Questioning
Previous - this entry written on October 09, 2002 at 7:04 am - Next


Snowtygrrr.

Hello, whoever it is who keeps searching for Snowtygrrr, snowTygrrr, SnowTygrrr, snowtygrrr, snowTygrr, Snowtygrr, and other variations thereon. Hi. Nice to meet you. Sign the guestbook next time you wander through, kk?

And here's a few of the last entries which mentioned SNOWTYGRRR by either the names 'Snow', 'the Tygrrr', or other such things (and even a few that don't actually name him at all) that you might have missed:

The one with the graphic...

The one with the poems...

The one with his waking-up...

The one where he reminds me of Jean-Claude...

The one where I worry...

The one where I temporarily am NOT worrying about him...

...yeah. *sighs, shrugging*

He - he being Snowtygrrr - called MUCH earlier today. We talked for quite a while, it was delicious... then he hung up, after making plans to call back and put his dove on the line, let me hear her apologise in person, make her beg to be taken. Did he call back?

No.

This is what frustrates me. I KNOW he's still sick, I KNOW he's got a lot of things on his mind, I KNOW a woman he's never actually met really shouldn't be his first priority right now. I KNOW he's not mine properly, I KNOW that the little dove would do anything and everything to distract him and make him not call, I KNOW that it shouldn't bother me as much as it does. But the thing is, it DOES bother me.

It's not the first time this sort of thing has happened, either.

Every time I start feeling all happy and safe, like maybe I can trust him and he's not just using me to kill time, he does something that feels like he's blowing me off. And every time I convince myself not to bother, not to care, that he's not worth the stress and worry he consistantly puts me through, he does something that makes me think that maybe he CAN be trusted, that he's actually trying.

The way he treats me... I wouldn't put up with it from a friend without a damned good reason. I CERTAINLY wouldn't put up with it from one of my boys. I know right now he's on medication and therefor is quite a bit spacey... but... ehh.

*sighs again, shaking her head*

It shouldn't bother me as much as it does. But looking at it from a calm, rational perspective, it SHOULD bother me.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: don't promise me things, then manage not to do/give/say/whatever them. Don't say one thing and do another. I've had to go over this with my boys occasionally - Kadin's fuckups regarding when he is allowed to call makes an excellent case in point - but they LEARN, damn it.

Snowtygrr seems... unlikely to learn, at least the way things stand now. And interested as I am in him, much as I enjoy talking with him, eager as I am to introduce him to the joys of computers and of Portland and of Burbank and of Jaxness, to let him meet my boys and to meet me, for me to meet him... all of that irregardless, I won't be his doormat.

I'm not one of his earring girls.

...subject change...

...this comes courtesy of one of my boys, his words in italics, mine not:

A tiny catch in a voice. Pleading eyes, looking up pitifully. Head tilted. The sound emerging from a tight little throat, locked with a circlet of cheap, silver, scratched metal. A thin chain leash leading from it into the nearby wall...

Blond hair, bleached, clipped short, unruly spikes jutting up rebelliously from a well-shaped head, strong jaw twisting away from a panther's grin to speak.

"It�s a dangerous path to walk on, this."

Heartbreaking youth, barely nine years old, not knowing his birthday any more, not caring. No other life in his memory but this, already. Stolen away four years ago as he walked down the street just a few steps behind his father, his cheap vampire costume catching his new Master's eye.

...small shoulders, stretched back gracefully, just a moment�s spasm before locking back into place; slumped, upper back arched a bit. Small frame, thin, dirt covering most of the scratches. Thick, dark hair. Tangled.

Hard to keep yourself in food, when instead of wanting a roast turkey or thick steak you desire the soft cries of arousal, the thick copper warmth of blood in your mouth, the rush and pleasure you find in the eyes of your terrified prey. Better to catch them, keep them, feed in safety.

New pair of eyes, roaming over hungrily, upper lip rises a bit in a twisted smirk, revealing a white fang. Spark. Lip descends back into a thin smile.

The younger they are, the easier it is to train them. After a while, they are grateful for what you give. They thank you for the pain, praise you for your cruelty, plead for your mercy, beg you to sink fang into their flesh. Anything to keep you there just a few minutes longer.

�Alright, little one, hop into my lap...� Light, amused tone. Gentle, yet somewhat demanding.

Pathetic, how easily a human can be made to love his captor. Delicious. This one is all about pleasure, managing to smile more often than most, struggling to please his Master more dilligently than any of the others, and the mercy so few of the children locked in their rooms along the dirty, ill-lit hall are granted. He knows he's fortunate. He's heard the boys in the rooms to either side screaming.

Delighted expression followed by an eager movement. Jerk of chain, and the little form falls back down, on all four this time, head bowed deeply, catching his breath.

It's not just the screams that make this one so grateful for his own pleasure and gentle treatment. It's not just the tears he hears so often that make him desperately eager to please, to keep earning the kindnesses his Master shows. This one remembers killing the boy who had this room before him.

A chuckle. And a hand reaches out, releasing the chain from the boy�s collar, and giving his head a light pat. �There.�

This one caught the long-lived sadist's attention when he offered to kill another boy, to earn himself a bed and the chance to be... used... on it. Something about the dark-haired child had already attracted the creature, enough to make him want this one to be different. That little hint of violence, that was enough to guarantee that his little prize would be taken care of.

Hesitant, tiny glance up, before that eagerness once more pushes his body up in a leap, landing in the offered lap.

Catlike. It's easy enough to train a slave to move gracefully, if you're willing to beat it into him. It's harder to train a slave to WANT to move like that, to see himself as more of an animal than the soulless, vicious killer who has claimed his body. It's nearly impossible to train that slave to enjoy what his Master does to him, the bloodletting, the fucking, the teasing, the snuggling, the cheerful games and cutting remarks... and to train that slave to enjoy doing those things to others as well.

�Now, what�s a good little boy to do?�

Little-boy hunger never matches a thirst that's been building on itself for hundreds of years. Little-boy love never really conquers a lust that views every inch of every human male that pleases his eyes as his rightful property. Little-boy blood quenches that thirst though, and a little-boy body eases that lust quite nicely, when it's struggling beneath him or bouncing eagerly above him.

Head tilt, all the way to the right, impatience clearly evident in the tiny one�s expression.

Hard to question the devotion of someone who wordlessly asks you to kill them without even a moment's hesitation.

Again that twisted smile, again that twisted flash, spark, whiteness sinking into already marked flesh.

Hard to question the value of someone who has managed to remain innocent even when lapping up the blood of a slain friend, just to see if it tastes as good as that friend's cum did, moments before he died.

Swift penetration.

Hard to question anything, when you're feeding.

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