The Measure Of A Man!

by Small Penis


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This story contains adult sexual content and should not be read by those under 18, or considered minors in their country or locale. If you are under 18: CLICK HERE

This fictional story is the artistic expression of the author who wrote it. The Small Dick Club strongly believes in freedom of speech, and the right of artists to be heard, especially if what they say pushes the boundaries of what is acceptable in society. If you think you won’t like the content of this story, then don’t read it. It’s that simple. The Small Dick Club wishes to advise readers that any similarities in these stories to actual or real people or events is purely coincidental and unintended. That any story marked as a ‘true story’ shouldn’t be taken literally, as we have no way to verify if stories submitted to us are true. The Small Dick Club takes no responsibility for the imaginations and literary creations of authors who post their stories here.
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By Anon.

Am I the only guy on Earth who can’t be hypnotised? Yeah, I know the conventional wisdom, that we’re all susceptible to one degree or another, that in theory a sufficiently skilled hypnotist could take me under. In theory. It hasn’t happened yet, and there’s certainly been plenty who’ve tried. I’ve lost count of how many hypnosis shows I’ve been to. I always volunteer, and the hypnotist always accepts me as a volunteer, and nothing ever happens.

Not to me, anyway. I don’t think there’s an induction method that hasn’t been tried on me. I’ve looked at the shiny crystal, watched the swinging watch, stared at a spot on the ceiling (raising my eyes as far as I can without lifting my head, of course), closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing, or on each part of my body, starting with my toes and working my way up, let the hypnotist try to confuse me, not remembering what I forgot to remember because it’s so easy to remember to forget blah blah blah, etc.

You name it, it’s been done to me, and none of it works. Everybody else on stage is barking like a dog, clucking like a chicken, forgetting his name, taking off his clothes, making a complete idiot of himself, and I’m the one guy who’s wide awake, fully dressed, still able to talk like a human being, not dancing the hula, and just laughing my ass off and enjoying the show.

Hypnotists do not like me. You’d think they’d get the message and stop picking me. Isn’t there some place on the internet, exchange techniques, tell war stories and whatnot? Shouldn’t there be a detailed description of me, even a photo, on every hypnotist website, chatroom, message board and watering hole on the internet? Don’t pick this guy! Can’t be hypnotised! Freak of nature! Warning! Reader, what I’m trying to say is…

I CAN’T BE HYPNOTISED.

I’ll give you an example. At one of these shows was a lady hypnotist with a nice big pair of titties. Not much else I can tell you about her. If I saw her face I wouldn’t recognise it. All of my attention was on those titties, and on the pendant she wore, on the jewel hanging between those titties. The jewel had a really intricate design I couldn’t make out, no matter how hard I focused on it.

It was the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen, but if you were to ask what it looked like I couldn’t tell you. It was so detailed and complex that I don’t have the vocabulary to describe it. And it was situated right between those marvellous titties. She was talking about the pendant, so she obviously wanted us to look at it, and since it was right between those tits, you couldn’t look at the pendant without looking at her titties.

She was actually inviting us to look at her titties. For once I didn’t have to make an effort to avoid a woman’s tits, didn’t have to force myself to make eye contact while the stupid bitch prattled on about God knows what tedious bullshit when all I could think about was punishing those dirty pillows with every inch of the mighty weapon between my legs. I could appreciate a woman’s body without shame. It was so relaxing.

I listened without paying attention to the words, just let them float through me and past me, tried to figure out what exactly that was hanging between her tits — Why was it that the harder I concentrated on it the more complicated it got? — and when trying to figure it out got too hard I just let go and relaxed.

I don’t know how long she talked — it may have been hours — but finally she said, “I need you men who are Baywatch fans to come up on stage with me.” Baywatch? That thing wasn’t still on the air, was it? Oh well, whatever. That was my cue to volunteer. Time to piss off another hypnotist. Time to put another controlling bitch in her place.

