This story by Serijules is used on the Old Tom Archive with permission.
Sometimes things have to make a complete circle before you can understand them for what they really are. This is the third, and final, part to this trilogy. I didn’t realize when I wrote the second part, that it was not the end of this story, it was in fact the beginning. This part is dedicated to my family.…elle, mystaka, dagney, kiten, ash…and LAR^, the one who helped me become what I am today. I love you all, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you have given me.
* * *
I sat on the porch, shivering and looking out into the cold, still night. A glance at my watch told me it was 3 am. I couldn’t sleep, I had been restlessly pacing all night. Something was nagging at me, something I couldn’t identify. I wouldn’t sleep until I did.
I was home again.…alone. The loneliness was more complete this time, more real. I had met someone, a wonderful someone, and we had been through an amazing discovery together, and here I was again; alone and insecure. I closed my eyes and shivered, the thoughts and feelings of the my journey so far rushing through my head and making me feel oddly content. (more…)
This folk tale was translated from the Arabic by C.G. Campbell and first published by Ernest Benn Ltd. in 1952, no copyright notice. I added a touch of spice to the present version.
Incidentally, the name Badr, pronounced in the Arabic, sounds like “bother,” which makes a nice play on words in English. A wazir is a high official or trusted advisor; “wizard” comes from the same Arabic root word. The word “harem” (pronounced hareem with a rolled “r”) simply means private or forbidden. In former times the term applied to the women’s quarters of a household, but the excesses of the Ottoman Empire gave it the English meaning of a private collection of wives and mistresses. In the story below, “harem” is rendered “Forbidden Apartments,” to clarify that we are simply referring to the queen’s domain within the palace.
Finally, you must understand that this is a folk tale, best told around a camp fire of dried camel dung, told with much gesticulation and vehemence of expression. Or told over innumerable tiny cups of coffee, in the smoky din of a tired café in Old Cairo. Reduced to text, it lacks life, but such is the nature of the Net.
Once in former times there was a king who was without a son, and though he took to himself wife after wife no son was born to him. And one day, when the king’s wife was lying on her bed awaiting the coming of a child, his wazir came into his presence and said: O our master! Come! Come! For your wife has given birth to a fine son! And the king ran and ran to the Forbidden Apartments, and he pushed aside the women and he went up to the bed, with his heart full of joy, saying: A son! Thanks be to God! But the women all laughed and said: It is not a son, but a daughter, and we called out the news to the eunuch by the door, and he called it out to your page, and your page ran to the wazir. But we cried: There is born to the wife of the king a –. And the eunuch called out in joy: A son! A son! And in this manner you learnt false news. (more…)
Here is the story promised in my post, “Fourth-year Lurker Delurks.” It starts out M/F, but it’s really about a switch. If you can’t find the humour in a story told with tongue planted firmly in cheek, so to speak, you shouldfinance probably pass over this one.
[Translated from the Arabic and copyright by Charles Grimshaw Campbell (1912–1953), 1980 reprint of the 1950 edition published by Macmillan, New York, ISBN 0–405-13329–4. The copy you’re reading is a bit less bloodthirsty than the printed version, and with certain details added by myself.]
“Let the name of Mohammed Hassan be written, that he is the teller of this story.” [Who was of the Muntafiq tribe, of the Lower Euphrates.]
Once, in the days when the Turks ruled Iraq, there was a coppersmith of Basra, and Khalid was his name. He was born in Nasiriya, and lived there until the sixteenth year of his life. Then, when his father died, he took his mother and went to Basra and he worked as a coppersmith in the bazaar of Umm el Brum, that he might earn enough with which to live. Now, the amount he earned each month from the owner of the coppershop was only enough for food and rent and clothes for his mother and himself, nor could he save money enough to buy a shop of his own or to marry a wife. And Khalid and his mother lived in a poor house, and she did the cooking and all the work of the house was in her hands. It was Khalid’s dream to someday have his own business, perhaps a thriving shopfront installation. Additionally, for those who own a shop, it’s crucial to ensure security, such as installing an industrial shutter. Understanding paystubs can also be vital in managing finances effectively. Khalid envisioned his future establishment with triple glazed windows, offering both aesthetic appeal and energy efficiency. You may click here for more information. (more…)
First, we’re assuming the scene is severe enough, that holding position is a real issue. We’re not just playing tippy-tap. This might include full-armed swings with some implement — so let me first address the safety issue.
What if you move at just the wrong time? Is a full-armed stroke with a hairbrush on the back of your hand a good thing? Hands are delicate — anything wooden which was intended for your bottom but hitting your hand… could cause quite serious and possibly permanent damage.
In the case of a hand spanking, reaching back at the wrong time could mean accidentally bending your finger the wrong way. Again, this is unintended injury. If there is a missed stroke during a full-horsepower caning… well… even with Halloween and horror movie season approaching, we don’t want to go there.
There does seem to be common agreement that safety issues are serious, and non-negotiable. If the session in question is severe enough that holding position is a problem — in my opinion, that problem must be solved. Because, it is a safety issue. (more…)
This story by trishah is used on the Old Tom Archive with permission.
I’ve sort of been hibernating since The Sadist Dom moved back to California in June. I’ve been missing him terribly. But last week a good friend invited me to go with him to a play party and I decided to go. The party was last night.
Now, I don’t play publicly. I mean, I have. But that was with The Sadist Dom because he had a way of insisting. **blinkety wink wink wink** But it’s not my norm.
So we went to this party and I was pleasantly surprised to find that I knew many of the folks there. I adored the set up.….lots of play space, lots of “stations” and equipment. And a hot tub out back which was also the smokers paradise.
My friend and I were sitting on a bench along a wall, watching a Domme play music on two subs who were holding on to side by side crosses (that was *wonderful* to watch!) when a man came into the room. My friend said, “There’s Conrad and his entourage.”
I looked. Conrad is in his middle years, not tall, but handsome and with a certain presence. He was wearing a gorgeous lavender silk poet’s shirt with huge billowing sleeves. I told my friend I wanted that shirt. He said that Conrad wears it all the time so he didn’t think he’d give it up. And he proceeded to tell me about Conrad’s caning abilities. (more…)
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