XPost: soc.culture.canada, van.general   
   From: LisaMcVay-Henske@AntiMcVay.org   
      
   Why Does McVay Openly Support Kiddie Porn - Is He Also A  Kiddie   
   Diddler?   
   How Soon Will He LOSE the  OBC from B.C. Government?   
      
   Why Did Harry Mazal & SAAF give McVay hundreds of thousands of   
   dollars?   
   Hmmm.... To pay for McVay's perversions maybe?   
      
   James Fenimoore  May 27 2007, 4:13 pm   
   On Sun, 27 May 2007 23:11:15 +0200,   
      
   Anonymous  wrote:   
   Subject: My Master holds the rope just so by Sara Salzman   
   From: Anonymous Date: Sun, 27 May 2007 23:11:15 +0200   
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   Organization: Bananasplit - Mail2News   
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   Newsgroups: alt.revisionism,soc.culture.jewish   
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   X-Newsreader: trn 4.0-test76 (Apr 2, 2001)   
   X-Originator: kmcvay @ shell.vex.net (Kenneth McVay OBC)   
      
   Did anyone notice what I noticed about the headers?   
   Another proof that the Jews and their allies post such   
   stuff to prove their victimhood and to get sympathy.   
   Looks like Kenneth McBray got careless this time.   
      
   JF   
      
   Cc: mail2n...@bananasplit.info, mail2n...@news.demon.co.uk,   
   mail2n...@news.gradwell.net, mail2n...@nym.alias.net   
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   Xref: news5.newsguy.com alt.revisionism:1596418   
   soc.culture.jewish:1801795   
   X-Received-Date: Sun, 27 May 2007 17:11:47 EDT (beE1)   
   My Master holds the rope just so by Sara Salzman   
      
   He knows me. Knows my moods. Knows the fear behind my eyes, both real   
   and   
   imagined.   
      
   Those eyes widen as he gently lays the rope down, as he carefully,   
   methodically, systematically, lays the toys down on the bed.   
      
   Soft moans escape from behind gagged lips. I have been told to watch.   
   To see each and know that soon each will touch me.   
      
   He looks up briefly as he lays each down on the bed. Checking   
   reactions.   
   Watching.   
      
   The short whip. A sigh.   
   The deerskin. The suede.   
      
   The small braided thong, the one that stings. A short moan.   
      
   The horsehair that stings but never marks.   
      
   The canes. The paddles. A pause.   
      
   I wait, knowing.   
      
   The small velvet bag that holds clamps. Clamps too severe for my   
   breasts,   
   yet applied anyway.   
      
   A gasp. And then his smile.   
      
   He knows me. He knows I will take the pain to please him. He knows the   
   sacrifice I make to his Gods of Pain. He sees the torment in my eyes.   
   The   
   desire to please. The love. The fear of the pain.   
      
   My Master holds the rope just so.   
      
   Through his fingers, around my wrists, making delicate rings softer   
   than   
   steel. Stronger than steel. One on each wrist, a gentle bracelet that   
   is   
   soon pulled tight, stretched to the bedposts and wrapped tightly. One   
   on   
   each ankle. No matter how I tighten my muscles as he wraps the rope,   
   still   
   it is perfectly tight. The circulation moves.   
   The ankle does not.   
      
   I lie face-up on the bed, my body a perfect X. Face up. Oh, Goddess,   
   he's   
   going to whip my breasts.   
      
   But first, two small wooden clothespins bob before my eyes. I turn my   
   head, remember I am instructed to watch, turn back. The clothespins   
   bite   
   the delicate flesh of each nipple. Grasp. Sting. Burn. He waits.   
      
   My Master knows me. Knows he can whip me, clothespins and all. Knows   
   the   
   pain, where it will hurt the most, what I can and cannot take.   
   He waits.   
      
   The burning increases as the pins are removed. Ah, he will not whip me   
   with clothespins in place. But the moment when I was unsure, when the   
   blood pounded in my temples and the fear covered me like a shroud,   
   then he   
   watched my eyes.   
      
   The whip falls. Which one is it now? I cannot turn my head to see   
   which he   
   reaches for. But I know them all. I arch my back, try to stay still.   
      
   My Master knows me. Knows I will hold position as long as possible,   
   before   
   the pain forces me to writhe, to turn, to try in vain to shield my   
   breasts. Knows the moment when I can no longer stay still. And   
   precisely   
   then, says gently, "Don't move."   
      
   My Master holds the rope just so. Gently tugging at the knots, to   
   release   
   arms and legs from bondage. Gently unwraps each wrist, each ankle.   
   Rubs   
   each, and kisses the places where the rope has left its mark. The gag   
   is   
   removed. I swallow.   
      
   "Kneel."   
      
   I crouch on the bed, head down, ass up, as he mounts the bed behind   
   me.   
   His hands caress my ass softly, then spank sharply. Slowly, quickly,   
   his   
   hand falls upon my ass. I wait for the moment, the pain/pleasure as he   
   will enter me. But not yet. First a gentle tapping, soft touch, as he   
   marks the place the cane will fall. I brace myself, plead with myself   
   to   
   hold position, knowing each stroke brings a fire hotter than any   
   flame.   
      
   Five strokes. Six. I have not moved. As the pain from each begins to   
   subside, a soft, half-sob. "Thank you, Master."   
      
   Eight. Nine. My knees give out, and I fall to the bed, sobbing. But   
   immediately back on my knees again. "Thank you, Master."   
      
   Ten. I am aware of nothing, save the pain. And his voice, as I am   
   commanded to orgasm, not from stimulation, not from his fingers or his   
   cock, but from pain alone. My body responds without hesitation. My   
   pleasure is screamed out for his pleasure.   
      
   Later, I will feel his cock inside me. I will feel the force as he   
   thrusts   
   deep into me, bruising the tender flesh with his strength. Later I   
   will   
   come, and come, and come, but only by his command. Later, we will lie   
   back, exhausted, as he cradles me in his arms, strokes me gently,   
   whispers   
   in my ear.   
      
   But not yet.   
      
   Now he rises from the bed, returns to the toys so carefully laid out   
   before   
   me.   
      
   My Master holds the rope just so.   
      
   finis   
      
   Ms. Salzman has served on the board of The Holocaust History Project,   
   has been a contributor of articles to The Nizkor Project, has aided   
   B'nai Brith and the Anti-Defamation League in their fight against   
   Holocaust Denial and anti-semitism. Ms. Salzman is a resident of   
   the Denver, Colorado area. Ms. Salzman's first hand expertise in   
   torture   
   techniques and her immense knowledge of Nazi atrocities inspired her   
   to compose the artistic work featured above.   
   http://groups.google.com/group/soc.culture.jewish/msg/b5ef4abf9b586f0...   
      
   Contact Info of Authoress   
      
   Sara D. Salzman   
   4015 S Killarney Way   
   Aurora, CO 80013   
   United States   
   Tel 303 617 9412   
   http://www.westword.com/issues/2000-08-10/news/feature3_4.gif   
      
      
   James Fenimoore   May 28 2007, 12:31 am   
      
   On Mon, 28 May 2007 16:17:10 +1000,   
   ,   
   "Binjamin Cram'er"  wrote:   
   wrote in message   
   news:a%s6i.31021$UD2.22465@trnddc05...   
   Interesting how there's no proof she wrote it....   
   (or, even if she did, how it refutes NOTHING she's ever said....)   
      
   That is truly schizoid.   
      
   No proof, cohen, apart from the fact she admitted to doing so.   
   Guess that's not proof, huh?   
      
   Sara authored the poem but it appears to have been Kenneth McVay   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
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