Monday, January 31, 2011

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Spanking Whip martial

U No extract can I get you like that, without elaborating on a soap Asian and specifically Japanese. Or when the hammer may fall on the backside of a tall young girl to spank very martial, Made In Japan.

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Euphoric Tendencies

Tanya Marten

J 'I found this excerpt from a piece Theatre on Youtube two years ago. I did not then know the origins of this piece, played in New York that seemed to possess the essential ingredients that make spanking a major act of erotic love life. I think that Isabella had caused on his blog without further discovery. I had forgotten in my archives without thinking that one day reappear on a site of images that I knew. My surprise was total when the American blog " Cherry Red Report " returned a moment on this passage past to oblivion. And then, reflects the soft light of a scene very pleasant to contemplate, that of two roommates bi-sexual. A frustrated writer who is working on her first novel, the other Beth Moss ( Tanya Marten) who introduced him to the world of spanking and Sapphic love. Euphoric Tendencies was then played for a few months in New Jersey and spectators were allowed to contemplate this delicious moment of contemporary erotica, when Tanya Marten lengthens his partner on her knees, her skirt falls languidly and administers The most provocative of spanking. It turns out that Tanya Marten is also called Tasha Lee, it is well known in the community of spanking erotica in the United States and his talents as an actress, singer and producer gives it some credibility. This play, she is now trying to adapt to the big screen. For this, it is obviously necessary to find financial resources and she turns to the millions of fans who live around the world this extraordinary passion. If it succeeds in raising the funds necessary to give birth to her ambitious, beautiful moments of tenderness in the service of erotic spanking in film ahead to the big screen. But what actresses?

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Rapid Heart Rate, Headache, Weakness

defenestration of angels (1) No. 12 Editorial

EC Andersen La Colle s / Wolf (06). Photo Carl Cabe-Maury
Christian Andersen Erwin, writer and poet French-speaking Belgian, Danish-born father, André Maurits Flemish and Belgian mother, Yvonne Marie Dhuygelaere was born in 1944 and lives in Charleroi. With the publication of his first collections, it has been noticed by Louis Dubost (editor and poet), Werner Lambersy and Marcel Moreau . He had nothing but published nothing for 28 years: his next book (a very large sum poetic) is in press and will appear in the coming days.

To read and learn more about it:

" Standard jubilant " of EC Andersen :


Blood Earth Fire Account (author) 1976;

Elements for a Sacrifice

(Ed. the blue die - Louis Dubost) 1977
( Price Maurice Gauchez )

Ligatures & clots, mécrits (1982)
(The blue die & ECA) Preface Werner Lambersy

From 1982 to 2003, Andersen completely stop writing to devote himself entirely to his research "Sahara." Some take it for dead. Nothing more is heard of him. In 2003 he reappeared written Address & Small dogs story of the murder. In 2005, he wrote poems for children sad century unspeakable. He also wrote a few tests: Exorcism sand , Evidence , The poetic function , Standard jubilant , I deserted my beans ...

Erwin Christian Andersen or the "hurtful truth of life"

" men communicate their injuries. Paul Celan

Poet peaks, Charles Erwin Andersen? He scraped the deep human with his claws, his words, his teeth ... and its fangs. He speaks as a survivor of utopias sick tomorrow bleeding. Read this off-the-poet standards, pick up his latest book, take time to understand the pain reaching a savage joy, despair, or a semblance of reason remains. The reason? alibi stunning, deafening. So many poets pleasing shape obsolete subtleties of language where all pretenses of a clever mind, but fret warped disfigure poetry in "highlights" anthologies for academic use.

EC Andersen is a poet decimated by the curse of hypocrisy out of sight, by the sacred spells of a society completely dismantled. He climbs facades steep himself poem after poem. We are here in a thousand places small chapels and worldliness. The excess, he does not fear, however, because he knows that love is burning all the monstrous secret passions without which humans would be unable to revolt against the methods of oppression more more degrading imposed. It basically says, what we certainly do not want to hear. It returns, among the front lines of his fights and his love, the wise words of the Bedouin calmly sipping his glass of black tea in the middle of a sandstorm or that of his gypsy friends outside of propriety and respectability agreed. This word plural, sometimes hard, but a consistency almost unbearable, our civilization condemns magnificently stupid of a sovereign silence.
If I dared, about his poems, I speak of "black writing" as opposed to white writing. After thirty years to escape the world of publishing - and these are not proposals that have failed - he returns with "angels defenestration" (The Thieves of Fire , forthcoming in February 2011). Buy this book from a hundred poems that will lead you in circles Dante's life and death, you will be returned, refreshed, too, because he has lived these last years, without complaint, with only the denier that are thrown to the beggar. This is his kingdom.

