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Psalm23_4

Damp Member
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About Psalm23_4

  • Rank
    Damp

Personal Information

  • My pronouns are..
    she/her

My Kinks

  • I'm into..
    Sadism / Masochism
    Spanking

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Psalm23_4's Achievements

  1. Happy birthday to myself!!

    1. maty

      happy birthday, have a beautiful day!!

    2. Pain

      Happy birthday! Have a great year ahead!

    3. Spectre Jester

      🥳 I'm late, but Happy Birthday!

  2. (TW: Suicide attempt) My body was operating at maximum capacity. My brain was spinning, my legs were crossing in a rhythmic manner, my fingers were typing furiously, and my eyes were busily scavenging pages after pages of her messages for hints, hints that she still had the wish to live on, regardless of how slight it may be. She said she had pills beside her bed that could easily be washed down by a few cans of beer conveniently placed in the fridge. I searched my mind for possible responses. I also searched my mind for the possibility to nip to the toilet and relieve my steadily increasing need. My brain felt like a pilot stuck in a cockpit straight out of Air Crash Investigation, forced to sort out a bunch of deafening, conflicting warning signals. Hers beat mine. I texted back with my legs recrossed. “Have you spoken to that therapist you trust? Maybe make an appointment next week so that you have at least something to look forward to?” “No,” came her snappy reply. “No point bothering him anymore since my decision is made.” As my mind raced on I realised that I had to keep a hand between my legs. Signals from the lower half of my body are beating those from the upper half, but I pressed them down in a way that almost seemed rude. My fingers were typing at their free will, at a speed that was ready to set the phone screen on fire any second. “Please,” I besought, “Please don’t swallow those goddamn pills yet. Think about those around you - those who know you - those who love you - those you love - think about me -” “I’ve done thinking about them, and you as well.” I could almost hear her matter-of-fact voice behind the message, “I’m sorry.” My mind threatened to shut down the way a malfunctioning aircraft threatened to crash. It had been an hour, or two, or three since we began texting, and all the liquid I had consumed beforehand had no knowledge of, or consideration for, the tough task I had at hand. We had known each other for over ten years, since we were both in primary school, and knew each other’s deepest secrets and wildest dreams. If she chose to depart, so would I, more likely than not. “Remember, this, too,” with an almost physical effort I typed in the chatbox, just when a large wave of desperation hit and a leak punctuated my sentence. I gasped and held myself tighter, and for a moment thought about just going to the toilet and giving this up altogether, but through tremendous effort remained in one piece and squirmed until the wave of desperation passed, before finishing my sentence, “shall pass.” The moment I pressed the send button I lapsed into my train of thought, interrupted only by the urgency coming from my lower abdomen. With all the information overload from the past few hours I had almost forgotten that I had been there, at the other side of that screen. I was sitting on the balcony of my apartment on the sixteenth floor, and I texted someone I trust, for an hour, or two, or three. He never said an impatient word, but now I wondered it he was in the same position as I was at this moment, scared that choosing temporary relief would mean the loss of a loved one and remorse that is permanent. I had bipolar disorder, and so did she. She was suicidal, and so had I been. We were like two boats on a stormy sea, two drunkards helping each other find the way home. I began wondering whether the one that stopped me from giving up had been in the same position, or, if she made it, whether she would be helping someone someday the way I was helping her, and, just in case, whether adding to the torture there would be the struggle with a full bladder. It must have been at least five minutes before she texted back: “I thought you learned that line from me.” “Yeah, I did learn it from you, that day after I sat by my balcony and seriously considered jumping from it. You were the one who told me ‘This too shall pass’. Now I repeat this line to you. This too shall pass.” Another pregnant silence. No matter how much information this silence is loaded with, it was time for me to unload. With the phone in my hand I stood up, almost losing it, before rushing to the toilet. Sitting there listening to the splashing of water beneath me I felt numb, the way one cannot feel one’s legs after an intensive workout. Still sitting on the toilet I took out my phone again. “Ah,” she had typed, “now I remember - I’m not the only one, huh.” We kept talking for longer than I bothered to remember; the only thing that mattered was that when I put down my phone I was secure in the knowledge that I had at least kept her safe for another day and that she would be there to see the sun come up tomorrow. What she would know was that tomorrow would be a sunny day, that she was woken up by her cat purring beside her, that I brought her her favourite chocolates for her birthday, and that everything she adored would be there to stay. What she would not know was my fear, anguish, struggles, penitence for once having made others worry about me in this exact way, and that my panties had a damp spot in the middle. Usually that would make me upset, but at that moment I was not remotely close to being upset, or pitying both of us who had been so close to slipping into dark unfathomed realms. For we are survivors in all senses of this word, and one does not pity survivors.
  3. Note: to all those who doubt themselves because of this fetish. I spent four years at a British-curriculum high school where competition was fierce, taking mathematics and natural sciences was the norm, and Oxbridge, or at least Imperial, was where many people saw themselves at a couple of years from now. I never really blended in. I messed around in science lessons and flunked many a math exam. I took sociology, psychology, history and English Language for A Level, a dreadful combination for many. I spent my free time not in the library revising schoolwork but on the bench next to the pond in the schoolyard, reading for hours. What I enjoyed doing overlapped little with what I was obliged to do. I never found real joy in planning sociology essays or compiling data from psychology experiments or, God forbid, memorising how many French heads Robespierre chopped off. The only soft spot I had for my school subjects was English Language. You may notice that I always refer to my English class as “English Language” instead of just “English”. I stress on the “Language” part since that was what mattered to me. The word “English”, when used to refer to a school subject, usually means “English Literature”, the discipline of Chaucer and Shakespeare, of Austen and Dickens, of plot twists and fancy jargon and literary criticism skills everyone is supposed to master. English