G is for Good Girl

“Get up, chop-chop,” Mistress Kat barks her orders from the stage. 

I notice how gross the floor around me is; it hasn’t been washed properly in ages, with a wad of spiderweb stuck to the leg of Nick’s chair, mud splashes from the outdoor shoes everywhere. And I’m sitting on that disgusting floor on my bare ass!

I jump on my feet, forgetting what I’m here for, or both men watching me from their seats. But what Mistress Kat reminds me at once of the order of the day: she fidgets with the restraints at the top and the bottom of the spanking bench, preparing them for me. The towels that covered the contents of the medical carts are gone too, but I can’t see it yet.

“Let’s go through the rules of today’s session.” Mistress Kat seems to enjoy emceeing this most unusual play. 

While she speaks, the stagehand takes both carts down the small ramp and brings them in front of Nick and Aldous. Each gets one cart, chockful of every implement imaginable, all laid out in rows like the surgical instruments. I try to follow up the ramp to get on the stage, but he lifts me over one shoulder like a wayward rag doll and slaps my bottom with gusto while carrying me to the stage. He stands at the edge of the scene, facing the audience, with me still hanging over his shoulder, while Mistress Kat recites the rules.

“Each of you, sirs, will choose one implement from the cart. We will flip a coin to determine who starts. Then the other sir will choose whether the girl will face you, or her bottom will. The proverbial head and tail.”

What a perverted version of how the tennis matches start! When the umpire flips the coin, and the winning player chooses whether to serve or receive, and the other player chooses on which side he will play. Except in this case, there is only one person who can be on the receiving end: me. The stagehand lowers me in front of the spanking bench, secured in the middle of the moving part. Red-faced from hanging upside down and from the embarrassment, I notice another metal cart with gags, blindfolds, ropes, and cuffs. Thankfully, no hoods or sleeves that are my hard limits. Clearly, someone went through the list of dos and don’ts. 

“I personally guarantee, that by the end of the night,” Mistress Kat wraps up her speech. “She will be a very good girl, for a lucky winner to take home.” 

“No!! I need to decide, you can’t do that!” I scream and attempt to escape, but with my ankles secured in the restraints, I fall face down on the bench. The stagehand saddles me, and I thrash for my life like a fresh-caught fish. “It’s not game, it’s my life!”

Mistress Kat gags me with a red ball and waits for the stagehand to secure my wrists and tie my torso to the bench with another leather restraint. “Every time you speak out of order, you get three strokes of the Scottish tawse. Are you familiar with tawse?”

I nod, unable to speak. She removes the gag, and I babble as quick as I can. 

“I will be a very good girl but let me decide. Please!”

Not bothered by my screaming for a bit, she doles out three thunderous strikes, sending me into perpetual agony but still screaming the words.

“I need to decide!”

Another three break me down fast. I choke, unable to breathe, without a coherent thought in my brain. Muted.

“Good girl,” she says.

F is for Fallacy

The spotlights continue to point at the fellowship of two in the front row: Aldous and Nick. I can’t see their faces from the stage, but I can tell it’s them. Something feels fake in their act. They both sit in the exact same position: hands propped on wide open knees. Both lift their left hand and start tapping on the knee, like an invitation. Tap-tap-tap, come here little girl, tap-tap-tap, bend over my knee, tap-tap-tap.

“Go on,” the Mistress Kat nudges me with the riding crop. “Your Sirs are calling you for a warmup.”

What warmup, I fret, already whipped enough by the feral Mistress. Warmup is a fraction of what follows. If they call me for a warmup, this night will last forever, until I faint or slip into the fairyland and then, nothing else would matter. But I’m here for a fateful lesson, to be taught despite all my freakish fantasies. 

Frisky and overwhelmed, I pause at the edge of the scene, frantically tugging at the festive see-through shirt that barely reaches my bellybutton. Two men had seen me naked before, but never like this, and I fear the countless spectators, invisible to me.

I turn to Aldous: his eyes feign empathy, while his lips stretched in a devious smirk. I turn to Nick: his eyes widen in sheer horror, mouth rounded in a silent no.

I walk up to Aldous and he yanks me over his lap, shocking me with an immediate frenzy of the stingiest spanks that feel not like a hand but a heavy leather paddle.