There were about a dozen of us guys on stage. We stood half an arm’s length apart from each other, facing the audience. She turned her back to the audience, facing us, and started talking about the pendant again. I was more than happy to take another look at it, and at those titties, too. Like every other hypnotist I’ve encountered, this bitch loved to hear herself talk, and none of what she said was worth remembering. But the sound of her voice was pleasant enough, so I just relaxed and let it wash over me. And the longer she talked the more time I had to study the pendant, the pendant resting on that glorious milky rack.

And after what felt like three thousand hours later she told us to look at each other. All of the other guys on stage were naked, their clothes lying in piles at their feet. Except for me, of course. I was still dressed. Still not hypnotised. Been there, done that. I don’t know why the other guys were smirking at me, looking down at my crotch, no less, and smirking at me.

I wasn’t the dumb-ass who took off all his clothes in public just because some big-titted control-hungry bitch made him look at the pretty pendant. And why were these fucking fags looking at my crotch? There was nothing to see. I wasn’t naked. I wasn’t hypnotised. I can’t be hypnotised. No bitch controls me. Get it? I was at the left end of the row of guys. She turned to the guy farthest from me, at the right end of the row, and asked him his name.

“Tom,” he said.

“How are you feeling, Tom?” she asked.

“Okay.”

“Do you like my pendant, Tom?”

“Oh yeah!”

Everyone, the audience, the other guys on stage, me, we all laughed.

“Tom, do you feel hypnotised?”

“No, Mistress, I am not even aware I am hypnotised.”

More laughter. We all laughed at the naked hypnotised fucking idiot.

“Drop to your knees, Tom.”

Tom said, “Yes, Mistress,” and dropped to his knees.

“Tom, have you ever seen the show, Baywatch?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Tom, I’m going to try to guess who your favourite person on Baywatch is, and when I name that person, I need you to do something very special for me. Do you understand, Tom?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“I told you about the special thing I need you to do for me while you were listening to me talk about my pendant, but now you’ve forgotten what the special thing is, haven’t you, Tom?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“When I say the name of your favourite person on Baywatch, you will remember the special thing I need you to do and you will do it for me, won’t you, Tom?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Tom, is your favourite person on Baywatch Pamela Anderson?”

“One! Two! Three! Four!” Tom was stroking his hard cock and counting each stroke out loud. When he reached ten — “TEHHHHHHHHHHHHHN!!!!!!!” — he came.

And that’s when I finally noticed the boots she was wearing — as I’ve said before, when I looked at her, my attention was usually focused elsewhere — because when Tom came, his semen spattered her boots, her thigh-high shiny black leather boots. (And she wore a white mini-skirt that stopped just above the thigh-high boots, revealing an inch of bare leg.

Her long-sleeved sweater was white, too, with a low, low neckline, revealing plenty of cleavage. Her hair was blonde and thick and wavy and hung all the way down to her butt. As I said, I would have noticed all of this sooner if I hadn’t been staring so hard at her tits. Don’t ask me what colour her eyes were.)

“Ten strokes, ten inches. Very good, Tom,” she said.

“Thank you, Mistress.” And he did have ten inches. Well, not any more. Now his cock was limp and had shrunk a bit.

She looked down at her boots and said, “Look at the mess you made, Tom. Clean it up.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Tom said, and reached for her boots.

“Stop. Don’t touch. No hands,” she said. “Put your hands behind your back.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Tom said, and put his hands behind his back.

“Clean my boots with your tongue, Tom.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Tom stuck out his tongue and licked the first drop of come he could find on her right boot. Then he licked all of the come from her right boot, and then from her left boot.

When he finished cleaning her boots she told him to get dressed, return to his seat in the audience and enjoy the rest of the show. And that’s what he did.

**********

She was the sexiest and most powerful hypnotist I had ever encountered, but it didn’t matter, because unlike every other man on this stage, probably every other man she had met, I couldn’t be hypnotised. No woman, no matter how powerful, no matter how beautiful, could control me.

She turned to the next guy. “What’s your name?”

“Richard.”

“How are you feeling, Richard?”

“Okay.”

“Do you like my pendant, Richard?”

“Oh yeah!”

