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| The Stumbling Czar; Majesty Training - #2 - NSFW | |
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| Topic Started: Saturday, 13. December 2014, 02:57 (340 Views) | |
| Tsar Ilya the First | Saturday, 13. December 2014, 02:57 Post #1 |
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Claiming Tsar
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It had worked before. That was just fantastic. Unbelievable. If he had managed to make it work once, even if it was for a very short period of time, he could repeat the results as many times as he wanted. Why not? It was all a matter of repeating the same circumstances, and walking the same neural paths. Easy. Right? First, the suit. An armor for a Czar. Ilya took the same suit, and put it on, trying to keep his focus on the same places it was last time. He looked at himself in the mirror, and arranged his short hair in the exact same way he did the last time. It was all easy. But some doubt was creeping in. Maybe it was not that specific suit, but the fact that the suit was brand new. The suit he was wearing was not new anymore; he had used it once. Would that affect the result? Then he thought of Valera, who could invoke that majestic charm even wearing rags. Wardrobe should not be that important... but last time it was a complete game changer. Well, if he was more limited than his sister in that sense, he would have to assume it, and keep on wearing new suits every time he wanted to use that new found charm. Still, the whole idea was so preposterous, his head started giving him a throbbing pain. Considering that Vampires don't usually have headaches, that was a sign of a concept being over thought to exhaustion. He put his tie on, and walked upstairs. The suit was as good as it was going to get. New or old, it was the suit he was wearing the first -and only- time he made his charisma expand that way. Now, the target. Olga was the one to feel the heat. Olga was the target then. But this Olga was not the same Olga he interacted with a couple of weeks ago. This one was different. Some of her skin cells had already been regenerated. Her pancreas was technically a whole new organ, according to some pseudo scientific studies. This was not the same flesh machine he had charmed half a month ago. There was more. His blood inside of her... that made her different in his eyes. Still a flesh machine, but a more precious one. Was this the same target? Would that be enough to repeat the same conditions? He certainly hoped so. Rostik brought Olga, tied with a dog leash. She was clean, and her hair was beautifully combed. Even her nails were painted red, and less broken than usual. She had a half smile on her face. Defiance. That robot was defying him to play with her emotions. He was above that, clearly, and he knew better than to focus on her. All of his work here was to focus on himself, and to become that powerful Czar that could rule over the whole country, over all the people, over her. Why was his mind going back to that puny flesh machine? He needed to focus on himself! That was the key! But her half smile was terribly distracting. He contemplated the possibility of cutting her lips off with a knife right there, but that would make her a waste of a product, impossible to sell. Why was all so difficult? He reviewed his plan: Suit: Good. Or not. If it was about the specific suit, then good. If it was all about wearing a new suit, then it was all wrong. Just a gamble. Target: Good. Or not. She was the same flesh machine, but she looked like a different one. Her attitude was completely different. Frustrating as hell. Neural Path: Impossible to focus on himself, with so many elements out of place. He needed to enter that "Czar zone", but it was just impossible at that moment. Okay, just relax. The suit is not important. It is just the armor of the Czar, the garment that gives him consistence and coherence. Those elements were present. The target was not important either; his majestic charm should affect everybody around him. He just needed to focus his energies on himself, to feel the power of an Empire growing beneath his feet. He was meant to rule, and that was exactly what he was going to do. [PRESENCE: MAJESTY] [FAIL] She kept her smile, but her eyes wandered around. Whatever was happening with that strange man on a suit -a suit that was not new-, was not important at all. She turned towards Rostik, walked up to him, and kissed him. While she was doing that, she grabbed her own leash from his hands. Rostik was surprised. Ilya was terribly confused. Still with her own leash on her hand, Olga stopped kissing Rostik, and walked to the open kitchen. She grabbed an apple, sat on the couch, and started eating the apple while watching TV. Neither Rostik nor Ilya could react to that. The ghoul just lowered his head and sat beside Olga, like a puppy who had misbehaved. Ilya couldn't believe it. She had ignored him. He was nothing. He turned around, and walked downstairs to his room, removing the ridiculous used suit as he walked, and lying naked in bed, facing down. He didn't move a muscle for the rest of the night. Edited by Tsar Ilya the First, Saturday, 13. December 2014, 02:58.