“Foolish little girl, you thought you will wiggle your way out?” He doesn’t lose tempo throughout the entire tirade. “Fussy and feisty no more, Mistress Kat will show you, who you really are.” 

I squeeze my eyes to keep the tears in. He’s making it all up: I’ve never had a chance to be fussy or feisty, not with him, not ever. 

“And whatever she doles out today, will be your Friday maintenance from now on.” Aldous lets me go with a finishing slap, when I’m already on my feet, staring at Nick.

“Don’t fall for the fallacy.” Nick pulls me over his lap, only to whisper into my ear. “You don’t need to go through it, your fetish.” He mindlessly rubs my throbbing butt in circles. “Wake up, and this fiction is gone. And I will take you home.”

“What home?”

“Our home.”

“But I need to learn my lesson, or I fail,” I mumble into the floor, still flailing over his lap.

“Fine,” Nick flings his palm at my ass with palpable frustration. “Fetch me a flogger, and I will teach you a lesson myself.”

“No,” a finicky protest comes from Aldous. “You cannot flog her; the festivities must come from the Mistress.”

“Then what is she doing over my lap?” Nick asks.

I just listen to the ridiculous exchange, like a ping-pong bouncing from one man to another. 

“For a little frisson,” Aldous flexes his shoulders. “Besides, flogging is not your forte.”

“You fucking fraud,” Nick jumps on his feet with his fists in the air, dropping me on the floor. 

“Filter, gentlemen!” hisses Mistress Kat. “Fair warning!”

Alice must have been proud; off with my head. And I open my eyes.

E is for Education and Embarrassment

I’m in a private club for those seeking to indulge their certain inclinations or, in simple terms, a dungeon. I’ve never been to one, but that’s how I imagine it. A small stage, bracketed by David Linch-esque velvet curtains, more like a dim-lit alcove at the back of the drowning in darkness rest of the public area. Rows of wooden chairs scrape the floor, the invisible spectators rustle their intricate costumes and murmur in anticipation. The chains rattle and clank when tugged, the slaps on bare flesh mute the playful ones, the whimpers one by one get hushed with gags. 

I cannot see any of it, as I’m on stage, in a blinding spotlight. I wear a sheer white blouse with nothing under, which is definitely the Aldous’s doing, as I never go bra-less. My tits, still small and perky, are on full display, and my nipples harden against the thin fabric, despite the heat of the lamp, directed straight at me. I look down and feel the play collar on my neck, preventing me from moving my neck too much, but I can still see a tartan mini skirt, high stockings, and Mary Janes. With my hands free, I take the opportunity to check if I have my panties on. I brush my behind under the skirt, and it’s all covered in fabric, some hideous old-school bloomers with frills and not my usual thongs or skimpy bikinis. Some hodge-podge Catholic schoolgirl outfit. The entire setup stinks of Aldous, but I can’t see him anywhere.

With a loud pop of the switch, the second spotlight points at another person on the stage, a tall dominatrix, in a real leather outfit, not some cheap pleather, covering her from head to toe. Her heels are high but sturdy, and not a fake collar in sight, because Dommes do not wear collars, as in the movies; we do. Her long hair tied up in a high ponytail. I cannot see her face, as it’s half-covered by a black mask.

Aldous threatened me many times, to take to a pro Domme to further my education. He claimed he loved me too much to do certain things to me. He never specified what things. 

The black riding crop looks like an extension of the woman’s gloved hand. She puts something on the tip of the riding crop and offers it to me: two hair ties. She nods at my unruly hair, falling down my shoulders, ordering me to tie it into two ponytails. Dutifully, I lift my hands and separate the hair in two, but the skirt rides up, revealing the awful bloomers. I drop my hands to tug at the front of the skirt.

Swoosh! She hits across my butt and taps on my elbow, ordering my hands up. Another tap on the back of my neck, and I cross my hands there. The skirt rides up again, but I don’t care. I do, but I will do what I’m told. Because this is just the beginning. I feel the blood reddening my face—I don’t know who’s watching me in the dark. I can cry, I can beg, I certainly can’t leave. She won’t stop until she’s done with me.