Language, on the other hand, is about grammar and sentence structures, about conversation analysis and dialect varieties, about the scaffold of English around which Literature flourishes. The two differ from each other like night from day. What differed from each other like night from day are not only English Language and Literature, but also hobbies - in this case, the pastime of mine and others’, those Oxbridge-bound science and literature students with flawless profiles and straight A*s. They engrossed themselves with Python; I doodled on my math papers. They read Margaret Atwood and Virginia Woolf; I feasted my eyes on nonfiction such as biographies, the history of the English Language, or even a pocket-sized dictionary. They played sports, painted pictures and formed rock bands; I masturbated. Right, I masturbated. But not even masturbation alone was something I was ashamed of; I had discussed it with quite a few number of girls and learned their patterns. I was ashamed not of masturbating, but of doing that with a full bladder. I always made sure I was well-hydrated before starting, tracing my clit in circles while envisioning myself in a situation where a toilet was not available, until reaching orgasm. Then I would go straight to the toilet and let out all the liquid, for I was not into wetting either my clothes or the bed. I was reluctant to say I masturbated, in the same way I was reluctant to say I was a student of English. The “proper” way to masturbate is to involve nothing but sex alone, let alone something as weird and filthy as a full bladder and the urine it contains. A “proper” student of English is one who loves literature, who has fun commenting on prose with regards to their literary background and writing book reviews, not someone whose head aches at the mere thought of expressing one’s ideas thoroughly after reading a book. This troubled me, me who, after all, considered myself more as a student of English than one of the other humanities subjects. I tried forcing down novels I had no interest in; I even attempted to self-study Literature and sit the exam. But time after time I failed miserably. My Asperger’s Syndrome, a condition which made it difficult for me to comprehend hidden meanings in conversations and passages, hindered me from entering the garden of Literature. Along with this it also prevented me from socialising properly, from taking part in others’ pastimes. I was stuck with my own thoughts and actions. Night after night I lingered in the delicious tingle of my clit after letting go of a full bladder’s contents, only to steep in shame and remorse afterwards. Throughout my A Level years I wrestled with the notion that I would not be able to undertake literature, this “noble pursuit” equally valued along with math, sciences and some other humanities subjects. I was an outlier within one of my favourite disciplines, within society, within the norms and values I ought to comply with. Yet English Language remained my soft spot, one of the few things that stopped me from resenting education altogether. While in Literature lessons you only have access to works identified as proper literature, in Language lessons you read everything, I mean everything, written in this language, from recipes to travel brochures, blogs to film criticisms, conversation transcripts to advertisements, excerpts of memoirs to the good old prose. I was allowed to focus exclusively on rhetorical devices and sentence and paragraph structures, and commenting on them proved to be a much more enjoyable task than working out how the content related to the literary background and such. The chance to dissect the language was as appealing to me as the chance to dissect frogs was to biology students. The idea of holding my urine, it gradually came to me, resonated with the idea of English Language stripping away all aspects of Literature I did not enjoy, leaving behind only those that appealed to me. I had not been in a serious relationship before, nor had I had sex; so why force myself to think about intercourse when masturbating? Why not stick to a full bladder, to what offers me both excitement and sense of security, albeit with no apparent reason? The writing part of English Language I enjoyed even more. Literature does not give you a chance for creative writing; those whose works you are reading are the only writers and you are but a faithful disciple. Language, however, keeps a window open for fresh air to come in by allowing a creative writing component in one of its papers. I rejoiced over it. I wrote every assignment with enthusiasm and went through past paper after past paper, and when there were no more papers to exploit I turned to my own imagination, setting myself tasks and completing them. Writing, just like masturbating, became what I turned to whenever the going got tough and simply existing overwhelmed me, and it proved to be even a better remedy since I could write in the name of revising schoolwork, giving myself the feeling that I was hardworking after all, that I owned a place in this environment where stopping to take a break seemed like a cardinal sin. It was through writing that my grades in other essay-based subjects gradually improved, and I began thinking about university. Only then I learned that “English Language” and “Linguistics” are standalone majors independent from Literature, and that they merit commitment just like the latter. Webster and David Crystal who help put the language together, despite not getting credit from many, still have their place. It was also around that time that I learned that my fetish, as it is called, is called omorashi. Omorashi is a part of the fetish culture, which in turn is a part of sex as a culture, hence proving itself to be a vital building block of sex itself. Without the omorashi culture there would not be an overarching theme that bond together people who are fond of urine-related activities, these seemingly filthy pursuits. Without the discipline of English Language, Literature would lose the scaffold that holds it together and dissolve into a bundle of flesh. Without Language there would not be Literature; without omorashi there would not be a way out for Aspies like me and anyone who teeters on the edge of society. I held to my limit and masturbated like a mad man that night. That thought, not the A’s I got in English Language, was what changed forever how I perceive myself. I used to see myself as good for nothing, as not as worthy as those law, medicine and engineering students around me, those who undergo “noble pursuits”. Yet one’s pursuits are noble as long as one considers them to be that way, and that was how I perceive English Language ever since; one’s interests are noble as long as one considers them to be that way, and that was how I perceive omorashi ever since; one is a noble individual as one considers oneself that way, and that was how I perceive myself ever since. I once spoke to an underclassman about subject choices. “I may do English Language in A Level.” she said, “Is it worth it?” “A subject,” I replied, making almost a physical effort not to blurt out “and any seemingly unacceptable hobbies”, “is only worth as much as you yourself are.”
  4. A (sort of) belated Happy Chinese New Year guys!