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Languages: Russian, Japanese, English, French, Finnish, German Oleg's Voice You may know me as Yuri Mikhailov or as Khoza. | |
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| Tsar Ilya the First | Friday, 19. December 2014, 18:41 Post #2 |
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Claiming Tsar
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OLGA Again, big man coming to the room. What now? Last week she showed him that she had a mind of her own, and that she could lie in the couch if she wanted to. She had been trapped inside that small room for months now, and she had earned some privileges. She had her own leash now, and that was a huge advance. Just looking at it, she knew that she was going to go out, and that was enough to make her happy, at that point. She may even be allowed to watch TV. Big man put the leash on her neck, and walked her out. He was wearing a suit, again. Good. He looked horrible in that tracksuit. He looked like a cheap drug dealer, or a pervert on a sex shop. The suit made him look regal, imposing. Much better. But his creep friend was there too. That guy was always going to look creepy, no matter what he was wearing. The big man sat her on a chair, and tied her leash to the foot of the chair. Then he walked away, and stood a couple of meters from her, doing nothing. However, in his nothingness, there was something. Some strange effort. The air around him seemed to shift somehow. It wasn't the first time she was witnessing that effect. During the last few weeks, he had been doing strange things like that all the time. Approaching her, and... doing it. She could not explain it with words. It was... an emotional thing. She felt close to him. Very close. She could sympathize with his point of view, even though she had no idea what was that point of view. She even wanted to help him achieve his goals, whatever they were. She also hated him a little bit. But that was secondary. Today, it was something similar. Not that she could ever get used to that sensation, but she recognized it. The air bending around him. She looking at his face. Tunnel vision. Impossible to look at anything else. Impossible to think about anything else. A spark of something special in the air. Like a ball of liquid lead in her stomach, burning her from the inside, heavily dragging her down to her knees, to a pose of submissive admiration and idolatry. He wasn't even looking at her. She wasn't worth his attention. Shame and guilt crept inside her soul as she felt she was ready to give her life for him. All the mundane thoughts of the last few minutes were erased upon his god like presence. She felt the urge to sacrifice something for him, to make a grand gesture to demonstrate her complete abandonment to him. He needed to understand that she was willing to do anything for him, even if he never asked for it. He didn't have to ask. She knew. She knew what to do. She had to sacrifice that what was most precious to her. And that was her beauty. Her face. Keeling on the floor, she bent over herself and slammed her face against the floor. It hurt. A lot. She could feel the nose cracking, and blood splattering the concrete. She went again, stronger. All the strength of her abs, invested in smashing her own face against the floor. It was effective. She could feel new gushes opening in her brows. It was a great sacrifice. The big man was going to be proud of her. And again, another hit. She spat a couple of teeth to the bloodied floor. She couldn't see anything. The pain was nearly unbearable, and her head was spinning around. She needed to continue her sacrifice, to smash her face until she was unrecognisable. That was expected of her, and she wanted to comply. Hands grabbed her from behind, stopping her from slamming her face against the floor again. No! Stop! I need to do this! She tried to shout, but she had bitten her own tongue so hard, a small piece of it had fallen to the ground. Good. The big man was going to appreciate the extra effort. The hands dragged her and hold her down, trying to control her and to keep her from achieving her goal. She hated those hands. She felt fingers in her face, forcing her eyes open. In front of her, through a curtain of pinkish blood, the big man was staring at her. They were his hands. Why? Why was he stopping her from doing the only thing that would please him? "Relax." His word was nectar in her ears, and she accepted the order as if it came from God. Obeying his command filled her with electric surges of pleasure. She just relaxed there, with her arms by her side, and blood pouring from her whole face. The pain was part of her reward, and it was an unbearable reward. But she was relaxed, as the big man had ordered her. She was a good slave, and he could be proud of her. Her eyes closed again, imposing a dark curtain between her and him. However, she could feel his wrist pressed against her smashed lips, filling her mouth with his essence. What did that mean? Why would he make such an effort for her? She was just an insignificant insect for him, and she was happy as that. She was not worthy of his fertile essence. But she was forcing it into her mouth, nearly choking her with it. She had no choice. She had to swallow it. And she did. And that made her want more, and more. She kept on sucking on his open wound, until he placed a hand on her forehead and pushed her away. She could feel something special happening to her. She felt magic. Her wounds were giving her a tingly sensation. They were closing. She could feel something really weird in her gums, as new teeth started appearing, and pushing the old broken ones' roots. It was a magical sensation, the feeling of being loved by a giant god. It was a miracle. She had made it; her sacrifice was acknowledged, and appreciated. His essence was the nectar of compassion and wisdom, and she was the holy receptacle of that humble power. ILYA Again. It had failed again. There was no way of repeating the same neural pathways. It was not about the suit, or about the intention. There was something else there that he was not seeing. She had reacted in a way that he had not anticipated. Maybe he had applied too much pressure to his attempt. Now he had to nurse her back to health. Looking at her disfigured face, he could decipher something that resembled a smile, a beatific smile. Was she having a religious orgasm? He was messing her programming way too much. That product was nearly useless now, after drinking from him for the second time. Next week he would succeed. He knew it. Edited by Tsar Ilya the First, Thursday, 8. January 2015, 02:45.