She hits me hard three more times, over the bloomers for now, and points at my hair with the crop. I tie my hair in two ponytails, as I was told. The first tear drops on the sheer fabric and leaves a damp spot. Is it a tear of embarrassment or pain? I can’t tell. A tap on my elbow, and my hands return into their back of the neck position. I’m learning quickly.

The riding crop digs into the panties, pulling them down to my knees. Then pulls on the secret button that held that makeshift skirt together, and the skirt ends up on the floor in a red circle. My hands drop for a second to cover myself. Swish! Another reprimand, and the hands are up. I close my eyes; I don’t want to see. If I don’t see, I’m not a part of it, just my body is. Instead, the crop touches my face to force me to look up.

The stage help rolled out a spanking bench and placed it on the moving part. He gives it a twirl, to make sure it moves without fail. The plan is simple: to put me in full view, to show my face, smeared with tears and snot, or my behind, covered with welts and red blotches from the crop. The help rolls out two metal carts, covered with towels, akin to those used in surgeries, to hold the surgical instruments. I freeze; the riding crop, though a terrifying weapon, was just the beginning.

“I am Mistress Kat,” the woman speaks. “But you will not address me. I’m here as an extension of your Sir’s hand, and you will address only him. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.” I mumble.

A thunderous smack of something else she picked from the cart moves me from my spot.

“Yes, Sir!!” I yelp and raid the darkness. He must have been somewhere, to watch my embarrassment, to watch the education he paid for.

As on command, the spotlights pick two men at opposite ends of the front row, while the rest of the room kept in the dark: Aldous and Nick.  

D is for Dozen

I have a recurring dream of Nick spanking me in the car. Clearly, something from the farthest corners of fantasyland. I’m told his car is not only bulletproof, but soundproof too, when the partition is up. In the dreams, Nick already took a full advantage of that but for sex, with heat and music cranked up just in case. The windows steam up, like a clock.

This time it’s different: I slide over his lap as soon as he pulls down my sweatpants; another dissonance dreams are so famous for. As Nick is wearing a three-piece dark navy suit and a crisp white shirt with a matching striped tie, and I’m sporting the same I-love-New-York pink hoodie and sweatpants I picked up in New Ark airport on my way back to the land of the free. Remember, I didn’t have any winter clothes on that day. Nick always jokes that I would look good in a burlap sack. Well, that’s my equivalent of a burlap sack. The sweatpants didn’t stay on long neither on that day, nor in my dream.

Technically, I’m lying not over his lap but over one knee, with both my legs dangling in between his. Here’s where the dream becomes tricky: Nick is part mind reader, part hesitant spanker, not sure what to do with a wriggling maiden over his lap. He thinks at first that I chose such an awkward position to give his fingers an easier access to the holy wetland and plunges them in. I’m wet all right but from anticipation of what he’s going to do to me, unbeknownst for now to him. I yank his hand out and move it over my cheeks. Nick reads it wrong again and starts the approaching circles towards my butt hole, all the while pulling my hand to his unzipped crotch.

We don’t exchange any words. Sometimes in dreams all you have is action and the weirdest little details: like a wayward strawberry Tic Tac, Nick’s favorite, stuck in between the seats, or the smell of perfume I had last night on the puffy coat Nick folded and put under my head instead of a pillow, or the dark spot from the first drops on his boxer briefs.  

To make my intentions clearer, I shift his right hand back to my sit spot and press his other hand to the back of my neck, encouraging him to keep it there, keep me there. Nick stills, sensing the change in the mood. I wiggle under his warm hand, what else can I do without saying it? It’s a dream, read my mind, ffs! And after the second wiggle, he does.

I can feel the colder air where his hand was. It comes down with a light but firm smack. The crackling sound of his hand on my bare skin startles Nick. The deep breath he took before that first spank, he’s still holding it. I feel sick of having to guide him through it. I offer him my free hand and lock fingers with his. It will stay on the small of my back, not sure who’s holding whom, but it’s the best reassurance that we are in it together.

The next few smacks felt light as the first and caused no reaction from me but another invitational wiggle. Nick switches the tempo and the tenacity, making them count, now interspersed with my oooh and aaah. He stops after every six to rub the sting away, but now the sting accumulates, and so does his determination. A few more iterations, and I cannot keep my legs there without kicking—not the best scenario in the confines of the car, even as spacious as his, and Nick locks my legs in between his, what a pro.