    (Fun fact: people in China don't eat fortune cookies after meals lol.)

  5. So this guy is a friend from middle school, clever, funny and super energetic, and I've always been sort of interested in him even back then. We went to different high schools but kept in touch. We've been speaking a bit more these days as his university has programmes I'm interested in and I was asking him for detailes. He still makes comments that make me roar with laughter; he genuinely hasn't changed much throughout the years and I soon realised nor does my interest in him. Neither of us has been in a serious relationship before and I've no idea how to even try to steer the topic towards this when we chat (he's a bit of a nerd, it's been ages since we last went to school together, and I'd had a slightly traumatic experience regarding romantic feelings). Any advice on what I should do/whether I should do anything at all?

    1. Seifer69

      I suppose the only thing you can do is talk to him. Talk together in a place you both feel comfortable and see what happens

    2. TimmyTrihard69

      Yeah, just don't let the conversations die. Like, don't text ALL the time but don't go days or weeks in a row without contact. Keep a presence in his life and he'll notice

  6. Been reading some literature recently regarding anthropological methodology, including how they carry out overt (with those being observed aware) and covert (with those being observed unaware) observation within communities both online and offline, and couldn't help but wonder whether there are anthropologists lurking around this site pretending to be one of us while in reality doing fieldwork and working towards their dissertation regarding fetish subcultures lol.
  7. Never really been proud of my Aspergers but never been ashamed of it either.
  8. The art of weight losing feels like rocket science for me.

  9. I wondered what the problem was; I mulled over this thought in the same way I contemplated the pressure in my bladder, as if it were some distant concept instead of an actual issue I needed to worry about. Desperation, as far as I knew, was not a “normal” sensation, hence there must have been a problem since I was feeling that way. The question, then, is what the problem was. It was drizzling outside, but that should not have been a problem, as it was the last lesson on a Thursday afternoon, and after that I would be free. Psychology should not be the problem either; it was not exactly my favourite subject, yet it was a discipline I did enjoy. No, something else must be stopping me from relieving myself. I knew I should have planned better, but I was a terrible planner, as one could tell from my unintelligible notes and messy folders. It had been a humid day, no sunlight but the temperature was bringing out enough sweat from you to remind you that late spring, or early summer, was there after all. I had been keeping myself hydrated and had not bothered to use the toilet, or indeed do anything at all, the entire afternoon. My bodily functions were secondary to me these days, as my thoughts were on somewhere else, constantly, a nagging sensation no less distracting than my aching bladder at the moment. “......And if you don’t start practicing planning your essay now,” his voice came from the front of the classroom, “I guess you’re gonna pay the price when you sit the exam less than two months from now.” I recrossed my legs and shifted in my seat for the umpteenth time. Guess I’m paying the price now, I thought. It had started as a moderate need to use the toilet when class started, only to increase steadily as time crawled forward, as the pressure gradually built up to a level that was enough to distract me from what he was saying - the last thing I wanted. Letting out a little sigh I made an almost physical effort to pay attention to the lesson. I hated the fact that I was desperate in his lesson; I resented it, in fact. Not that I had always been the kind of no-nonsense diligent student who work their ass off; one simple fact was that I had not done my Psychology homework yesterday, and he had already told me off earlier in the lesson when he was walking around the classroom checking our work. I glanced at his figure again, and bit my lip hard. He would not be here for long. We all knew. We all knew after the news leaked that he, one of the most popular teachers at our school, would be moving on to pastures new after the school year was over. Well, the school year was not far from over, and here I was, letting a lesson of his slip into the dark unfathomed realm of desperation. That stupid mind of mine was still trying to work out what the problem was, though. A drop of sweat fell onto my Psychology textbook and I realised that my forehead was covered with tiny beads of sweat; I was definitely at a stage where I