
"I've done everything before," the wanderer said. "That's the trouble with living too long."
Tam laughed, then remembered what the fire was for and stopped, and looked ashamed, and went home. The wanderer stood in the empty square a while and admired his work under the long black shadow of the stake.
------
They brought her out at mid-morning the next day with her hands bound and her chin up, and the whole town turned out in its better clothes, which told the wanderer everything about the entertainment on offer locally. The priest read from his book at speed. The magistrate made a short speech about vigilance. The little witch looked at the rebuilt pyre with a critic's eye, and then at the wanderer standing by it with a torch, and something crossed her face that was almost disappointment. He found he minded her disappointment more than the crowd, the priest, and his own remaining conscience together.
"Any last words," the magistrate said, in the voice of a man reading a shipping manifest.
"Yes," she said. "Someone ought to look under the granary floor."
Nobody knew what to do with that, so nobody did anything, and the magistrate nodded at the wanderer, and the wanderer put the torch in.
The base caught with a satisfying roar. The crowd made the sound crowds make. For the length of ten heartbeats it was a splendid, correct, terrible fire, and then the flame reached the heart of it and the whole pyre exhaled.
White smoke came off it in a rolling bank, thick as fleece, flooding the square at chest height and then higher, and the crowd's roar turned to coughing, and the ten o'clock wind he had built for arrived on schedule out of the east and shoved the whole cloud sideways across the assembly like a hand sweeping a table. Someone even screamed that it was witchcraft, which was flattering. In the milk-blind heart of it the wanderer stepped up onto the pyre he had built with a step in exactly the right place, cut her hands loose, cut the rope at her waist, and had her over his shoulder and down before the fire found anything worth eating.
She weighed about as much as a full pack. She was also, he registered dimly, laughing. As a witch might. Into his shoulder blade, in furious little breaths. Funeral pyre laughter.
One man loomed out of the smoke, grabbing. The wanderer put a fist into him with an old economy of motion and did not stay to see the result. Down the tannery lane, through a yard of scattering chickens, over a wall that was more suggestion than wall, and then the town was behind them and the fields were open and the smoke stood over the square like a risen loaf, and distantly, wonderfully, he could hear the magistrate's voice cracking on the word water, because the town, in its wisdom, was trying to save the pyre.
What the wanderer had actually built, under its tidy appearance, was a smoke machine. The channel through the heart was packed with green pine and wet straw, the cooper's dry wood shelling it like armor. He had used the trick twice in the war, to move men across open ground under the enemy's nose. He did not entirely know when he had decided. There had been no moment. It was more that he had listened for the part of himself that could build the honest fire, the fast and hot merciful one she'd asked for, and found that part of himself absent without leave.
She made him put her down a mile on, at the edge of the wood, and straightened her clothes with great dignity for a person recently on fire in a legal sense.
"Green pine and wet straw," she said. "In the heart of it."
"Exactly that."
"You let me think you'd do it."
"You'd have argued. You seem to argue with everyone. There wasn't time."
"I would not have argued." She glared up at him from somewhere around his sternum. "I would have offered suggestions." Then, after a moment, grudgingly, as if paying a debt: "It was a good fire. As fires go."
They walked. He had not invited her and she had not asked, and the road, with the ancient tact of roads, offered no particular place for two people to separate. She was poor company in the best way, meaning she was quiet for long stretches and then said things like "the magistrate will dig up that floor within the week, he's the type," with grim satisfaction, and then was quiet again. She stole apples from an orchard with a proficiency that suggested a long apprenticeship. She gave him one. It was the sourest apple he had ever eaten and he ate all of it.
"They'll say you're bewitched," she said, gleaming at her own apple. "The man who lit the fire and rode out of the smoke with the witch on his shoulders." She considered. "They're not wholly wrong."
"I've carried far worse than you."
"I know," she said, and did not elaborate, and he did not ask her to.
Holy **** oh right okay. So I was about to make a post about how using speech to text has already been a game changer for me but as you can see by the line of asterix at the start of this post the bloody thing auto censors swear words. (Yet bloody got through, ig Because it is a description and also British slang.). Hint: the word I was trying to say there starts with F and ends with K.
Oh and guess what else you can't say you can't say? **** [Nipples]. had to type that myself. penis is ok but **** [clitoris] isn't, and all my attempts to say "clit" were Misunderstood, which may just be my speech but at this point I am not willing to give the benefit of the doubt. Vagina is OK too but every time I say it there is a moment when an * shows up on screen first before the full word does. this doesn't happen when I say the word penis.
It is completely heinous. Anybody who needs speech to text is immediately forced to comply with the rules set out by people in a position of power and then enforced by a machine — a machine that is a very powerful accessibility tool. Imagine trying to dictate a letter to a doctor or fill in an E consult with speech to text, only to have words of your anatomy censored as if they are taboo. there is already far too much stigma around genital physical health — and note that I could say genital but can't say **** [clitoris] — for it to be okay for these words to be censored.
And even if somebody just wants to swear In a message to their friends or write smut/**** [pornography], they should be able to. There is no justification for this feature. No reason for it to be default.
I'm trying to find a way around this. There is a settings icon on the little speech to text bar that comes up, but this only gives me options For the speech typing launcher, auto punctuation, and to set the default microphone. it's making me extremely angry
Go to your actual settings, search "keyboard" (probably under general or system) and look for a reference to voice typing. There will be a toggle for "hide offensive words" or similar.
I know this is an older post, but I didn't see many people offering a solution in comments/reblogs.
But also — and to be clear, I don't mean to be shitty or judgey or anything, this is genuinely just meant as advice for the future for folks who want it — if there's ever a setting on your computer or phone or whatever that you can't figure out how to change, your preferred search engine will be able to help you.
