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Cold steel in naked hot flesh

4,588 Uploads · 678 Members · 8 Forum Posts · 697,431 Visitors
This group is about the piercing of flesh. It may be about the real thing (needles, darts, etc.), as long as no lasting harm or even death result from the actions. But mostly it is about fantasies, about knives, arrows, swords, spears or similar devices, getting driven into (more or less) naked bodies. Please mind, it is NOT about bullet shooting. It is NOT about hanging or choking. There's more than enough other groups covering all that.Everyone who feels fascinated by the fetish is invited to participate in one way or another, but be warned: Spamming content, which obviously has nothing to do with the topic of this group, will immediately get you banned.

Board Posts

1
Anonymous
@confessions
24 Apr 2011 12:51AM
• 130 views • 0 attachments
[ − ] thread [ 2 replies ]

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die, to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause – there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered

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