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Bicoastal Musings and other Shenanigans

Right To Life
By Marge Piercy

A woman is not a basket you place
your buns in to keep them warm. Not a brood
hen you can slip duck eggs under.
Not the purse holding the coins of your
descendants till you spend them in wars.
Not a bank where your genes gather interest
and interesting mutations in the tainted
rain, any more than you are.
You plant corn and you harvest
it to eat or sell. You put the lamb
in the pasture to fatten and haul it in to
butcher for chops. You slice the mountain
in two for a road and gouge the high plains
for coal and the waters run muddy for
miles and years. Fish die but you do not
call them yours unless you wished to eat them.
Now you legislate mineral rights in a woman.
You lay claim to her pastures for grazing,
fields for growing babies like iceberg
lettuce. You value children so dearly
that none ever go hungry, none weep
with no one to tend them when mothers
work, none lack fresh fruit,
none chew lead or cough to death and your
orphanages are empty. Every noon the best
restaurants serve poor children steaks.
At this moment at nine o’clock a partera
is performing a table top abortion on an
unwed mother in Texas who can’t get
Medicaid any longer. In five days she will die
of tetanus and her little daughter will cry
and be taken away. Next door a husband
and wife are sticking pins in the son
they did not want. They will explain
for hours how wicked he is,
how he wants discipline.
We are all born of woman, in the rose
of the womb we suckled our mother’s blood
and every baby born has a right to love
like a seedling to sun. Every baby born
unloved, unwanted, is a bill that will come
due in twenty years with interest, an anger
that must find a target, a pain that will
beget pain. A decade downstream a child
screams, a woman falls, a synagogue is torched,
a firing squad is summoned, a button
is pushed and the world burns.
I will choose what enters me, what becomes
of my flesh. Without choice, no politics,
no ethics lives. I am not your cornfield,
not your uranium mine, not your calf
for fattening, not your cow for milking.
You may not use me as your factory.
Priests and legislators do not hold shares
in my womb or my mind.
This is my body. If I give it to you
I want it back. My life
is a non-negotiable demand.
 
http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/736x/ca/21/f2/ca21f20e1ffb88c9f1495b8303980f5d.jpg

1000025369.jpg

The urgency of his need... when he just has to have me... in the kitchen, over the hood of the car in the parking lot, in the elevator, behind the bar...
I bend to his will. I moan with his touch. My tummy does flip flops thinking about getting caught, being seen. And then I don't think about that at all. I just submit. I just feel. I just give him all of me... that which he already owns.
Sub space here I cum!!!
 
Feeling confessional.
Feeling extra subby right now.
Feeling wrapped up in his control, that red thread still around my wrist.

If I could find a picture of a woman fingerbanging herself in the shower, and or spanking her bare shaved pussy until she is at the edge of cumming, I would post it here and write a litany of nasty images and thoughts and how I want to be her and how her D is setting her on an edging journey that she does not know the end of... but that she is craving the spiral of depravity that his control and sadistic streak is bringing her on. I would wonder out loud if she really wants this in the midst of the next challenge... and then answer myself that even when she thinks she doesn't want it, she wants it more than anything in her life. She craves everything he does to her even as her brain objects. Because she has learned her subby/needy cunt craves all of this. Wants it. Needs it. And she must submit. Because that submission completes her and sets her free in ways that not submitting can never do.
 
https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/04/8f/51/048f51d40ccace6dc051dc0ab4fde7a2.jpg

Inspection... it's simultaneously arousing and humiliating to be made to bend over for his inspection... finding my cunt soaking wet...

and now he has more information about just how twisted I am and that the humiliation he just subjected me to over the last 30 minutes turned me on even though I didn't want it to and had denied that it would.
 
It’s that look,
that one look you have,
the one that stops me
from talking,
from breathing
or walking -
it catches my gaze and
I can’t look away.
When I finally remember
to breathe,
I begin to pant
with anticipation
of what that look means
and I slowly come undone
as you walk toward me,
stalking me like a predator
stalks its prey -
it says you’re going to devour me
and I can’t wait to be consumed,
and all of this is conveyed with
that look.

sw (ms-woodsworld)
 
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