Steadily I’m sliding into where I want to be, but I want him closer. I tug on his shirt; he lost the suit jacket long ago, the classic one sleeve rolled up, even breaths through methodical smacks, meant to cover everything any good spanking should: the cheeks, the sit spots, and, oh horror, the upper thighs too. I tug again, and he stops for a moment and dips: his mouth to my ear, leaning over me, just like in my favorite picture. Not sure what he whispered, but I never felt safer, locked in between his torso and his knee. 

“Count down the last dozen,” I hear him say.

C is for C-word

 

Nothing was crystal clear about my relationship with Aldous, and yet, I heard or uttered the words every so often.

“Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. Crystal.”

Never crystal clear and blurry from day one. Never discussed or defined: rules implied that I never agreed to, punishments meted with no rhyme or reason. The more I think of it, nothing good could grow from it. No wonder my body refused to conceive. Aldous dragged me into his darkness too fast and too hard.

He despised labels, and to this day I’m having trouble defining in words what it was or what he was, but one word stands out: cage. When I learned more about lifestyle, I saw pictures of the cages where the slaves slept. Like dog cages, but bigger. Aldous didn’t go that far, although he liked to put the leash on me and the chains, and everything else that goes with it. To each their own, I do not intend to yak on anyone’s yum, but I never agreed to any of it.

The entire house became my cage: the heavy curtains always drawn shut, crystal chandeliers dimmed, double ceilings echoing his steps while chasing me upstairs, plush pillows absorbing my screams. The metal canopy bed, like a torture chamber, already had all the rings to hook up the constraints or tie the silk scarves to.

Aldous cut all the ways out when he put the ring on that finger. He slipped the word obey into the vows and gave me a knowing wink. He claimed me, the twenty-one-year-old with a thin teenager’s body, in a sheer bridal nightgown, shaking from a fear of unknown. It hurt like hell, but I was afraid to make a sound and disappoint him. Thus, the education of ER began, driven by a fear to disappoint.

A month passed from that day till the first spanking, which I already wrote about in my first notebook. I have a weird feeling that Stanley found my notebooks and read them. Ugh, the occasional stern glances this man gives me. I don’t care what he has on me, so long as Nick doesn’t know.

But Aldous knew; I blurted it out to him when he spoke first about my misdemeanors and punishments they would entail. How I wasn’t a punishment virgin, as I’ve already got the taste of the cane from my teacher’s hands and what it did to me. How he listened in silence and nodded with that signature smirk, making mental notes, watching me blush and squirm and press my legs together. He took me from behind right after, driving it in one deep hurting thrust, while slapping my ass fast and with vigor, whispering in my ear about his vast cane collection. How my body betrayed me with a telltale squeeze, milking him dry. From that moment on, he knew. Whether I agreed to it or not, my fate was sealed. My obedient, disciplined self didn’t realize until years later, what other C-word was missing.

Consent.

B is for Blindfolds (and Bondage)

My current bag of tricks is unassuming and tame these days. We didn’t use any, but a girl can dream, right? I can close my eyes and keep them close, if I’m told to do so. I can keep my hands folded above my head, if I’m told to do so. But the presence of fabric, metal, leather, or rope are not just a restraint, but a physical proof of what we do or, in my case, what I want us to do. 

Some I hide in the carry-on, under a pile of packing peanuts, some lay in plain sight, like my beloved hairbrush or my fluffy sleeping mask in the shape of a sheep’s face with tiny ears on top. Or the wide leather bracelets I picked at the floating market in Pattaya, with metal rings all around, so handful to hook with carabiner clips. Or the collar I wear from time to time, a solid leather strip with a ring in the centre, so easy to attach to a leash with another clip. Except it’s not a leash, but an extra leather over the shoulder strip from my handbag. All reminders of old times.

Aldous, of course, needed no substitutes. A leash was a leash. A collar was a collar. And for sure, anything hitting my ass was of a proper provenance. Every tiny thing was from a specialty store, the one that delivers at any time of day or night within an hour, its merchandise wrapped in discreet packaging and delivered in plain black paper bags, like an haute couture boutique in no need of advertising. I will mention Aldous a lot here. What we had was sick and wrong. I long for that sick and wrong back into my life, and I will find the right way to do it.