would have asked to use the toilet had it been any other teacher’s lesson. I did not, though, and I wondered why. Although I enjoyed Psychology it was not exactly my favourite subject, and although I admired and appreciated him a lot, I did not have what people call a “crush” on him (as I did on another teacher; that was another story though). Something was stopping me from raising my hand, and god knows what the heck it was. He made a funny comment on something, and the class roared with laughter. I managed to use their mirth as a form of protective fog I was able to retreat into and regurgitate on memories, memories that seemed to flood my mind as urine flooded my bladder. I once sat beside him, early in the morning, on the bench next to the pond in the schoolyard, squirming uncomfortably for completely different reasons. He was one of the few people at school that found out my mental health issues, and decided to take the time that morning to talk about it with me and tell me that he had seen my potential. It took me by surprise. Utterly. I sat in his classroom three times a week and never really greeted him when I met him on the corridors, and had never expected him to pay attention to such an average, even slightly below average, student. When we ended the conversation he was smiling, the same warm smile on his face when he said something funny in a lesson or said “well done” to you after a test. And now he was leaving. My need to use the toilet pulled me back to reality. Leaving for the Philippines, I had heard - a country I knew as much about as I knew about quantum physics. I never was a hardworking student, and now I wanted to bang my head against the wall for every time I messed around in his lesson. I hated to be desperate at the moment because I wanted all my attention on the lesson, on Psychology, on him. I stubbornly refused to ask for permission because I did not wish to leave the classroom, no matter how loudly the lower half of my body was screaming at me to do so. What a paradox. I actually laughed a little as I worked the problem out, or thought I did. It suddenly came to me how quiet the class was; it turned out that he had put up a question on the board for the class to work on. I stole a quick glance around the room, made sure no one was watching, before hesitantly raising my hand. He walked towards me and asked what I needed, his voice gentle as ever, or as before, since there would not be a future. “Sir can I go to the toilet please?” I heard him say something about not having done my homework the previous day. I swallowed hard. “I......I didn’t do my homework yesterday because I’m on some new medication and I slept for eleven hours straight last night. I’m sorry.” He paused, and I thought I saw him swallow as hard as I did. “Yeah you may go. Be quick.” I stood up and rushed out. It was still drizzling, not hot, but not cool either; I felt myself leak a few drops into my panties not because of the chills the rain brought, but because of a surge of sheer lack of control. I got to the toilet, pulled down my pants, and as the torrent gushed out from my bladder, instead of the relief I was expecting, I felt calm. The kind of calmness that was powerful enough to engulf anything, even the relief of emptying a full bladder. I sat there, long after my stream had died down. Yeah - I had at last found what the problem was. I chose to suffer because I was scared, scared to voluntarily end something because I had been too engrossed in the anguish I felt from endings that were out of my control. But if ending something voluntarily marks the end of suffering, then why not - no matter it was relieving oneself or stopping oneself from being unable to let go of others and move on on one’s own. For a split second I felt like I could have burst into tears right there in the cubicle, but miraculously I did not. I went back to the classroom. The door was closed. I knocked, and he opened the door. Before I slipped into my seat he tapped my shoulder and whispered to me: “Next time if you need special consideration for your homework just let me know - it’s alright.” “Thank you.” I muttered. Shortly afterwards class was over. I did not bother to pack my Psychology textbook into my bag, held it close to my chest, before putting on my earphones. Still was the rain falling; it was just another drizzling Thursday afternoon, one day in the life of mine and him, of ends and beginnings. As I walked past the toilets I realised that the song in my earphones was one of my favourites, “Remember Your Smile” by Enya, and it had just reached its final lines: “Each one has a journey, That’s how it goes. Sometimes we’re together, Sometimes alone.”
  10. Today (10 September) we observe World Suicide Prevention Day, for all who survived it, all who did not, and all who had lost someone to it.