We all laugh.

“Do you feel hypnotised, Richard?”

“No, Mistress, I am not even aware I am hypnotised.”

We laugh at the naked zombie loser.

“Drop to your knees, Richard.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Richard said, and dropped to his knees.

She asked him if he had ever seen the show, Baywatch. “Yes, Mistress.” he replied.

She told him she would try to guess who his favourite person on Baywatch was, and that when she said the name of that person, he would do something very special for her. “Yes, Mistress,” he said again like a fuckwit.

Right now he couldn’t remember what the special thing was, but he would remember what it was when she said the name of his favourite person on Baywatch, and he would do that special thing for her, wouldn’t he? “Yes, Mistress.”

“Richard, is your favourite person on Baywatch Pamela Anderson?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Is it Carmen Electra?”

“One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! AAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYT!!!”

And his cum spattered her thigh-high shiny black leather boots.

“Eight strokes, eight inches. Very good, Richard,” she said. And yes, Richard had eight inches.

He cleaned her boots with his tongue, licking up every drop of jizz. Then he got dressed, returned to his seat in the audience and enjoyed the rest of the show.

**********

And so on with the next guy, and the one after that, and every one of the naked hypnotised losers. When asked, “Do you feel hypnotised?” they all answered, “No, Mistress, I am not even aware I am hypnotised.”

When told to drop to their knees, they all said, “Yes, Mistress,” and dropped to their knees.

Most of them chose Pamela Anderson as their favourite Baywatch star, a few of them chose Carmen Electra, and a few others chose some other women whose names I didn’t recognise. Unlike these other guys, I wasn’t a fan of the show. There was a black guy who had twelve inches. Another guy who had ten. Some who had nine, eight, seven… Everybody had at least six. Or I should say, “SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIXXX!!!”

They all licked her boots clean, got dressed, returned to their seats and enjoyed the rest of the show.

And finally I was the last man standing on stage.

**********

I wouldn’t be like the others. I wouldn’t be like any man she had ever met. How would it feel for her to meet a man she couldn’t control? Would she be angry? Would she hate me? Or would she respect me? Would she be pleased to meet a man with a will of his own, who thought for himself, who followed no one but who took the lead? How would it feel for her to finally meet a real man?

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Harold.”

“How are you feeling, Harold?” she asked.

“Okay.”

“Do you like my pendant, Harold?”

“Oh yeah!”

The audience laughed, and this time I knew the audience was laughing with the guy on stage, not at him.

She was going to ask me if I felt hypnotised. “Fuck no, bitch!” I’d tell her. Then I’d say, “Now I need YOU to drop to YOUR knees, bitch. I need you to take off your sweater so I can count to twelve and masturbate all over those fucking tits. Do you understand, ‘Mistress’?”

“Harold, do you feel hypnotised?”

“No, Mistress, I am not even aware I am hypnotised.”

And this time the audience was laughing with me and at the Mistress. Didn’t I just say I had no awareness of being hypnotised? If I were hypnotised, I would know it, wouldn’t I?

“Drop to your knees, Harold.”

“Yes, Mistress.” (Sure, bitch, I’ll get on my knees, but only because I’m tired of standing. It feels like I’ve been standing here for hours. My legs could use a rest.)

“Harold, have you ever seen the show, Baywatch?”

“Yes, Mistress.” (Is there anybody who hasn’t seen that show, you dumb bitch?)

“Harold, I’m going to try to guess who your favourite person on Baywatch is, and when I name that person, I need you to do something very special for me. Do you understand, Harold?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“I told you about the special thing I need you to do for me while you were listening to me talk about my pendant, but now you’ve forgotten what the special thing is, haven’t you, Harold?”

“Yes, Mistress.” (Maybe because it wasn’t worth remembering, “Mistress”.)

“When I say the name of your favourite person on Baywatch, you will remember the special thing I need you to do and you will do it for me, won’t you, Harold?”

“Yes, Mistress.” (Sure, sure, whatever. But I’ll never have to do your “special thing” because you’ll never guess who it is because it’s none of your goddamn business, you big-titted whore.)