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Languages: Russian, Japanese, English, French, Finnish, German Oleg's Voice You may know me as Yuri Mikhailov or as Khoza. | |
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| Tsar Ilya the First | Thursday, 8. January 2015, 03:47 Post #3 |
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Claiming Tsar
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Noise. Gunshots. Hair driers. Crackling things. Female laughter. Heels on tiles. Faint music. What the hell? Ilya woke up slowly. He had overslept. Again. For some reason, it was getting harder and harder for him to wake up at sundown. He used to do that, back in the day, when he was the one driving the truck through the muddy Russian roads, in the nasty old fifties. He used to be the first one waking up, and that meant a lot of responsibility. He remembered Roman, his sire, who always waked up late. Now he was the one oversleeping. No matter how hard he tried, it required an inhumane effort to wake up at a reasonable hour. Today it was the same as always... Well, with the horrible collection of unproductive noises creeping through his door. What the hell was that. He stood up, naked. He was used to sleeping in the floor, without even a blanket. But he did not like to wear anything during the day. Clothes reminded him of captivity, and of being deprived of his will. Nakedness was his way of getting back in touch with himself, of experiencing the freedom of his body. He usually spent a bit of time dressing up, and shaving the short beard he had when Roman Embraced him, but tonight the noise was too much to handle. He needed to make it stop. That was a priority. He climbed the stairs up, reaching the ground level of his fortress. He opened the door. The situation was very bizarre, for him. There were four female flesh machines in the main room of the fortress. Three of them were wearing strange over sexualized outfits, and high heels. The fourth one, Olga, was just sitting in the couch, barefoot, absent mindedly watching TV. One of the girls was cooking. The other two were standing behind the couch, chatting lively, and laughing at each other's jokes. It smelled of bacon, eggs, beans... fuel for those warm automatons. They were roaming freely through his empire, after sundown. That was just intolerable. The gazes of the four women turned towards his naked frame, an angry man on his birthday suit, trying to make sense of what he was staring at. The smiles disappeared, transformed into gazes of sheer incredulity. Only Olga started smiling at him, as the negative reflection of the other three. She was incredibly happy to see him. The fact that he had no clothes on made her happiness even bigger. He had come to see her, to deliver her from the stupidity of the other girls, with their shallow conversations and their stupid laughter. The did not understand the holiness of the Master. They just could not get it. Ilya just wanted to destroy them. To break them in pieces, discard them like old toys. He wanted to peel the skin and the flesh from their bones, and use them to create furniture. He was full of hatred towards those silly flesh machines who dared waking him up with laughter and mortal food. The part of him that was the most irate was the one that realized that these products were behaving as they should: like perfect hollow wives for sale. He was witnessing the other side of his business, the side that was forbidden for him, that part of their personality that only his customers got to enjoy, the final fruit of his system. He was not supposed to see that. Ever. He was not supposed to be involved in their innocence or their beauty. He was above that. He could not allow himself to feel anything about these skin robots. And yet, there was an infinitesimal part of his soul that lightened up upon their presence. The warm memory of Zinaida, the wife he had when his heart was still beating, before all this madness, before he transcended to this superior plane of existence, when he was still a project of himself, an ignorant robot, trying to survive according to its own programming, in a world where that programming was just not adequate. He took a step forward, ready to tear the four machines apart, piece by piece. He could feel his blood boiling in his body, the rage against the disrespect... how did these four ignorant automatons dare trying to remind him of his mortal days? Were they trying to excite a part of him that had been dead for decades? He was ready to feel that familiar rush in his body, the sign of his whole muscular system being activated and getting ready for battle... however, something different happened. [PRESENCE: MAJESTY] It was all full of light. The three machines that were standing up -the one cooking and the two laughing- dropped to their knees without hesitation, averting their gaze. Olga's eyes filled up with tears, as she sled from the sofa to the floor. She was smiling as if she was staring straight at God's figure. What the fuck? Without even thinking it, even without his regal armor, the thing had been activated by itself. It had worked. It was all very confused. He had done it, by pure instinct. He just turned around, and got into his room again, trying to understand what the hell had just happened. |