Most of the poems he sent to me, are "events" since Christian works in the manner of "damned", never satisfied with the final he writes, and he still recovering even in question. His entire existence has been fertilized by doubt: the Other, I was playing the staff never allows himself to definitively identify, never tame. I keep in
my archive different versions of most of the poems published here, and I think it would be necessary to confront and to compare them at one time or another to decipher the ritual games which, not without an immense verve jubilant, engaged the poet.
; AC

Tango asses earth

It stirs up there it looks like

in the sky of
ordinarily so empty
prepares a feast

furniture on the floors slip
water soap soft
vie field

it increasingly agitated
I hear cries tears
laughter of children playing
colors blaze

past few clouds take their

legs to their necks
first migrants arrive

with great blows of wings
godillent in the heavy air

a flight of geese joined the noisy

is spring

what enfant terrible
heaven Will it deliver

what to say to the man who wants to dance

and demands his share of dreams

this man harassed
stitched wounds and scars
eyes filled with horror
refuse does one dance

arms fists
threatening sky
invaded the temple
first steps sketched

O gods
jigs and stuffed
that begin the track
drunken peasants and convicts

sardanes tinkling and sparkling light

lively vine and

blessed a thousand times you're cruel bands
dripping brass
and fury

executioners trusty minions of the mob
shabby preened
the bench awaits

our dancing tangos and lewd
javas Obscene

and goddesses of the drives you
and hands that wander
friction sex sex

belly to belly open wide the doors of Musette

we want to dance a jig around

jitter sources along rivers
jitter always
foot waterfalls dance

vibrate as light vibrates

pitch like pitching
tremble hussars
pale arm of madness that our men

piss the stars and

women standing in their party favors

we dance


My life is an equation

My life is an equation without unknown

a mathematical monstrosity


all things considered
it would have been better that I do not know

I thought
as all lives

she had a beginning and
have an end

but now
I start doubting
and it puts everything in question

I thought there was an unknown
and there has

not my life is an abomination
a train of red stars
neck of a theorem black


The sun beyond

You smile
at the same time
on the ridge beyond the sun

he instills his golds in the dew

a canvas garden spider

questioned the oracle exults

it is bright in his finery Aragn

the breadcrumb
clinging to his leg
suits him perfectly

truth it is not pending

now he delights
and prophesy

c ' Spring is
the mole in his gallery
gives birth to a new moon is red

after autumn and winter

summer comes on top of the tree trembles
day tomorrow


Saturday, January 15, 2011

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Devoir conjugal

This evening feels sex.
At the moment, just back, he took off his jacket and leaned to kiss him - kiss marital usual anodyne - envy is seized.
Something in the way the press against her, a quiver of his lip, a sly rippling basin, has warned. He smiled, amazed, amused, she made her smile with a gleam and sparkle in the depths of the lustful eye.
When the child is lying down and sleep, sleep angelic which little monsters exhausted by long days in kindergarten.
Tonight, in bed, sweat, saliva and semen, multiple copies if possible.

* And now the child is lying and they are finally alone. The kisses become more impatient and more profound. They hug, touch. She feels her sex of a sudden dip and open to accommodate the equipment sound and warm it began, gently, to shake - as she loves going.

The child is, the calls and it calls for a glass of water. Floating minute, they observed, it contemplates the despair she petted protuberance few seconds ago and who, too visible, forbids him to go himself to console their offspring. She puts her pants, his pants, look for the file called glass of water, comforted, embraced - caring mother tortured by this sudden urge to kiss that still haunts him when his lips murmured words of appeasement.
The child lies down again, promises to sleep, it's late now my heart, good night and tomorrow.

He waits, she grabs. He did not really disbanded, she bends over, grabs it in his mouth, licks, mewing of lust. He lets go back, leaning on the pillows, close my eyes, breath and murmurs affectionate and obscene words to encourage him.


one bound she sits up and flip the duvet over him, just in time to hide his tail violet excitation. The child is scratching at the door, pulls on the handle, whining, pathetic, barefoot, scared. She runs, wins in his arms, growling tenderly. My little heart, my rabbit, you'll catch cold, then back to bed.
The child cries even louder, and only a long hug can now help him sleep.
Resigned, she lies down beside her bed in the small blue and the greenhouse against his chest to his memory by recalling the his favorite lullaby.

* The child is asleep. She rises very quietly so as not to wake him, extinguished the lamp, through the hallway, returned to their room. He collapsed across the bed and sleeps too, collapsed, inert and flaccid.
She lies beside him, was the quilt, silent, masturbates with the application of those sad fate leaves.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

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She does not love, she kisses

Making love ... Expression
I have always found profoundly disgusting.

First, do is art. And that means this is a gesture, a mastery that makes me immediately think about these unbearable partners who address you, the lecherous eye, muttering: "You'll see, you, all I'm gonna do stuff like ..."
Me, I do not really like that I "do stuff". Because it gives me the impression of a medical examination.

But still, let's. Assuming that sex, that is to be done and doing stuff. Why, then, these different things, more or less pleasant if they are "facts", should identify with "love"?? Why the hell
mix of strength to love this kind of exercise?
What relationship is there between two mature individuals and (hopefully) consenting, enjoying their bodies with enthusiasm, and emotional this nebula is traditionally called "love"?

Really, no, I do not love.

I kiss. What a lovely word! As he describes this impulse that makes us embrace our whole body the body that we covet!
And although he maintains that embrace its rightful place: a nice kiss, happy, animal, serene ...