“Harold, is your favourite person on Baywatch Pamela Anderson?”

“No, Mistress.” (And by “Mistress” I mean “cunt”.)

“Is it Carmen Electra?”

“No, Mistress.” (You’ll never guess.)

“Is it Yasmine Bleeth?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Gena Lee Nolin?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Alexandra Paul?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Traci Bingham?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Erika Eleniak?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Nicole Eggert.”

“No, Mistress.”

“Donna D’Errico.”

“No, Mistress.”

“Kelly Packard.”

“No, Mistress.”

“Marliece Andrada.”

“No, Mistress.”

“Angelica Bridges.”

“No, Mistress.”

“Brooke Burns.”

“No, Mistress.”

“Mitzi Kapture?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Don’t tell me it’s David Hasselhoff.”

“One! Two! THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”

__________________________________________________________________________________

These hypnotists never learn. The big-titted whore who tried to hypnotise me last week actually called me — how the fuck did she get my number? — and invited me to her next show. Her last show ended with your humble narrator, the one guy she could not hypnotise, the one guy no one has ever hypnotised, telling HER to drop to HER knees, so that if she wants me to masturbate on stage, I can do it in her fucking face.

The audience laughed, even the other guys she had successfully hypnotised laughed at her, and she told me to get the fuck off the stage. That was the one command I deigned to obey. And now she’s inviting me back for more. Some people are just gluttons for punishment.

This show begins like the last one. She’s wearing the jewelled pendant with that weird, complicated design I still can’t figure out. But those huge tits the pendant hangs between, the nicest rack I have ever seen, and my desire, no, my need, my right as a man, to fuck the shit out of those big milky ta-tas with every inch of my manhood — now that’s something I can understand.

She’s talking about the pendant. I’m not paying attention to what she says, but she has a nice voice, a voice like rose-scented smoke, smoke from a burning black rose, rising from the burning rose and into my head, my nostrils, ears, mouth, eyes and every pore of the skin on my face, into my brain and clouding… Where the fuck did THAT come from? “Rose-scented smoke”? I’m Byron Wordsworth Longfellow all of a sudden?

I’ll never be able to figure out that stupid pendant. Damn, those are nice tits. Come to Daddy, you rosy voiced burning black inside my head so sweet and drowsy…

Blah blah blah, pendant this, yakkity-yak that, and finally she says, “I need every man who is not even aware he is hypnotised to come up on stage with me.” That’s me, not even aware I’m hypnotised… because I’m not.

There are about a dozen of us on stage, just like the last time, standing half an arm’s length apart, facing the audience. She’s facing us, her back to the audience. More talking. More time to study that pendant. And those tits. Did I tell you she has nice tits? Only a million fucking times? Well, I’m telling you again, nice tits, and I’m gonna’ say it to her when it’s my turn: “Nice tits, bitch.”

And when she gives me a dirty look I’ll say, “You’re welcome.” And everyone will laugh at the bitch, just like last week. I don’t think I’ll be invited back for a third time. The sweetest cloudy voice seeping into my sleepy brain…

Now the other guys on stage are naked, their clothes lying a piles at their feet. Not me, of course. The other guys are looking at me and smirking. “What’s a matter, assholes? Ever seen a guy who can’t be hypnotised before? And stop looking at my crotch, you fucking fags.”

“March,” she commands. The other guys are marching in place. One TWO, one TWO, one TWO, one TWO,” she counts. “You MARCH and MARCH and MARCH and MARCH. You MARCH for Mistress, marching morons, marching. Because YOU are SLAVES, all MEN are SLAVES, one TWO, one TWO…”

Yeah, that’s what they are, marching morons. Slaves. March, you fucking morons. March for your “Mistress,” slaves. And as they march, their cocks get hard. “Your COCK gets HARDer HARDer HARDer, MARCHing MAKES your COCK get HARDer, MARCHing MORons RAGing HARDons, MARCH one TWO get HARD three FOUR…”

Then she says, “Every man whose penis is ten or more inches, stop marching.” And sure enough, three guys with big ten-plus-inch hard ons — one of them has at least twelve — stop marching. Any other woman would have considered it an honour to drop to her knees and give these guys satisfaction, but not this control-hungry cunt.