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Languages: Russian, Japanese, English, French, Finnish, German Oleg's Voice You may know me as Yuri Mikhailov or as Khoza. | |
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| Tsar Ilya the First | Thursday, 8. January 2015, 14:26 Post #4 |
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Claiming Tsar
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Study on Charm intensification, Part II I can't understand it. It has worked. Twice. But not in the same conditions. Nothing was even remotely similar between the first and the second time. I'm struggling to understand what did I do to make it work, and no matter how hard I try, it completely escapes me. Let's compare the two instances... maybe that will give me the answer I'm looking for: The External: Wardrobe First time: Suit Second time: Nothing Answer: Nonsense The External: Target First time: Olga Second time: Olga + three other robots Answer: Olga? The External: Ambience and set up First time: Everything ready and calculated. No external undesirable noises or sensory stimuli. Second time: Nothing prepared. Plenty of distractions. Answer: Nonsense. The External: Time of the day First time: Around midnight. Second time: a bit after sundown. Answer: Nonsense. The Internal: Thought process First time: Actively trying to achieve the result. Second time: Not even thinking about it. Answer: Nonsense. The Internal: Focus First time: Inside, on own self image and presence. Second time: Inside, rage about disrespect. Answer: There is something here. Something about self importance and royalty. In both times, I felt that sense of superiority, of self justified nobility. I was the single most important creature in existence, for a second. The Internal: Emotional Memory First time: Nothing. Second time: Zinaida. Answer: Nonsense. Of all the possible elements, the only relevant one is the Focus. We'll ignore Olga's presence as much as possible; it is just inconsequential. All that I know, so far, is that the only thing that makes that extra amount of charm pour out of me is by believing I'm that regal character, that Czar. As long as I believe it, in some way, people around me will believe it. That is not reassuring; I need to either fool myself every time I want to make use of this special charm, or just develop an unwanted narcissistic streak in my personality. However, it stands to reason that, the more powerful the ability, the more it modifies my own psyche. I remember when I learned how to project my own animus on groups of people; my world perspective switched, and became more global and inclusive. Before that I was sort of myopic, unable to understand the deep connections between things. One day I opened my eyes and saw it, the lines that connect the robots, and even my kind... How easy it is to infect those lines with my will, with my emotional reality, and twist the minds and the souls. Maybe it is the same with this new ability. Maybe I have to understand my dominant role in this world, become that Czar I dream about sometimes. How to become that regal character, without losing touch with what surrounds me? I know for a fact that I don't need a position of power to be a Czar. It is not about declared dominance, but about inner focus. Valera does this all the time... does she really believe she is better than the rest of us? Now that I think about it, she probably does. As much as Roman. Maybe my sire's mind got twisted because of his powers... maybe learning some abilities can turn you into something different, more and more detached from what you used to be... I'm ready to assume that risk. Next week, I'll start working from this premise, I'll try to believe, at every point, that I'm that Czar. Not only when training, but at every single moment. I'll reinforce that belief so much, I'll end up believing it. This may be the last time I write as a non Czar. The idea is somehow disquieting... But I need to explore this avenue. Goodbye soul... Hello Czar. |
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Languages: Russian, Japanese, English, French, Finnish, German Oleg's Voice You may know me as Yuri Mikhailov or as Khoza. | |
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1:15 AM Jul 11