2012/02/24

Expensive

One periodically sees on the net a ranking of the most expensive commodities: name brand perfume, plutonium, gasoline, what have you. Usually the aim of such articles is to point out the absurd price of ink-jet printer ink.

But it’s not really absurd. It makes economic sense along the lines of the razor/razor-blade model. Give away, at a terrible loss, a printer for $50, and more than make up the hit by selling $29 ink cartridges with a few ml of ink in each.

But… to return to my original theme… what do you suppose is the most expensive commodity available? Inkjet ink? Chanel #5? Gold?…

I don’t have the means in text to hold you in suspense, but think about it, if you will.

The answer is… (no, really, think about it first)…

Anti-matter. USD$62.5 Trillion per gram.

That’s right: $62,500,000,000,000 per gram.

And then… good luck figuring out where to keep it :o)

— Frenulum

2012/02/19

Wilderness

Turing, as a 23-year-old graduate student, derived the principles of modern computation more or less by accident — as a byproduct of his interest in something called the Entscheidungsproblem, or Decision Problem. It can be stated as: Is there a formula or mechanical process that can decide whether a string of symbols is logically provable or not? Turing’s answer was no. He restated the answer in computational terms by showing that there’s no systematic way to tell in advance what a given code is going to do. You can’t predict how software will behave by inspecting it. The only way you can tell is to actually run it. And this fundamental unpredictability means you can never have a complete digital dictatorship with one government or company controlling our digital lives — not because of politics but because of mathematics. There will always be codes that do unpredictable things. This is why the digital universe will never be a national park; it will always be an undomesticated, unpredictable wilderness. And that should be reassuring to us.

— George Dyson

2012/02/18

Holiday

Lindsey met Ashley at her locker amidst the din of four hundred excited girls banging locker doors, slamming books into backpacks, and talking, talking, talking.

“Hey, Ashley,” said Lindsey, glancing around the too-crowded hallway. “C’mere for a minute.” She led the way to an empty classroom, and the girls slipped inside, closing the door behind them.

“What’s up?” Ashley asked, recognizing a certain look on her friend’s face as portending mischief.

“Monday’s Presidents’ Day,” Lindsey replied.

“No duh. I’ve been dreaming of the long weekend all month.”

“Well, listen. My parents don’t get the day off.”

“So?”

“So… the house to myself for about eight hours and the ’rents all the way in the City.”

Ashley caught her drift and grinned. “So you’re planning somethin’. What?”

Lindsey bent over and whispered in Ashley’s ear. “I was thinking… some cuddling and kissing… some petting… some… nice, slow, undressing. And then…” Her voice got even softer. “Lots and lots of… oral sex.”

Ashley pulled away, shocked. “Oh my god! I — I had no idea — you… you and Jeremy were so… y’know… um, advanced.”

Lindsey smiled sweetly. “Oh, I’m not inviting Jeremy. I’m inviting you.”

— Frenulum

2012/02/14

Spike

She slid one hand slowly, slowly, slowly down her leg, enjoying the smoothness of her skin and the way my eyes burned as I watched her.

She reached her shoe, a six-inch spike-heeled pump we call “trainers,” because they’re too tall to walk in without help. She slipped it off.

As I watched with the utmost intensity, she raised it slowly to her face. Our eyes were locked.

She held it close and licked her way slowly up the heel, inch by inch, as if loving the leather and the shape. She took her time, her tongue playing gently and urgently over the surface. That it was a promise, a surrogate for my cock, there was not the slightest hint of a misunderstanding.

That pretty much set the tone for the rest of the evening.

— Frenulum

2012/02/13

Dance

My parents danced together, her head on his chest. Both had their eyes closed. They seemed so perfectly content. If you can find someone like that, someone you can hold and close your eyes to the world with, then you’re lucky. Even if it only lasts for a minute or a day. The image of them gently swaying to the music is how I picture love in my mind, even after all these years.

—Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

2012/02/08

Extra-curricular activities

“Karla! Maryanne! What on earth are you two squalling about?” The rest of the cheerleading squad looked on, keeping some distance from their angry teammates.

Karla thrust out an accusing finger. “She’s not wearing maroon spankies! They’re bluuuue!”

“It’s practice, you moron, not a game,“ Maryanne spat back. “Who gives a crap what color practice spankies anybody wears?”

“It’s called a uniform for a reason, loser!”