“When I snap my fingers,” she says, “Fire your weapons.” SNAP! All three moan and shoot their loads. The creamy streams from their cocks spatter the stage floor.

She looks down at the stains on the floor. “Look at the mess you made?”

They look down at the stains on the floor. “Get on your hands and knees and lick it up with your tongues.”

And that’s exactly what all three of them do. And when they finish, to tells them to get dressed, return to their seats in the audience and enjoy the rest of the show. And that’s what they do.

*********

Meanwhile, the other guys are still marching. “Every man whose penis is nine or more inches, stop marching,” she says. Two guys with nine-inch hard ons stop marching. They both come when she snaps her fingers. They both get on all fours and lick the come off the floor. And when they’ve licked up every drop they both get dressed, return to their seats in the audience and enjoy the rest of the show.

She commands the guys with eight or more inches to stop marching, to come when she snaps her fingers, to get down on all fours and lick the come off the floor, every creamy drop, and to get dressed, return to their seats in the audience and enjoy the rest of the show.

Then the guys with seven or more inches. Then the guys with six or more inches.

And finally I’m the only guy left on stage. I can’t wait to see the look on her face when I say, “Nice tits, bitch.”

“Hi, Harold,” she says.

“Hi, Mistress.”

“Are you enjoying yourself, Harold?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

The audience laughs. Of course I’m enjoying myself. I’m about to put Mistress Milkduds in her place.

“Harold, do you feel hypnotised?”

“No, Mistress, I am not even aware I am hypnotised.”

More laughter. How can I be aware of something that isn’t happening, you stupid cunt?

“I have commanded every man whose penis is six or more inches to stop marching. Did you hear me make that command, Harold?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

More laughter.

“If you didn’t obey my command, Harold, then either you aren’t hypnotised, or you have a very small penis. Which is it?” Before I can speak she looks down at my crotch and says, “You don’t have to answer that.”

More laughter.

“Harold, when I clap my hands, you will remember what really happened to you last week on this stage.”

CLAP! And I remember being naked, on my knees and jacking off, shooting my cum on her shiny black thigh-high leather boots, and then putting my hands behind my back and cleaning her boots with my tongue, licking up every drop of my creamy seed, just as Mistress ordered.

“Harold,” she says, “now you realize you are naked, your cock is throbbing hard and you are marching in place.”

And I realize I am naked, my cock is throbbing hard and I am marching in place.

“And you realize that marching makes your cock harder, and that having a hard cock makes you want to march.”

It’s true. The harder my cock gets, the more I want to march, and the more I march, the harder my cock gets.

“The throbbing pressure in your hard cock is building and building, the throbbing pressure building and building. Marching, marching, throbbing, throbbing.”

Unbearable throbbing pressure. So fucking hard. Making me march-one-two, march-one-two. But marching makes it harder. Marching, marching, throbbing, throbbing…

“You wish you had permission to speak, so that you could beg for release.”

Yes, Mistress, please let me speak. Please let me beg for release. Marching, marching, throbbing, throbbing…

“Every man whose penis is five or more inches, stop marching.”

Marching, marching, throbbing, throbbing…

“Harold, why are you still marching?”

“Um…” I don’t know how to answer. What am I supposed to say, Mistress?

“Is it because your penis is less than five inches?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Why are you still marching? Tell me.”

“Because my penis is less than five inches, Mistress.”

“Say it louder.”

“Because my penis is less than five inches, Mistress!”

“Louder.”

“BECAUSE MY PENIS IS LESS THAN FIVE INCHES, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE MY PENIS IS LESS THAN FIVE INCHES, MISTRESS!”

“Every man whose penis is four or more inches, stop marching.”

Marching, throbbing, marching, throbbing…

“Why are you still marching, Harold?”