And for love, we'll see.
Before, after and sometimes even while I kiss, he also happens to love. But I sincerely believe that in this matter, humanity would gain by avoiding hazardous mixtures conceptual, refraining from making love.

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be a woman, slitting

"The body of the woman has no latch to close the path, which leads to the center of his body to that place of itself that it belongs as much as his hands, his eyes or his hair, but it does not, it does not control. " Marie Cardinal, That .
The only intrinsic fragility of the female body is so delicate in this opening to control.
linguistic irony, describes the area that restricts the gap by an architectural metaphor particularly misleading: the pelvic floor. Thence to conclude that a woman can only have poor foundations ...
is indeed a very curious animal, that has its floor, ie its ground, its base, under his belly, ie in the middle of his body. If the floor is at the center, the seat, the stability of this being bizarrely shaped by nature are perpetually threatened. And legs are reduced to useless appendages, telescopic or retractable, as if space was the belly right woman.

During and after childbirth, the problem does not come what may "enter" in this slot (as in the case of coitus, consented or not), but what may come out (a baby, and then the bodies that are more restrained in their descent). The urgency, therefore, in the weeks and months after parturition, is to reconstruct (architects remain) the pelvic floor, therefore the successful achievement of making the closed with drilled, and hard with soft. The maintenance issue is indeed strictly muscular, not intrinsic to the body and may become stronger or weaker, it is likely to vary. A woman who works
"good" is open, but not too much and should let the penis, it must retain this did not get out.
It must therefore send a responsibility towards this part of his body if the perineum is still yawning, that he has not been properly rehabilitated, she was treated with leniency, as a stubborn little animal.

I have heard a midwife smiling and full of good will explain at a meeting of childbirth preparation, as now, the exercises that taught us would be to implement all our lives. All our lives ...
whole life to tighten and loosen his perineum spasmodically every moment of leisure. And it will not do, of course ...
What human being other than the woman who gave birth is thus required under penalty of dereliction internally maintain such attention, constant with respect to her belly and her sex?
We learn therefore keep the woman, with constant vigilance, feeling that his body is pierced.

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Birth, horror and resentment

Small precision first: the text that follows is probably pretty hard.
It is both a reflection of a singular experience and subjective, and the fruit of many years of cogitation on the matter. It has enriched testimonies to the right and left, exchanges, discussions.

In other words: no, it does not describe the ultimate reality of childbirth in general. Yes, the birth of a child can be a great celebration of body and mind, thank you, I am aware.
But sometimes (often?), This is not the case. I write for this second category of women, the first may already store your memories bright and sweet memories in her drawer to staff, failing to come to share it here, thank you very much.

Childbirth is an experience of loneliness and death.
A self-sacrifice, sacrifice relatively extended, until the woman in labor realizes what is happening. Then began a fierce struggle between mother and child. The mother refuses
what happens to him, she refuses the pain, she refuses to become a mother with all that that implies, she refused the humiliation associated with the medical environment in which it is immersed to above the neck.
Because the medicalization of childbirth remains a solid bastion of social control over women.
It's about being compliant; to bed, make the back round, walk, make sound, be visited by multiple gloved fingers coming evaluate the progress of work in one word: obedience. Because he must leave this child. And nothing can prevent this output at this time. It will force if necessary.
The body of the woman is humiliated, just as we should exalt him, just to infuse the necessary heroism - the heroism that would take until after the sacrifice is in the process of taking place. But
submission seems a more convenient; submission to suffering, acceptance of the opening where the child will slide into the blood and screams.
Exits to use the technique if the bid is evil - or at the wrong time, too early, too late. And the instrument, guided by the hand of one who knows, midwife or obstetrician, the book ends.
Within minutes, the woman feels curious mixture of despair and relief. The door was reached, something irreversible has occurred, terrifying. The pain gradually subsides
, replaced by a diffuse discomfort. The body is heavy, bulky, even when it is emptied. The baby is like a dream between two levels of reality, or in the womb or in the hollow arms, somewhere further ...
It is different, he looks at us, we look at it, that being that we no longer feel in us that is born at that moment has always been not only a human being is speculation as such .

But this speculation is embodied in a man (boy or girl), which owes its existence to the submission of his mother. We must rise to force the passage and push a door, destroying always a bit around there. Women
silent but their anger, either themselves or (more often) because they receive, along with their baby clean, terrible injunction to forgive.
Forgive the child, love child. Love yourself again, when we lived was faulty, dirty, denied. Resume a social life, sexual, emotional.
And the injunction seems less insurmountable, it is argued that women are "strong", which means in reality is expected of them as they are, he must endure as they are to accept motherhood and, if possible, several times, being "forced ".
But this force is invoked, however, is frightening for those who ask. It requires both endorse and silent; the stunning birth, follows the self-censorship of the mother, which would anyway be hard to say what no one has said it before, this she never heard.
Having no real cultural foundation articulated nor literature, nor reflexive or narrative tradition that takes the road, the young mother can only register in the empirical, the "lived", the "felt", compassionate and often mawkish.
be compared with dismay that void with the abundance of literature known as heroic or epic epic tongue, she, nobody cares.