  11. It's annoying when your nose bleeds every so often in this goddamn hot weather

  12. That moment when you got diagnosed with diabetes meaning that extra pills are added to your daily medication for treating mental health issues. Such is life huh.

  13. Clinical anxiety sucks.

  14. In some sense desperation is like writer's block: you are full of piss/inspiration but are just unable to let it pour out and flow freely.

    1. SeverusSnapeFan

      Yes..sometimes it is like that. But I’ve found that it helps to write an omo related story when you yourself need to go 

    2. markbassplayer

      That's an interesting analogy.  With desperation the blocker could be described as social norms, shame, a desire for privacy....external influences.  I feel like writer's block is more internal.

  15. Have the feeling that all dystopian literary works are basically produced from the same model. The Handmaid's Tale basically feels like the female perspective of Orwell's 1984. Or is it just that I should read more (I haven't read Brave New World or Fahrenheit 451 yet).

    1. D0nt45k

      It's a bit more nuanced than that as well, since it also depends on the author's own views.  1984's dystopia was a totalitarian socialist one (effectively a warning from George Orwell, himself a socialist to his dying day, to avoid becoming too authoritarian), The Handmaid's Tale presents a Christian theocratic dystopia through a female-centric lens.  In the case of Brave New World and Fahrenheit 451, the best way to describe both of them would be technocratic dystopias, but in different ways; Brave New World's dystopia is founded on the principles of eugenics and what could best be described as luxury communism, whereas Fahrenheit 451's world is set in a world overrun by rampant materialism, basically the opposite of Brave New World (though it was really just Ray Bradbury's author filibuster against television).

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