Except sometimes, he will doll me up in all my old ballet clothes: the famous blue skirt, the golden Venetian mask with the eyeholes taped over, the pointe shoes, and will use extra ribbons to tie my wrists. The full outfit, as he saw me first, along with the entire country, but now on pointe, bent over, the skirt hiked up with nothing under. Aldous loved the theatrics. Can’t blame him, who wouldn’t in his position? When he threatened to have me all to himself, he meant every word.

When I think of Nick, I see a different scene in my mind. To show him how by taking away the vision and limiting his mobility, not only heightens the other senses, that’s a well-known fact. But to tune out the outside world, focus in the here and now, create the new bond. That’s something mild enough for him to try. 

One of my scarves covering his eyes, no picking. Wrists tied behind his back with another scarf, not too tight, just to keep them in place. His erection pushing against the stretchy fabric of his black boxer briefs. He sits on the back of his heels on the Persian rug in the middle of the room, as I circle around him in a flowy robe. Grazing his stubble with the back of my hand, running his length with my fingertips, touching his bare chest with the silk sleeve, opening the robe to envelop him in the heat and the scent of me mixed with the lavender of a recent bath. He stopped darting from side to side, choked on oh so familiar to me sensory overload. Nostrils widened, his breathing, quick and shallow before, slows down. He’s giving up. I step in front of him and stay there still, letting him bury his face against the flesh of my thigh. He sinks his teeth and sucks it all in. 

“Animal!” I yelp. “My wolf,” I whisper.

Blindly bound to me. 

A is for Agua, Asking, and Again

“Fanta, cola, cerveza, agua!” chanted for the umpteenth time the teenage seller of sugary liquids. The glass bottles clanked against each other with each step the boy took towards the arena. 

Sugary, but one. Having been limited to water for so many years, I devoured them all. But agua kept a special place in my life, no matter what. A recurrent theme, if you ask me. Spinning the bottle after the ballet class: first touch, first taste, first kiss. The giant claw-foot bathtub in Hudson Valley where Aldous soaked me for hours; the bastard knew all too well how it intensified the pain of vicious spankings that followed. Mediterranean Sea that tied Nick to me once and for all. The scolding hot shower that washed away the blood of my knuckles. More drama, more water. Until N. compared the ocean water to mikveh that cleanses and heals, and I believed her.

Then why on earth would I wish it upon myself again? Why do I see myself with my six-feet-three giant, with whom I finally have a chance of some normalcy, covered in heaps of lavender foam, pruning my fingers away, and after that, bending over the tub’s edge, baring myself to him, eager to receive the pain? I can see it so vividly: the puddle on the floor with an accidental bubble floating on the rainbow surface, the wooden handle of the bath brush on the low bench, the stack of the whitest towels next to it, and my wet skin, covered in goosebumps, not from the cold air around but from the anticipation and from the need to ask. 

Because that day will arrive, when I will have to ask, explain, and ask again. How his beautiful face will turn pale, and the eyes will widen in disbelief, while mine will flush from the embarrassment. Nick has some weird relationship with pain; I cannot pinpoint it yet, but he winces from the smallest discomfort. How can I explain to him that I crave the pain, the same pain he shies away from the smallest slivers of it? The tremendous unimaginable pain, delivered in the most humiliating way, through inevitable screams, tears, and snot. To be inflicted upon me by the one I love. 

Asking, the first and the hardest part.

PS I'm back, in time for the April A to Z. Missed my blogging friends and posting here...

The Western cowgirl and the Stranger: a roleplay

The words of the week were Western and Stranger. 

As always, we suggested one word each. I went with Western, as we missed the Western themed party at the club last week, and you know how much I love dressing up. He chose Stranger. I wasn't surprised; he hinted a few times that a certain hello stranger roleplay was in the cards. And whatever he says, goes. 

It's peculiar, how we choose the accessories for our play. Each has a special meaning or a hidden purpose, like a real life double entendre.

Studded boots with much needed heels will reduce the height difference. His green flannel shirt, too big for me, will keep me warm as the only garment left on. New jeans won't stay on for long, neither will star spangled panties. 

Flirty velvet ribbons braided into my pigtails match the green of the shirt. Neither of us is into ageplay but who can say no to a cowgirl with pigtails and a red bandana around her neck? 

