New Comment Policy

Hello all. The blog has been getting hammered with spam comments the last few weeks, and I'm getting very tired of moderating each new comment, just in case it's a real one that got caught in the filter. Apparently merely assigning 150+ comments as "SPAM" isn't enough for blogger to take the hint and filter the bot out automatically.

So for the time being I'm re-instating the Captcha Turing test to try and weed out the bot accounts. I know this makes commenting even more annoying, and I don't want to get fewer real comments as I find them very helpful and often inspiring (Meisa's recent feedback on 'Bet Her Not 2', for example, has completely changed my plans for part 3, which is coming as soon as I can find a suitable image or make one in Daz).

But the constant spam is getting very annoying. I've deleted 5 new posts just in the last hour, a few of which actually went out on the blog and missed the filter entirely.

Anyway, in the interests of posting some actual content, here's a weird little bit of text that I wrote back in March that I never really finished, and I never posted as a caption because I couldn't think of a snappy punchline ending like I usually go for.

The basic idea was that a tough as nails army chick got on the wrong end of an enemy RPG and suddenly finds herself stuck as a stay-at-home wife, and her husband is growing more and more kinky as he gets used to her amputated form; her helplessness after a lifetime of being the tough chick is a big turn on for him. Though that story synopsis is more detailed than the text I wrote, which never really gets into the setup.

“You can't really expect me to cook for them? I barely know how to boil an egg, for fuck's sake!”

“Practice makes perfect, dear.”

She looked at the floor, judging the distance. With her damaged, reduced legs, she had to be careful, another break might lead to all sorts of medical issues. But she though she could safely lower herself to the tiled floor, her upper body strength had diminished somewhat from her lengthy recovery, but she was still very strong for a woman. And she weighed a lot less these days.

But he seemed to know what she was thinking. Before she could protest, he reached for a jar on the counter, and began pouring rice on the kitchen floor all around the island.

“Oh, you... you cruel bastard,” she hissed, glaring at him. He just smirked, and headed out the door.

The rice was small, but it might as well be glass shards. She'd crawled over some spilled salt a few days before, it hurt like hell. The rice grains would no doubt hurt even more.

“Dammit, Jerry, I can't spend all day on the island!!” she yelled, as she heard his car start.

She sighed, as her lover's vehicle pulled out of the garage, and down the driveway. Turning her mutilated body around, she crawled the length of the table, hoping to find a spot where the rice hadn't covered. But her hopes were in vain.

The television was on, playing some obnoxious day-time talk show with a bunch of charlatan doctors shouting over their guest, and spouting outdated nutritional advice. She lasted all of two minutes, before she started frantically looking for the remote, only to be disappointed again when she found it, sitting on the kitchen counter, just out of arm's reach.

“Ugh!” she roared, trying to cover her ears as the television prattled on. Unfortunately, her shortened legs made it hard to keep her balance without at least one hand to support her, and she quickly gave up trying to shut out the obnoxious voices. “Gawd, I'm going to go mad if I have to sit here all day watching this trash!”

She looked at the bowl her husband had left on the island, and sighed. There was nothing to do but to try and distract herself by cooking up a meal. The island's shelves were mostly in reach, and filled with utensils and racks of spices.

The fridge was too far away, but Jerry had left out several ingredients for her, and a quick search of the island's shelves uncovered a small electric stove top. It wasn't much, but it should be enough for her to work with.

Sighing yet again, she set herself to work, and wondering how late her boyfriend's kids would sleep in today. “Stupid school, stupid virus,” she muttered, wanting to strangle the city council for ordering the school closures the day before. She'd be stuck playing house for weeks until things re-opened, and the children were finally out of her hair.

- B-Rex