Maryanne lifted her cheerleading skirt to show off. “You’re just jealous that I have sparkly blue practice spankies and you only have that dumb old maroon. Moron.” She added another epithet, but under her breath.

Both girls turned to Coach, fists on their hips, confident of a favorable ruling.

“Maryanne, take off your spankies.” Coach held out a hand for them, clearly not going to listen to argument. Karla looked smug and satisfied until she heard, “And Karla, I’ll take yours also.”

Two girls with deep-pink faces tugged their tight spankies off and reluctantly placed them in Coach’s unwavering outstretched hand.

“All right! Let’s hit the field everyone! We’re already late!“

“With — with no —”

“But — but Coach. We — we can’t —”

“Get moving, you two. Or I would be happy to remind you how spankies got that name.”

Bonded by the sudden sisterhood of mutual mortification, the girls scurried off. It turned out to be a very fascinating practice — for Karla and Maryanne were flyers.

— Frenulum

P.S.: practice spankies, practice spankies, practice spankies :o)

2012/02/07

Law

They only had seconds to react to the flashers, but by the time an inquisitive flashlight beam swept the back seat, they were sitting up straight, on opposite sides of the car. Jimmy, squinting at the bright light, cranked the window down.

“License and registration, son,” said the deep voice behind the light. He took the cards and examined them, giving the teens some respite. The cop handed back the papers and looked at the far end of the back seat. “And who’s your friend?”

“It’s me, Sergeant Mason,” piped the girl in the corner. "Emma."

“Emma Grant? Well, I’ll be. You surely done growed a bit. Your momma know you’re parkin’ at the quarry?”

“We’re not parking… we’re just, like, talking.”

“I may not know much about girls’ fashion, Miss Emma, but I’m pretty sure the panties still go under the dress.” The flashlight beam picked out a pair of pink bikini panties on the floor by her feet. “Well, you two best run along now, hear?”

The Sergeant watched the teens scramble into the front seat and drive away. He walked back to the cruiser, climbed in, and killed the flashers. “Now where were we, Patrolwoman Lee?” he said, opening his trousers.

“Suckin’ some superior dick, I do believe.” She bent over from the passenger seat and got busy.

“Damn fool kids,” muttered the Sergeant, “Occupyin’ our spot.”

— Frenulum

2012/02/03

Debate

Want. Don’t want.

I do not like pain. I don’t get off on it. I dread it.

I do like being spanked, which is painful in the extreme. I do get off on it. I melt just thinking about it. I play with my pussy, thinking about it.

I am a submissive. Submission is sex. Spankings are the most intense and powerful instances of my submission: therefore, the most intense and powerful sexual experience I can have.

I hate to make him do it. I know how truly he wants never to cause me pain.

But I know how directly it satisfies his dominance, which is his sexuality.

Oh… Don't want. Want. Need. A question that may never be:

Resolved.

— Frenulum

2012/02/02

Civics

“I want to make love with you in every room of the house.”

“I vote yes!”

“I want to wake you up in the morning by sucking your cock.”

“I vote yes!”

“I want to take walks with you and hold your hand and come home and fuck like bunnies.”

“I vote yes!”

“I want you to cum in my pussy and my ass and my mouth, and on my face and in my hair and between my breasts and…”

“I vote yes!”

“I want to act like a bad girl and get away with it, without things like corner time and spankings.“

“Hmm… I’ll have to vote no on that one.”

“Well, then. Looks like every vote was unanimous.”

— Frenulum

2012/02/01

Biology

(Thanks to my belovèd for the inspiration.)

He comes to the school for lunch every Wednesday. Lunch, meaning: I lock my office door and we do… whatever he wants. But I do usually end up getting fed, if you catch my drift.

Today he granted me a rare privilege: using my hands. I had my soft brown hair wrapped around his cock, and I was stroking it after a long time of loving him with my mouth.

Everything was fine but… we kind of lost track. And he… came in my hair. That’s ok, I love that because he thinks it’s so sexy, but… it was about three minutes before my next class.

With no time to spare, I grabbed handfuls of tangled, creamy hair and wrapped it into a tight bun on the crown of my head. Hoping like crazy all that cum wouldn’t show. I kissed him, and raced to my lab.

Just try teaching Bio with drizzles of cum oozing out of your sticky hair and trickling down your neck — with hyper-attentive schoolgirls watching everything.

Kristin told me privately after class that I had left some conditioner in my hair and that it had dripped onto my suit collar. A thoughtful girl, trying to be helpful.

Oh, if only they knew.

— Frenulum