In a sweet anticipation, I listen as wood crackles and pops in the fireplace he started before I came downstairs. The warmth spreads through the room, through my shaking limbs, through my bones. A hot flash hits me like a wall. I can't wait a second longer for him to get rid off my clothes. I inhale hard and whimper to shush my pounding heart. 

When I hear his steps on the creaky stairs, I don't move a muscle, standing still with my back to the door. I don't need to see him, I could always feel his presence. And now he is relishing the view of his present, wrapped in so many layers, for him to take off bit by delicious bit. 

He reaches from behind to untie the bandana on my neck. The new fabric rustles when he folds it into a strip and gives out the smell of my parfume. A makeshift blindfold covers my eyes. 

The massive silver buckle clangs when he pulls my belt through the loops and secures my wrists behind my back. He unbuckles and pulls out his own belt next and folds it in half with a sound clap, so I have no doubts of what this Western adventure will entail. 

Slight nudge on my neck, and I bend over the antique rocking horse that I dragged into the middle of the room, my bare stomach pressed to the well worn leather saddle.

His favourite rope, coiled into a lasso, lays motionless on the floor, but for now he doesn't need it. He yanks my tight jeans down to the ankles and smirks at the view of the star spangled panties. He rubs the bare skin before pulling the panties down. Now the double elastics trap my feet in place better than any rope. The hem of his flannel shirt folded up to reveal the blank canvas my body is for him, at his mercy. 

I am the Western cowgirl, and he is the Stranger. 

A Splash of Colour (for the New Year)

I dance

I sing

I tell stories, naughty or not

I write poems, naughty or not, rhymed or not

I lied on the beach, letting sun criss-cross my body with tan lines,

A few pale triangles, all that's left of old me

Care to add more colour?

Maybe pink, maybe red, your choice

Thin lines to criss-cross the pale triangles

Later I will give proper thanks

For creating a splash of colour on my monochromatic body

For morphing my body into art

For letting it sing together with yours

For having it dance under your restless hands

For making it yours

I write poems, naughty or not

I tell stories, naughty or not, real or not

Inspired by the following quote:

“Go into the arts. I’m not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.”

— Kurt Vonnegut

Happy New Year, my lovelies!!

PSA: Still here, or Call me 3RH

Yes, you're not mistaken, it's me, Sore or 3RH (story below), posting here again. For now, just a PSA of the current state of affairs.

I know I haven't been posting on my blog for many months, for which I'm truly sorry. At least I have a good excuse - I've been writing a lot in the past few months, and I've already blended the vanilla part of the story with many of my spanking stories, and now am in the process of editing the second draft of my book.  

If anyone who reads it had/have a good publishing experience and willing to share, please write to me, there is a form on my blog to send me an email.

You won't believe what prompted this post: Hermione's brunch question, have you ever written a spanking story, and I truly couldn't resist!! Nothing brings me more joy than writing my spanking stories (and some vanilla stories too.)

Please note that many spanking stories, especially from this year April A to Z 2024, will be removed from the blog, as they become part of the upcoming book. 

I hope you will be hearing more from me soon.

Last but not least, giving thanks to my dear friend JM: Your encouraging words and your support always meant so much to me. Your words, calling my writing a "divine smut" became my mantra and pushed me through time and time again, a powerful reminder: I write divine smut.

Yours,
Sore/3RH

PS If you are ever on Tumblr, please visit me and say hi at @three-red-horns (hence the new avatar, the full story of Three Red Horns or 3RH is in my pinned post on Tumblr). There I mostly reblog tastefully naughty pictures, not too NSFW, and anything tasteful and elegant that catches my eye, sometimes it's my own pictures, sometimes I post my own musings and snippets from my writing. Visit and see for yourself. I spend an awful lot of time there, instead of finishing my book. You all know, what would be a good medicine for such a behaviour!

PPS 

my main blog: 

https://www.tumblr.com/blog/three-red-horns

my side blog, where I only post my own creations: musings, pictures, writing

 https://www.tumblr.com/blog/3rhwriting

To give you a taste, here are two recent snippets, both my own writing:

"Hurt and harm, two powerful words. The first brings freedom, the second one takes it away."

and

urgent: need a farm, to be as loud as my kinky heart desires