Typing your issue into a search bar with the word "fix" or "change" or what you want to do, along with what device or software you're using will almost always get you the answer you need. In this case it would be something like "speech to text censors profanity fix" or "speech to text censorship turn off."
I have been shocked by how often people won't do a search when they have an issue like this, but then learned recently this is genuinely not a thing people are taught anymore for some reason. It was a part of every computer class I ever took in school.
Scientists have not said it "can't be washed off" Jesus fucking Christ.
Scientists have said simply rinsing your produce under running water isn't the best way to get rid of cyclospora. This is how most people "wash" their produce.
Cyclospora is a microscopic parasite. It has a tendency to cling to the produce it is on. However, scrubbing your produce under running water will usually be enough to dislodge it. A study done in 2021 suggests rinsing in cold water and then using a salad spinner for things like raspberries that have a textured surface the parasite can cling to more readily is most effective (removing 84+%) but simply rinsing things like blueberries in cold water was enough to remove over 95% of the parasite present.
You cannot guarantee that washing it will eliminate every trace of the parasite. Just like you can't guarantee washing produce will eliminate every trace of stuff like e. Coli, salmonella, listeria, or norovirus. (Washing is actually less effective against e. Coli than against cyclospora. Not sure about the others.)
Also important to note that the presence of cyclospora does not mean you're going to get cyclosporiasis. The cyclospora has to be at the right stage of its life cycle for transmission. This is why it's not typically transmissible between humans.
If you are especially concerned, peeling and heat are the way to go. But the produce doesn't have to have a peel. If you have a pre-peeled apple, for example, you can cut off the outer layer. With a head of iceberg lettuce you can peel off the outer layers. And in the case of peeling, your risk is further lowered by washing the outer layer before you remove it. Otherwise you risk contaminating the inside of the produce with your knife or hands.
Also, there's nothing actually inherently "safe" about farmers market goods. You can get cyclospora from your own garden. The risk is lower, because your homegrown produce doesn't come in contact with produce from a wide variety of sources, but the idea that farmers market produce is somehow completely safe is false. Buying from a farmers market does the same thing washing your produce does: lowers your risk without completely removing it. (And that's before we get into the fact that plenty of farmers markets allow sellers to supplement their own produce with wholesale produce.)
As an added bonus to everything else wrong here: cyclospora is not killed at 156⁰F, you have to cook your produce to at least 158⁰F. It seems like a small difference but it's literally the difference between making it uncomfortable and actually killing it.
It's also important to keep in mind that the fatality rate for cyclospora in the US is 0%, and many people recover from it without any medical intervention at all. It's actually entirely possible you've had cyclosporiasis before and just wrote it off as mild food poisoning. While some people do get very sick, and some people do end up in the hospital (usually due to dehydration because people genuinely forget that dehydration is a concern and/or that water alone will not re-hydrate you when you're not eating) this isn't killing people. (Editing to add: this includes the elderly, by the way. While dehydration can further exacerbate existing conditions in the elderly that can result in more serious medical effects, it's still not killing them.)
I checked the actual article by the way, and it never claims that washing will kill or completely eliminate the risk of cyclosporiasis.
Well now I can't stop thinking about being completely restricted from having anything in my cunt except when I'm sound asleep.
Every night as I fall asleep knowing that within minutes of drifting off you'll be slipping my favorite toy inside me. Begging each night for you to let me have it just a little bit early. Waking up full for a brief, glorious moment before the toy is pulled free. Begging each morning for you to leave it in place for just another few minutes.
Whining about how empty I feel and being called selfish because you fill me up every single night.
one of my worst writing sins is abusing my power to create compound words. i cannot write the sentence "The sun shone as bright as honey that afternoon." no. that's boring. "The sun was honey-bright that afternoon" however? yes. that sentence is dope as fuck. i do not care if "honey-bright" is a word in the english dictionary. i do not care if the sentence is grammatically correct. i will not change. i will not correct my erred ways. the laws of the english language are mine.
This is what's called a poetic epithet, and it happens all the time in writing. Consider, for example, Homer and his wine-dark sea, or Shakespeare and his death-mark'd love.
If you were then to start using them instead of the word they're describing, you'd be making a kenning. For example, if instead of describing the sun as honey-bright, you said "the honey-drop in the sky". Kennings are best known from Norse writings, like "the path of serpents" for gold, or "Grímnir's lip-streams" for poetry itself.
So you're not sinning, you're participating in an ancient literary tradition!
this post is a moving example of the poetic power of the creative spirit,
an illustration that language and its associated rules exist to lift up human expression and not to hinder it (and are both constantly changing and maintaining helpful usage to suit the needs of the moment),
as well as a devastating reminder that whenever you think you’re doing something new and oh-so-scandalously inventive, it was probably actually the well-trodden pasttime of a glorified theater kid several thousand years ago.
This is anglo saxon erasure and I won't stand for it. 😤 (This is meant to be light-hearted, for the record. My unofficial specialty in my literature degree was Old English so I'm basically legally obligated to make this joke.)
Horny update: I have been hyper aware of my pussy all evening. It feels almost swollen, and it keeps twitching at random. And I do mean at random. I'll be sitting on the couch, not moving, focused on something entirely unrelated to my arousal, and suddenly there's just a subtle little twitch. Not just my clit, although sometimes that's what's twitching. It's like my body is, for a split second, trying to clench around something that isn't there.
Trying to decide I'm gonna edge tonight before bed, or tease, or maybe sleep with a toy.
There's something especially tempting about sleeping with a toy in my pussy when, during the day when I could actually enjoy it, I left it empty. Like, "you can have this thing, but only while you can't fully enjoy it."
less like a siren, more like a selkie @saltwatersubmissive - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
