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Sara Salzman of Aurora CO fantasizes about having her titties whipped. Future Nobel Prize Winner?

http://groups.google.com/group/alt.revisionism/msg/c8dcee3152cf9fec
Sara <catamont@concentric.net>
Re: The Bizarre behavior of Sara Salzman
Date: 30 Apr 2002 15:19:14 GMT
Message-ID: <catamont-52E981.09191330042002@news.concentric.net>

In article <7b1tcu41mqb6vsncgb7f3n1ntokoftute7@4ax.com>, Voice of
Reason <voiceofreason@blakely.DELETEharrogate.net> wrote:

> On 30 Apr 2002 03:01:36 GMT, Sara "The Fist" Salzman
> <catamont@concentric.net> wrote:
>
> <deletia from manic rantings>
>
> One defender of child abuse lying another child abuser.
>
> Fact:

Lie

> Sara Salzman post sexual torture and bondage stories for little kids
> to read. An example of her writings: This is when she was Sara
> Schwartz before dumping that husband for the superman Aryan she brags
> out. What a piece of garbage.
>
> From: sschwartz@infinet.com
> Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage,
> Subject: My Master Holds The Ropes Just So (poem)
> Date: Sun, 05 Feb 1995 14:49:12 -0500

Fantasy fiction.

> It is things like this and many more why we call her Psycho Sara
>
> --
> Pat

Here is the poem Sara Salzman did not deny writing and didn't deny posting and
which she stated above is _Fantasy Fiction_:

>From:  sschwartz@infinet.com
>Newsgroups:  alt.sex.bondage
>Subject: My Master Holds The Ropes Just So (poem)
>Date: Sun, 05 Feb 1995 14:49:12 -0500
>Message-ID: <sschwartz-0502951449120001@p21.infinet.com>

My Master holds the rope just so.

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.

---------------------------------
To contact the author of the above poem;
Sara D. Salzman
4015 S Killarney Way
Aurora, CO 80013
303-617-9412
catamont@concentric.net
Map to Sara's home:
http://www.google.com/lochp?hl=en&tab=wl&q@15%20KILLARNEY%20WAY+AURORA+CO+80013
Pictures of Sara The Terrible;
http://media.westword.com/96766.0.jpeg
The above picture shows THE Master whipped more than her tits. That face certainly
looks like it has been profusely abused.
http://media.westword.com/96764.0.jpeg
Notice those big hands and wrists? Sara uses them to fist her stinky maggot infested
pussy.

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