“BECAUSE MY PENIS IS LESS THAN FOUR INCHES, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE MY PENIS IS LESS THAN FOUR INCHES, MISTRESS!”

“Is it because you have a teeny weeny, Harold?”

“YES, MISTRESS!”

“Tell me why you are still marching.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A TEENY WEENY, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A TEENY WEENY, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A TEENY WEENY, MISTRESS!”

“Is it because you have a micropenis?”

“YES, MISTRESS!”

“Tell me why you are still marching.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A MICROPENIS, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A MICROPENIS, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A MICROPENIS, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A MICROPENIS, MISTRESS!”

“Is it because you have a clitty-dick?”

“YES, MISTRESS!”

“Tell me why you are still marching.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A CLITTY-DICK, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A CLITTY-DICK, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A CLITTY-DICK, MISTRESS!”

“Say it again.”

“BECAUSE I HAVE A CLITTY-DICK, MISTRESS!”

And I have to keep shouting it, over and over again, “BECAUSE I HAVE A CLITTY-DICK, MISTRESS! BECAUSE I HAVE A CLITTY-DICK, MISTRESS! BECAUSE I HAVE A CLITTY-DICK, MISTRESS!” until my voice is hoarse and I can’t shout anymore, and all I can do is whisper, “…because I have a clitty-dick, Mistress… because I have a clitty-dick, Mistress… because I have a clitty-dick, Mistress…” And all the while I’m marching, marching, marching, and my cock is throbbing, throbbing, throbbing… And I wish I had permission to beg for release.

Finally she says, “Shut up, bitch!” and I stop in mid-sentence: “Because I have a…” and I shut up like a good bitch. But I have to keep marching…

She walks away from me for a couple of minutes, just leaves me there, marching, marching, throbbing, throbbing, and when she returns she’s holding a pink nightgown. On the front of it, in blue cursive letters, all lower-case, it says, “porn star” and the “a” is shaped like a star. “Put this on,” she says. “And you have to keep marching.” So as I’m marching I slip the nightie over my head and slip my arms through the straps. It’s a bit too small, just barely covering my crotch and butt. Everyone can see the tent my little hard on makes, poking up underneath the fabric.

“That should be just enough to keep you from getting arrested,” she says.

“Right, FACE!” she says. And I turn right, still marching in place.

“When I count to four you will FORWARD MARCH off this stage, and out of the auditorium. You will FORWARD MARCH all the way home. When you get home, you will be able to open the door, because you left the door unlocked, just as I ordered when I called you earlier tonight to invite you to my show. You will open the door, close the door behind you, and march to your phone. When you are by your phone you will continue to march in place until I call you and order you to stop marching.

If someone else calls, if you pick up the phone and hear a voice that is not Mistress’ voice, you will say, ‘I can’t talk to you now. I’m waiting for a call from my Mistress,’ and you will hang up. You will wait for Mistress to call you and you will march until you hear Mistress order you to stop marching.”

She makes me repeat these instructions three times, then counts, “One, two, three, FOUR!” and I forward march to the steps at the right end of the stage, march down the steps, to the EXIT sign, push open the door, march across the parking lot, leaving my car in the parking lot, and march all the way home, all twelve miles.

I won’t get home until past midnight and all the way home people are honking their horns, yelling out their car windows, calling me a fag, calling me babe, calling me honey, wolf-whistling. But I’m not embarrassed. Marching gives me a sense of purpose, those endorphins are doing their stuff, and it’s a cool Southern California summer night.

The days are hellish but the nights are just the right temperature and if I had on anything more than this nightgown I would be overdressed for this perfect weather. Since the days when Arthur wielded Excalibur there has not been a steel blade harder than the three mighty inches between my legs! My marching, marching, march-for-Mistress legs, and I look forward to the sense of accomplishment, the triumph I will feel when the phone rings.

When Mistress phones and she says, “Every man who has a four inch penis, stop marching.”

I will say, “Yes, Mistress,” and stop marching, and she will give me permission to lie down and go to sleep, and to dream of a field of burning black roses.

by Take My Mind. Please!

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