What a sweet pet!  She sent me this simple yet nice little message.  What a nice, girl. 

I don't mind sharing a piece of My writing . . . enjoy.  Also, if you're a writer, and have advice, please share.  Thank you.  

The Veteran

I was sitting in an oval room; the ceiling was high with little square windows.  The light streamed in like some 14th century cathedral.  The light bounced off the walls, letting little shadows dance about.  The walls were covered with chicken-shit-yellow wallpaper, clearly still here from the 1970s.  The room smelled like a locker room mixed with shit and stale cigarettes.  The television was turned to CNN; Nancy Grace was once again crusading for missing pretty white girls.  I thought to myself, do black or Hispanic children go missing or just cute little blond girls with blue eyes?   I looked at the guy next to me and asked “What the fuck’s up with the wall paper and that putrid smell?” and “Do you think minorities go missing?” He looked at me, smiled, but didn’t answer.

An older man across the room apparently served during WWII.  He started talking about serving in Tunisia.  He was wearing black pants with a black belt, a long sleeve blue button up shirt with white stripes, and a blue hat that boldly stated “Semper Fidelis” across the front of it.  He was wearing old-man shoes, the kind that just Velcro.  He was talking about how he used to pull bloaters floating from the harbor; he said some were pretty bad looking, missing limbs and shit.  I thought to myself, “Jesus that sounds terrible, people bloated and disfigured.”  I looked at the guy next to me and said, “Can you imagine that shit, a harbor full of dead people.  And not just dead, but bloated, I bet that smelled great.”  He looked at me and just smiled. 

As the veteran was talking, a blue-haired old woman said, “Quit your bitching, you knew the risks, you didn’t have to sign up and serve, I’m tired of hearing about it.”  Actually, I thought to myself, he didn’t have a choice.  It was WWII, I’m pretty sure there was a draft.  The woman was wearing an outdated gown with some piss poor flower design on it.  It defiantly was from the 1970s, maybe even the 1960s.  She also had Velcro tennis shoes on, apparently the geriatric shoe of choice.  I looked at the guy next to me and said, “What the fuck is up with that blue hair?”  He looked at me, smiled, but said nothing.

The woman kept berating the old veteran, apparently he liked to talk about his service days and she was tired of hearing about it.  He apparently didn’t hear her, or didn’t care, he just kept talking.  It was obvious that this woman vehemently disliked the veteran, and didn’t fully understand history or the price he paid for protecting her way of life.  I thought to myself, it’s a shame we didn’t throw her from a plane with the 101st Airborne during Operation Market Garden or let her wade through the dead bodies stacked like firewood at Auschwitz.  I looked at the guy next to me and said, “What a fucking bitch.”  He looked at me, grinned, but said nothing.     

I was wearing light blue jeans with brown Louis Vuitton loafers, a brown leather belt, and a brown Lacosta designer polo with a Versachi brown blazer.  Underneath my blazer, I had my pearl-handled chrome .357 magnum, held up by a brown leather shoulder holster.   My hair was cut short and I was clean shaven, I looked like I just came out of a Quinton Tarantino movie. 

The lady was now yelling, and to be honest, I was getting tired of it.  I have a soft spot for veterans, and I don’t like anyone disrespecting them.  I slowly lifted my brown blazer to the side, pulled out my .357 magnum and blew the fucking lady’s head off and then calmly re-holstered my weapon. The entrance wound was small; I hit her right above her right eye.  But the exit wound was huge; the .357 caliber black talon did its job, and smeared her brains all over that chicken-shit-yellow wall paper.  I looked to the guy next me and said, “Jesus, that did the trick, maybe they’ll get some new wall paper now.”  He looked at me, smiled, but said nothing. 

The veteran continued talking; now he was telling us about the invasion of North Africa, about how he knocked out two German Panzers with a bazooka.  I looked at the guy next to me, and said, “This guy is a badass, he’s taken out Panzers, how fucking cool is that?”  The guy looked at me, grinned, but said nothing. 

09/25/2011 

CLARIFICATION -

When, and if, I ask for photos, I'm not asking for nude photographs.  Apparently, many of My fellow Dominants desire this and ask submissive girls/boys enough that I have to clarify otherwise.  If you wish to send Me nude photographs, you may, but I'm not asking for them.  I may at some point, but not when W/we first start talking.